The Education Of Joanne Part 15

rays of sunshine bathe the land.

Wrapping her warm pelisse about her, Joanne sought the refuge of the gardens. Still decked in winter browns and yellows, the area showed the promise of spring in a few wild s...o...b..lls, which stood bravely in scattered clumps.

Finding a sun-warmed bench, Joanne sat and stared at the crisp white bell-shaped flowers. She

contemplated her bleak future. Only two weeks, she thought, two weeks and I am to go. She swept her gaze over the familiar grounds;every shrub, stepping stone, and planting design memorized in her many hours of walking. How can I go?I love him. Tears crowded to the brim of Joanne's eyes. Night after night she had searched desperately for someway to forestall the journey to London. The comtesse was insistent that they must go early so that bothcould be gowned, coiffed, and jewelled for the approaching season. Joanne fingered the golden rose about her neck-Kenton's Michaelmas gift. Why couldn't he havebeen a gift of his love, she mourned. Why can I not remain here? A lone tear trailed down her cheek. A small gloved hand touched the tear lightly and it was gone. Joanne started in surprise. "May I sit with you?" the comtesse asked. Joanne moved to one side of the bench. "The tear-you are sad, n'est-ce pas? Could you not tell me why?" Shaking her head, Joanne touched the corner of each eye to dry the tears trembling there. "But perhaps I could help. Please? Your sadness deeply troubles me."

For once Joanne did not shrug off her aunt's words.

Turning, she squarely looked at the comtesse, searching not belligerently nor angrily as she had so oft since the other's coming, but questioningly.

"Give but the chance and you shall see my friendship is true," the older woman entreated. "Is it that you do not believe I knew not of your existence until Lord Jason told me?"

Joanne shook her head. She believed the comtesse-even liked much about her vivacious, openhearted aunt, but- But what? she questioned now, forced by the distress she saw in the other. "I believe you," she said, "but-oh, I don't know. In truth, I do like you."

A delighted "oh" broke from the other. "If you can like me then you may come to love me." The comtesse reached out and took Joanne's hand. "Now tell me the cause of the tears."

"You know I cannot bear to leave Kentoncombe," Joanne blurted huskily.

"But why?" came back the familiar challenge which had oft caused Joanne to wonder during the past six weeks if she knew any other. "Do I not understand it correctly that you have been here only-what? Five, no, eight months?"

Eight months, thought Joanne. Rather a lifetime. She nodded.

"What is there here to recommend itself so dear to your heart? The weather-certainly not. The features of the land? The people? No. None of these can bind you to this place after so brief a stay.

"I myself lived in France seven and ten years and left it with only a slight regret. All that held me to France was my dear comte." Her eyes softened in remembrance. "Is there such a one to bold you here?" she asked softly.

A quick shake of her head gave answer as Joanne rose. She dared not speak of her love for Jason. "You do not understand."

"How am I to understand without your aid?" the comtesse returned sharply. "I came here for one reason-to help you. And what have you given me in return?" After letting the question settle, she sadly shook her head.

"Oh, but I am the fool. The useless one. With no children of my own to teach me, I know not what to do. Everything I venture you misunderstand."

'No, Aunt," replied Joanne. "It is I, not you. From my birth I have been told how useless I am," she said, the almost forgotten bitterness in her voice.

The comtesse leaped to her feet and grabbed Joanne by the arms even though the younger woman was over a head taller. "You must not say that-not ever again," she exclaimed. "I forbid it! You are a lovely young woman with much to offer. Your father destroyed my sister, your mother-do not let him do the same to you." Tears spilled freely. own pent-up emotions and desperately hugged her aunt.

When the deluge was spent, they separated and dabbed at their eyes. Glancing at one another, they burst into laughter and, arms linked, began a slow walk back to the manor house.

"No more tears for us, Joanne," the comtesse ordered brightly. "We are going to London-yes," she said. "There is no other way and one must bow to fate gracefully. But, do not fear. I know you shall see Kentoncombe once again.

"So, we shall journey to London and enjoy ourselves famously, n'est-ce pas?"

Joanne gave a weak nod.

"That will not do. You must believe it-make the best of it. Think of the b.a.l.l.s, ridottos, soirees we shall attend. The young men shall flock to see the daughter of the h.e.l.lion Furness and what a surprise we shall give them. They will gather about you and that cannot be but pleasure for me also." She winked coquettishly and drew a smile from Joanne.

"That is much better. And do not worry on account of your father. He is no match for the pair of us. No one will be," she laughed thinking of Kenton. "Let us go now and look through the pages of The Ladies Magazine. We must decide on our gowns and of course whether we shall use feathers or ribbons, pearls or even grapes in our periwigs.

"Laugh if you," the comtesse challenged and then laughed also. "Pooh, but there are many foolish things you shall see. Why once I wore the most amazing periwig."

Joanne let the words wash over her. Perhaps the comtesse was correct and she would enjoy "society."

Better to contemplate furbelows and gewgaws than-

"You are not listening, Joanne." The comtesse tweaked her arm. "Do you think puce or river blue more becoming to my colouring?

"Of course for you we shall choose vibrant hues." The comtesse paused and put a finger to her lips, suddenly deep in thought.

"Oui," she smiling broadly. "You shall enjoy your season immensely-just as I did ever so long ago. Forme there was the Comte. For you, ah, for you believe me or no, there is someone equally special andjust as conquerable in the time known as 'the Season.'"

Chapter Sixteen.

The harsh-faced contorted with disgust as the man stood. He roughly slapped his losing cards down upon the table. Without a word he strode to the doors where the attendant handed him his hat and gloves.

"May I walk with you?" Wiltham called as he wended his way between the gaming tables.

Furness walked out, not answering.

A dark look from his companion silenced Wiltham.

Halting suddenly, Furness signalled a sedan chair. "Follow me to my apartments," he ordered curtly and stepped into the one that had halted.

Wiltham watched the bobbing movement of the linkboy's torch ahead of Furness' sedan for a moment.

Breaking into a jubilant smile, he signalled one for himself and directed it to take him to Furness' London dwelling.

Patience, my man, patience, Wiltham told himself. He swirled the drink in his gla.s.s while he observed Furness pour yet another.

"I have heard you are in need of funds," Furness broke the silence. "There may be a way for you to have all you require-for the past and the future."

"Yes, my lord?" Wiltham questioned, hoping his excitement did not show. At last it appeared he was near his long-sought goal.

Furness quaffed his wine and made a moue of distaste. "I have a daughter."

"Strange that I had not heard anyone speak of her," Wiltham noted. He stared at his gla.s.s. "Children can be such a blessing."

"Blessing," spat Furness. "More a curse." He waved his hand angrily and poured another drink. "I wish to be rid of her-to be free from thinking of her ever again."

"Is the child deformed then?"

"No. No longer a child either."

"And I may be of help?" Wiltham asked innocently.

"An arrangement could be reached that would solve both our problems," Furness said, and refilled the other's gla.s.s.

"Are you interested?" he asked by way of mere formality. His agents had had little trouble in learning the extent of Wiltham's financial peril.

"My lord," the younger man frowned, "you know I would do anything to help you. Have I not shown that in the year just past?"

A sudden niggling doubt brought a frown to the older man. Was it wise to endure Wiltham just for this one end? Was there not the possibility that Kenton and his wife would take pity on Joanne and wish her to remain with them?

Wiltham disliked Furness' hesitation. "Just tell me what you wish," he prompted smoothly.

Further port was gulped to fortify the "rightness" of his actions. Furness said, "On my part I will pay all your debts-and settle an allowance upon you."

"Most generous, my lord, but what shall you require of me?" Wiltham asked, now certain of the answer.

"In two-three weeks I shall be forced to bring my daughter to London. A lesson against rashness, I

a.s.sure you.

"But I do not wish to be embarra.s.sed by her presence," Furness continued. "You shall wed her upon

her arrival and take her to your country estate, Wornstone. What you do with her I care not so long as I never see nor hear of her again."

"Why should I wed one which arouses such harsh feelings?" Wiltham noted, caution appearing for a

second. "She cannot be pleasant."

"Because you owe money to far too many. Refuse and I shall send the duns upon you. There should be no doubt what the result would be." Furness smiled wickedly.

For the first time fear entered Wiltham's mind. The plan he had followed so eagerly to free himself of