#the jane

From The London Gazette, August 1800

Cressida Jane Temple is the only daughter of Henry and Eleanor Temple (nee Malcolm). The Reverend Henry Temple, Vicar of Scunthorpe, died at the venerable age of 68 when Miss Temple was only 10, passing on due to an inflammation of the lungs brought on during a trout fishing expedition. Mrs. Temple and her daughter moved to the neighbourhood of Landscombe, outside York, to be nearer to family. When Miss Temple was 12, her mother remarried to Lord Debenham of Landscombe Green, and was blessed with three younger siblings, Miles Debenham and the Misses Daphne and Hermione. Lord Temple, Viscount Stroud, the Rev. Temple’s eldest brother, died suddenly of a fever along with his three sons at a hunting lodge in 1798, leaving Miss Temple as the only family member able to inherit the title and estate, due to a remainder that the title and estates MUST pass to a Temple. Having inherited, she set up her own household upon reaching her majority at the age of 25, and currently resides in her London townhouse, after setting her Sheepscombe estate in order. As the Viscountess Stroud, she’s expected to be a delightful addition to London Society.

Excerpts from the diary of Miss Temple October 8th, 1796

It would seem Lord Debenham believes me to be mad. I can't entirely fault him for this, as I have often been known to be an unnatural creature, at least according to my mother. When my mother tearfully informed me that the man who'd been my betrothed since birth was thought to have died abroad, I asked her to pass the toast and asked if there was any more marmalade. And now I've told my lord that I would rather ride naked through the streets of London than marry Harry Pankhurst, which he took rather poorly, I must confess. But it was laughing when he told me I would do well to mind myself or I'd end up an old maid that set it off. He said I was hysterical and he didn't wonder if perhaps I was touched in the head, and made any number of comments about my father's doubtful heritage. And then I made it all rather worse by saying that if he repeated that sentiment, I would set his bed on fire while he slept in it. I didn't mean it, of course, but he will talk about Papa in the most horrid way, and one can't allow that sort of thing to pass.

February 19th, 1797

I spent most of my life betrothed, and I'm still not quite used to being unattached. Not that I'd ever met my former fiancé, for he was gone before I was out in society, off to the Continent and then doing something in India or possibly China, I cannot recall. But it was rather nice to know that even if I'm plain and not at all the thing with the young men in the neighbourhood, at least I would someday have a husband. I'm not even sure I'd like a husband. My Mama has been married twice, and I'm not convinced she even likes Lord Debenham, though she listens to him and relies on him a great deal, and agrees with whatever he says when he shouts, so perhaps that is a sort of liking. As for Papa, all she will say was that her parents thought it a good match, but he was over twice her age by the time it occurred to him he might like a wife, and could almost have been her grandfather, so I can't think what they had to speak about. I adored him of course, but as I am older now, I couldn't imagine being married to him. Women, it seems, marry more for children and a good house and a living than for love. Mama says love is a very common thing, and not at all appropriate for young ladies of breeding to concern themselves over. Perhaps if I didn't read so many novels, I wouldn't find myself so preoccupied by the idea. I'm hardly a heroine, I know, for I do not have eyes like limpid pools or rosebud lips or hair the colour of corn silk or a raven's wing. So perhaps love isn't for me after all. But I would like to try it, at least once. And I confess, I was perhaps a little in love with my fiancé. Not with him, exactly, for as I said, we'd never met, but with the idea of him. A man who'd let me read as many novels as I liked, and didn't fuss about my hands when I spent all day in the garden, and who didn't mind that my face is not as fair as a summer's day, and that I can't sing much except at church, or play anything but the guitar, and really only that well enough to amuse Miles and Daphne and Hermione, and they're children and thus have very low tastes. My watercolours are fairly wretched, I've never even tried to paint a screen and my sewing has been relegated to making garments and things for the poor. I am entirely without any accomplishment, but at least I should not have to go on in the world forever alone. Only now it seems I will after all. It is very lowering.

May 22nd, 1798 The strangest thing has happened. I don't even know how to feel about it yet. Firstly, my father's eldest brother has died. That wasn't exactly strange, but terribly sad, for though we didn't see him much, he always sent me a sovereign for my birthday and wrote me letters at Christmas telling me to be a good girl, and always included more money than I had for my allowance for the whole year. And now he's dead, and my cousins as well. They all came down with the fever during a hunting jaunt and died before a doctor could even be sent for. The whole thing is dreadful. But the strange thing is that now I am the heir. Not even just to the money, but to the title as well. There are no other Temples to inherit, no matter how hard they've looked. It seems too many Temple men has spent their lives as chaste scholars, or drunk themselves into oblivion before their 30th birthday. Perhaps Lord Debenham is correct, and I am mad. But I don't know if one can be mad and be a Viscountess. Mama seems rather horrified and proud at the same time, and Lord Debenham is rightfully disgusted, for it seems I now outrank him, a fact I shall probably eventually grow tired of smiling about, though it hasn't happened yet. The children are all terribly pleased, as they've worked out that I can now afford many more toys for them than previously, and that I could even ride ventre a terre if I wanted to, though I don't know why I ever should, but they say that ladies of rank can do anything they want to. So, I am an heiress. Two separate men have proposed to me, even though I'm meant to be in mourning. They're both friends of the family, though truly they are friends of Lord Debenham, and asked to pay their addresses to me. He was most put out at having to tell them no, as I cannot be courted at such a time. But really! Hopefully, the whole thing will fade soon and I shall be able to continue on as before. Well, perhaps not quite as before.

September 8th, 1799 I had another of my "little fits" as Mama calls them. I like to imagine them as Little Fitz, a rather cherubic German boy who comes in and causes all sorts of mischief. It's my own fault, I suppose. I do not go out nearly enough, so when I do, I become all nervous and ... well, I cannot stand it when everone is looking at me and whispering. It is the most lowering thing to walk into a room and have it grow silent, and then hear whispers start up. Ever since my uncle died, it happens. Mama claims it's not anywhere near as bad as all that, and I'm making too much of it. Lord Debenham has threatened to have me committed, but I told him I'd make sure all my money went to the poorhouse if he tried it, and that shut him up. Listen to me, I sound quite fierce. But in this place at least I can tell the truth: I hate Lord Debenham. I hate even the sound of his footsteps. He's never once liked me, and I suspect if he'd known me better, he'd never have married Mama. He's spent every moment he can trying to marry me off to the most odious men, and shouts so loud that it makes the wineglasses shake whenever I dare to have an opinion he doesn't care for. It is not ladylike to hate one's stepfather, but if I were a man, I'd run him through with a sword. Lord, perhaps I truly am mad. The doctor has given me a tincture of laudanum to keep in my purse, in case of fits, so that I don't end up hiding in the library behind the curtains unable to breathe. He has assured me that ladies of a certain disposition have these sorts of problems all the time, and that they can be treated medically, and will not interfere with my life, so long as I go for bracing walks when the weather is fine and do not overindulge in drink. Dr. Graves is most kind, really. And the laudanum has already helped. I just wish he could prescribe me something to deal with Lord Debenham.

December 12th, 1799 I turned 25 today, which should have been a time of disappointment, what with not being married yet and all, but in fact it was rather lovely. I announced that I would be moving to my estate at breakfast, and things went exactly as expected: Mama thought I was joking, and when I confirmed I wasn't, began to ask questions and then to cry, Lord Debenham told me there was no way I'd be allowed to do so, and when I informed him that I'd already arranged it under his nose, he turned as purple as a turnip and began to shout so loud that I really thought the window might break. Thankfully, I'd had my tincture ahead of time, so I was delightfully calm and smiled in what I hope was an affectionate manner and not at all smug. I explained, quite politely, that I'd spoken to my solicitor, a Mr. Jervis, who'd been in charge of my funds after my uncle's death, and that he'd arranged everything for me most satisfactorily. I even assured Mama that I had written to dear Miss Howard to be my lady's companion, so that she needn't worry that I should go about unescorted. I think that rather put Mama out, for I think she'd have preferred if I hadn't thought of anything so she could object to things. Instead, she took to her bed. Lord Debenham threatened to lock me in my room until I saw sense, which I'll admit, I hadn't quite expected. I'd have been in trouble if Graham hadn't rescued me by having all my luggage removed down the servants' stairs while Lord Debenham was busy writing to Mr. Graves, no doubt to inform him I was mad. The man has a bevy of hidden talents. He climbed up the trellis to tell me to pack and that he'd get me to London if he had to hire the Devil himself to do it. I kissed his cheek and told him he was a dear, which was most inappropriate, but one can become quite emotional in such moments. As it was, I left the house to go to church with my lady's maid and instead caught the stage coach to London. Sarah, the maid, felt a little sore about the whole thing, because she hadn't had a chance to pack anything, but I gave her all the pocket money I didn't need to buy whatever she wanted, and to send to her dear mama whom Sarah helped out with her wages, and promised that I'd see her happily set up anywhere she liked. And now I'm writing in the coach, heading to London. Sarah, and several other personages, are already asleep, but I cannot. Perhaps I should take more laudanum, but I don't want to in case I can't get more for a little while. I shall miss the children, and perhaps I shall miss Mama a little.