by Dorothy Mack
“And have him close that damned hat shop for good and all!” Sir Hector’s voice rang with some of its old authority for a moment. He chuckled wickedly, adding, “Though it was worth it to see Adelaide nearly go off in an apoplexy at the thought of her stiff-rumped friends learning that a niece of Lady Townsend was a shopkeeper.” He wheezed to a stop and started coughing.
Really alarmed now, Mark was pouring a glass of water from a pitcher on the bedside table when Somers, soft-footed and competent, came into the room and took it from his hand with a reproachful look.
“Time you was back in bed, Sir Hector,” he said in the tone of a father speaking to a recalcitrant child. “Give you an inch and you take an ell as usual.” He held the glass to the general’s mouth and waited patiently until the paroxysm quieted before repeating, “Bed for you for the rest of the day, sir, unless you wish me to send for Doctor Rydell.”
Sir Hector waved away the glass. His head fell back against the chair back now, a look of exhaustion on his spare features, but his voice still held a trace of its former truculence. “Rydell is an old woman, and so are you, Somers. I’ll rest now, but I am going to dine with the family tonight.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Somers, beginning to loosen the scarf about his employer’s neck.
The viscount deemed it a good time to make his escape and did so, calling a brief goodbye from the doorway.
Sir Hector’s iron will was betrayed by his aging body and he did not, in the end, dine with his family that evening.
By the time Sarah had met and placated Mrs. Glamorgan and enlisted Grace’s assistance in acquainting the wiry, birdlike little woman with her new domain, two hours had passed. The housekeeper was understandably surprised to find so many more people in residence at Beech Hill than she had been led to believe, but she accepted the situation, as tactfully represented to her by Sarah, with scarcely a blink and was ready to set to with a will after refreshing herself with a cup of tea and gingerbread in the room that was shortly to be hers. Any curiosity she might feel as to why a granddaughter of the house had been occupying the housekeeper’s suite she kept to herself. She did wish to know, also understandably, to whom she was to report.
In the blank silence that greeted this reasonable inquiry, Grace said firmly that Miss Ridgemont was that person. Sarah was too nonplussed to protest at the time, but when she and Grace were alone later, she tried to explain that she could not possibly usurp such power when every other person resident at the moment had a better right by virtue of long acquaintance with Beech Hill.
“With the exception of Sir Hector, every other person in residence at the moment is merely visiting,” Grace rebutted calmly. “You are to be living here; therefore, you will naturally be Sir Hector’s hostess.”
But this Sarah would not hear of. “For the moment, because I am acquainted with the preparations that have been made for this visitation, I’ll make myself available to Mrs. Glamorgan, but if one of the other ladies demurs, I shall step aside at once.” She stated her position firmly and refused to consider herself in any way her grandfather’s hostess. “That honour belongs to his daughter until or unless he says otherwise.”
Grace held her peace, and with Mrs. Glamorgan overseeing the move, Sarah’s few belongings were transferred to the apartment above her grandfather’s, which had been readied earlier for William’s occupation.
Strange uneasy emotions were churning in Sarah’s breast as she approached her grandfather’s rooms late in the afternoon when the necessary housekeeping arrangements and preliminary dinner preparations had been effected. She had the sense of being a stone caught up in an avalanche as it rolled downhill. Events had overtaken her and moved her along without her connivance or permission. She felt she should take a hand in her own destiny before she found her life and Richard’s completely in the control of others, but she no longer knew what she wanted. Her path had seemed clear back in London. Was it only four days ago that she had embarked on her fateful journey?
It had never once crossed Sarah’s mind that her grandfather might expect his long-unacknowledged grandchildren to come live under his roof. One part of her wished to yield to the blissful sensation of security that had enveloped her when Sir Hector had ordered her to cast off all worry about Richard’s future, but there was another side of her nature that rebelled against being taken over almost as a possession, perhaps even as a weapon in what had all the appearance of continuing hostilities with his children. Or if that was too strongly expressed, she thought, trying to be fair, at least she was conscious of a strong desire to retain some of the autonomy of action she had enjoyed by virtue of the very poverty she had desperately sought to escape. It was true that no benefit came without a price attached, she decided soberly, and she was terribly unsure what price was going to be demanded of her in exchange for financial security, and if she would be willing to pay it wholeheartedly without resentment.
The main difficulty was that she did not know her grandfather at all well yet, and what little she did know of him she had been taught to despise. In a way, it could be considered almost disloyal to her father to place their lives in his father’s keeping, but she must have known that when she made her original decision to seek help. Richard must be her first concern.
Her brow was furrowed as she knocked on the hall door to the antechamber, but this much she had accepted. She must not let loyalty to her father blind her to her grandfather’s virtues.
Somers opened the door to her, and it was clear to her seeking eyes that the benevolence of the early afternoon had been replaced by worry.
“What is it, Somers? Has anything happened?”
“Sir Hector is not so well, Miss Sarah. The events of the past few days have been too much for him. The doctor is with him now.”
Guilt rose unbidden in Sarah’s heart at the severity of the valet’s expression. “I am very sorry, Somers,” she said quietly. “I’m afraid I never considered my grandfather’s possible state of health when I came here, and … and events seemed to slip out of control shortly thereafter.”
“It’s not your fault, Miss Sarah,” Somers said, his features softening at her sincere distress. “Sir Hector is that pleased to have you here, I know, but what with all his plotting and planning, he overdid, and now he’s paying for it. He won’t leave his bed again today, nor yet tomorrow, no matter what nonsense he talks about dining at table.”
“I should say not! We’ll see that he does not attempt it.”
Sarah’s vehemence seemed to appease the valet, who nodded in agreement before turning his head as a man came out of the bedchamber. “Excuse me, Miss Sarah; here’s the doctor now.”
Sarah stood undecided as the doctor and Somers held a low-voiced conversation, after which the valet accepted a vial from the other’s hand and disappeared into the bedchamber. She felt an intruder, but the doctor was closing his bag and coming toward her now, so she held her ground.
“I am Sarah Ridgemont, Sir Hector’s granddaughter, Doctor —?”
“Rydell, Simon Rydell at your service, Miss Ridgemont.”
As the doctor bowed politely, Sarah blinked and tried to keep her surprise from showing on her face. Her grandfather’s doctor was quite young, under thirty, she guessed, and quite frankly the handsomest man she had ever laid eyes on. Her Ridgemont cousins were all attractive, and Lord Eversley was more than that, though his features were a bit too strong and his jaw too rocky for the epithet handsome to spring to mind. This man was an Adonis. As tall as Cousin Vincent and Lord Eversley, he was slimmer than either and without the muscular development of the natural athlete. From his wavy chestnut hair to his well-shaped chin with its hint of a cleft, however, all was perfection. Large clear eyes with a light-grey iris rimmed in black were fringed with thick dark lashes any female would covet, his nose and mouth were examples of the classical ideal, and the bone structure of his head would inspire any sculptor worth the name to heroic efforts at duplication.
Sarah
blinked again, realizing with something of a start that Doctor Rydell had spoken to her. “I beg your pardon, Doctor?”
“I said there is no immediate cause for concern about your grandfather, Miss Ridgemont. He will overcome this latest setback with a few days of rest.” His voice was pleasantly pitched with an intonation of gravity. “That is not to say, however, that he will ever make a complete recovery. You must not expect this. Sir Hector is an old man, and his heart is wearing out. Every time he has one of these little attacks, brought on by physical or emotional upset, it puts additional strain on the heart. He improves, but never to quite the place he was before.”
“I see. You have dissuaded him from attempting to dine with the family, I trust?”
A little smile lightened Doctor Rydell’s countenance. “He is feeling too weak at the moment to wish to do anything but lie in his bed. The problem will arise in a day or two when he’s feeling more himself again.”
“Must he be considered permanently bedfast, Doctor?”
“Not entirely. If he has spent a quiet day and wishes to dine with the family, I would encourage him to do so. On days when he has been more active or entertained visitors perhaps, I would recommend a tray in his room. Use your common sense and try to keep upsets to a minimum.”
The doctor smiled again. “Sir Hector tells me you are the granddaughter who resided in America until recently, so you may not be well-acquainted with his, shall I say, peppery nature. He does not like to be crossed in anything and doesn’t suffer fools with even nominal patience. This has been the attitude of a lifetime, I would assume, but now he is applying it to his malfunctioning body, which tends to bring on just those emotional upsets that are most dangerous to a weakened heart. In a way, it is like dealing with a sick child. He must be humoured, cajoled, and kept from doing harm to himself.”
Sarah smiled at him quite suddenly, liking his understanding and humanity. She could have no idea that the rest of his warning was driven straight out of his mind by the radiant quality of that smile as she pursued her own train of thought. “Are you acquainted with my uncle, Mr. Horace Ridgemont, Doctor Rydell?”
“No, ma’am, I am fairly new to this locality and have not had the honour of meeting any of the general’s family with the exception of yourself.”
“Then please may I make you known to him now? I am persuaded he will be anxious to hear your professional opinion of his father’s condition.”
On receiving the doctor’s assurance that he would be pleased to meet Mr. Ridgemont, Sarah personally conducted him to her uncle’s apartment and performed the necessary introductions. She did not see her aunt, nor did she remain during the men’s conversation.
That evening, Sarah took as much time to dress for her first dinner with her newly met family as she would have needed for a court presentation. Considering that she had only one gown suitable for evening with her — and that one over two years old — this might be considered excessive even without the assistance of an abigail to speed the process.
She was scared witless, she admitted to herself, staring at her image in a long mirror in her luxurious new quarters. There was no escaping the knowledge that she would rather by far submit to having a tooth drawn than face that circle of hostile faces, or, at best, blank faces concealing hostility.
When she had looked in on her grandfather after leaving Doctor Rydell with her uncle, she had been moved to pity by a frailty about his person that had not been so apparent at their other meetings. He had apologized for “throwing her to the wolves” without the protection of his presence at her first social meeting with her relatives. She had seen that this bothered him a great deal, though the unworthy thought had crossed her mind that part of his perturbation was probably attributable to disappointment at being forced to miss the drama personally. She had applied her best efforts to convincing him that she had no fears on that head and had no intention of allowing herself to be intimidated or put in her place by any of her relatives, should that be their intention, which she doubted. Her voice and eyes had been steady and calm while making this vainglorious claim, but she could not long meet his eyes filled with amused derision. Fortunately, Somers had rescued her from having to haul down her flag by popping up to remind her sternly that her visit had gone beyond the five minutes agreed upon when he had admitted her in defiance of the doctor’s ban on visitors. She had given her grandfather’s hand a gentle squeeze and fled in relief.
Alone in the bedchamber, Sarah could not, to her shame, summon up even a vestige of the confidence she had boasted of to Sir Hector. She scowled at her image in the mirror. If beauty and suitable attire were a woman’s armour, she might as well be going into battle in her shift! She stared with displeasure at the plain skirt of her soft coffee-coloured muslin gown with its darker brown ribbon at the waist. She did not possess a dress with so much as a single flounce at the hemline, and flounces were all the crack in England, she had discovered. Well, it couldn’t be helped; they would have to take her as they found her. She pinned her grandmother’s brooch, which had been returned to her by one of the housemaids — not Dawkins — onto the bodice of the dress and turned away from the glass.
Something about the way her hair had gone back caught her frowning attention and Sarah spent the next ten minutes unpinning and re-brushing the thick, slightly wavy mane. She had dispensed with the cap out of defiance, knowing Arabella’s shining dark ringlets would be displayed to advantage in a fashionable coiffure. Her father had thought her hair beautiful with its variegated colours, and he would not permit her to cover it or cut it short. Basic bronze with gleaming gold and copper overlays was how he had described it, and the thought of her father’s pride in her appearance stiffened her spine as she headed toward the saloon on reluctant feet.
The double doors of the saloon stood open, and she regretted the time she had taken to redo her hair when a swift glance informed her that all members of her father’s family were present. She stopped just inside the doorway, her chin automatically elevating and her face muscles going quite still as she braced for the impact of seven pairs of eyes studying her person with attitudes that ran the gamut from polite noninterest on the part of her uncle’s wife to the undisguised animosity dwelling in her Aunt Adelaide’s dark eyes.
Seeing that this lady had no intention of performing her social duty, Horace Ridgemont came forward with his hand outstretched and ended the awkward silence. “Well, my dear Sarah, may I be the first to welcome you officially into your family at long last?” His voice was a trifle over-hearty in the manner of a conscientious host, but Sarah appreciated the gesture and she smiled warmly at him as she gave him her hand. “Thank you, Uncle Horace.”
“I believe you have at least met everyone —” he began, to be interrupted by a suave voice saying, “Then you are mistaken, Uncle, for I have not yet had the felicity of being presented to my new cousin, an omission I trust you will now repair?”
Horace Ridgemont’s geniality dropped away like a discarded cloak as he eyed his nephew with patent dislike, a gaze the younger man returned with bland assurance.
“Sarah, this is Vincent, Lord Townsend,” he said shortly.
“How do you do, Lord Townsend,” Sarah murmured.
“You cut me to the quick, Cousin Sarah,” Vincent said, bowing low over her hand, then looking up directly into her eyes, his own alight with exaggerated reproach. “Surely we can dispense with titles, being so nearly related.”
Sarah retrieved her hand gently. “Of course, if you wish it, Cousin Vincent.”
“Oh, indeed I do wish it. You are obviously the best thing that has happened in this family in years, and we must celebrate the event,” Vincent declared, showing her an expression of almost theatrical admiration.
“You are too kind, Cousin.” Sarah kept her own expression demure, but there was a dancing light in her changeable eyes that caused Vincent’s to gleam in self-mockery, to her mind the first real emotion he had displayed.
“Hush yo
ur nonsense, Vincent,” his mother advised tartly. “You’ll have the girl believing you.”
“I am thankful to reflect that no son of mine would indulge in such an exaggerated, one might almost say offensive, form of gallantry,” put in Mrs. Ridgemont in flat tones.
Her sister-in-law bridled, but Vincent said gently, “Is that a comforting reflection, Aunt? I am so glad.”
“Cecil would indulge at another time and place,” Arabella said with sweet provocation. “In fact, I would take it as a favour if you would let him practise on you for a change, Cousin Sarah.” She threw a saucy glance at her younger male cousin, who went beet-red and might have retorted ungallantly had not his brother turned to Sarah at that moment with his delightful smile.
“Do I understand that we have yet another member of the family to meet, Cousin Sarah? You have a young brother?”
Sarah smiled at him in relief, a shining smile that caused the two Townsend ladies to examine her in narrow-eyed speculation as she replied, “Yes, Richard is only eleven, but he is well-grown for his age and possesses, I believe, a quickness of understanding and a cleverness beyond the average for boys of his age, though you may say this is just a fond sister’s partiality,” she added with an apologetic air.
“Even as young as eleven, William gave evidence of his superior mental abilities,” Mrs. Ridgemont chimed in. She was prepared to go into greater detail, Sarah feared, but at that moment Millbank appeared in the doorway to announce dinner.
They trooped down the west staircase to the dining saloon, Lady Townsend complaining all the time about the inconvenience of a house with its drawing room and dining room on different levels.
The family usually arranged itself in two camps for meals, Sarah noted, one at each end of the long table. She saw that her place was to be between the two, with Vincent and Cecil flanking her. Across the table, William Ridgemont occupied the same middle position between his mother and Arabella.