The General's Granddaughter

by Dorothy Mack

  Shrewd black eyes in their nest of deep lines skimmed over Sarah from top to toe and came back to her sweetly flushed face. “For whose benefit is this splendour intended? Not mine, I think.”

  Sarah’s lovely colour deepened, but she protested laughingly, “Grandfather, I am quite literally wearing the only garments I possess until Lottie and Richard arrive with the rest of my wardrobe.”

  A frown gathered on the general’s brow. “Yes, we’ll have to do something about that right away. Can’t have you going around looking like a poor relation.”

  “I … I did not mean… It is just that I have nothing else with me.” Sarah floundered to a stop as determination was added to the arrogant assurance on her grandfather’s austere countenance.

  “Spare me any squeamish protestations or displays of misplaced independence, I beg you. You are my granddaughter, living under my roof, and you’ll dress the part, is that clear?”

  “Very clear, Grandfather.”

  “And you may dispense with the dutiful meekness too. We both know what that’s worth,” he continued, challenging her to argue.

  “Very well, Grandfather.” Laughter routed obedience from her clear gaze.

  Sir Hector permitted himself, if not an actual smile, at least a little softening of his thin lips. “You’ll do,” he said gruffly, picking up his book again.

  Sarah, accepting this signal that the interview was over, bade him an affectionate goodbye and left through the withdrawing room, where Somers was dusting the jade ornaments on the mantelpiece. They exchanged greetings and a few observations on the beauty of the statuettes before Sarah continued on her way to the great hall, where she found only William and Cecil before her.

  “Oh, good. I feared I must be late.” Sarah greeted the two men with an impartial smile as they started to get to their feet. “Please, don’t get up, cousins. I’ll join you on the settee, if I may, Cecil?”

  “Of course. By Jove, that’s a dashed fine bonnet, Cousin Sarah.”

  “Yes, you look … lovely, Sarah.”

  William’s quiet compliment was all but lost in the simultaneous arrival of his parents from their suite and Vincent from the other end of the huge room. Sarah had no time to do more than give the brothers a brief acknowledging smile before the others were upon them. On the whole she was glad of the reinforcements, for there had been something in William’s voice just now, a deep sincerity that had given her a twinge of disquiet.

  Unless she had imagined this new element.

  In the few minutes that elapsed before they were joined by the Townsend ladies, William was his usual placid, friendly self. He made no effort to secure her exclusive attention and applied himself to keeping the conversation general. Sarah relaxed again, to be jolted back to wary alertness by the appearance of Lady Townsend and her daughter.

  Despite the warmer temperature, Lady Townsend was wearing a light wool pelisse lavishly trimmed with sable. A matching hat was set at an angle on her dark hair. Arabella looked ravishingly pretty in a daffodil-yellow carriage dress made of a shiny stiff cotton, which she had topped with a soft white cashmere shawl fringed in the same deep yellow that so became her brunette colouring. Sarah’s confidence slipped a notch as her eyes lingered on the triple flounce on her cousin’s gown. She was aware of a narrow-eyed appraisal from the two women and braced herself mentally.

  “Well, Cousin Sarah,” Arabella said with a glittering smile, “if that bonnet is a sample of the wares in your hat shop, you have certainly found your calling.”

  “Thank you, Arabella, for any compliment intended,” Sarah replied pleasantly.

  To her relief, Horace Ridgemont began to urge everyone toward the open doors, beyond which the sounds of jingling harness advertised the presence of the two carriages that were to convey the party to Eversley.

  Lady Eversley’s light-brown hair was still unstreaked by grey under its flattering lace-and-muslin cap; she was bent over her embroidery, but the lion’s share of her attention was focused, though unobtrusively, on the nearly motionless figure of her son, sitting some eight feet away in the corner of a camelback sofa.

  If asked to describe the viscount’s present activity, a person who was not well-acquainted with him would certainly reply that he was reading an issue of The Edinburgh Revue. Lady Eversley was very well-acquainted with the viscount, however, and her answer would be that he was pretending to read the periodical in his hands. It was a very good pretence, which explained why Lady Eversley’s maternal instincts were now fully alerted.

  Mark had strolled into the room with the magazine under his arm fifteen minutes ago, at the precise hour at which their guests were expected. He had greeted his mother affectionately and proceeded to barricade himself behind his magazine. Obviously his thoughts were engaged with a subject of considerable interest to him. Equally obvious was that fact that he did not wish to acknowledge or share these thoughts with anyone. As a matter of fact, it was never easy to determine Mark’s thoughts or feelings from his controlled facial expression or his manner, which was generally deliberately unrevealing. He had not used to be so guarded, Lady Eversley recalled with a pang of regret. This was a defensive legacy from the scandal that had ended his brief marriage. A very good understanding existed between mother and son, but not even to her did Mark speak of his deepest feelings. She respected his privacy, grieved for his solitude, and longed for his happiness.

  Lady Eversley had sensed a difference in her son these past few days, though she was hard-pressed to find words that described the change without going beyond it. “Restless” was the wrong term, “excitement” was too strong, but she felt he was more alive in a way he had not been for years. Watching him as his strong, well-shaped hand turned a page, his mother could not help speculating that one of the young women coming to tea today was responsible for the subtle difference. But which one? She could not say with certainty that the quickened beat in Mark dated from his first meeting with Sarah Ridgemont, and Arabella Townsend had appeared on the scene a few days later. She was counting on this afternoon’s gathering to provide the answer.

  “Our guests are a bit late. I trust nothing of a serious nature has delayed them.”

  Mark looked up with a smile. “It cannot be a simple matter to assemble so many ladies at a given time.” He paused, listening, then put his magazine aside. “I believe I hear a carriage approaching now.”

  The viscount reached the driveway just as the two carriages from Beech Hill pulled to a stop. He opened the first and assisted the Townsend ladies to descend after Cecil Ridgemont and Lord Townsend had climbed down. A glance over his shoulder showed him that William Ridgemont was performing the same service for his cousin Sarah. By the time Mark had welcomed his guests, helped the footman take the ladies’ outer garments, and ushered the party into the large family sitting room on the ground floor where his mother awaited them, he had made a number of discoveries, not all of them welcome.

  Arabella Townsend had remained by his side, affecting a charmingly proprietorial air, but this was her usual tactic in masculine company and he was capable of dealing with clinging young ladies. Seeing Sarah for the first time without her black housekeeper’s garb, he had been struck anew by her loveliness. She had more colour today, and there was a glow in the beautiful eyes that had always been sombre in his recollection. He noted that there was a tentative quality about the smile she had given him on arrival, in contrast to the easy, one might almost say intimate, smiles that passed between her and William. His sharp ear also noted that she called him William, though she added a more formal title when addressing other members of her family.

  None of Mark’s thoughts were to be read in his manner as he performed several introductions — necessary because his mother had not chanced to meet Cecil Ridgemont or Lord Townsend since they were children. When it was Sarah’s turn to be presented, Lady Eversley held out both hands in a smiling gesture of welcome.

  “Mark did tell me you were held to favour your grandmothe
r, Miss Ridgemont, but I was still unprepared to find the resemblance so strong, for Lady Ridgemont must have been over forty when I came to Gloucestershire as a bride. I was very fond of her and I am delighted to welcome you to Eversley.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I am very happy to be here.”

  Sarah’s smile for his mother was all that Mark could wish. It was poised shyly on her soft mouth but glowed in her eyes. If he had not yet been the fortunate recipient of such a favour, at least it was coming closer to home.

  Lady Eversley kept Sarah by her side when the large party arranged itself about the comfortable room with its French doors leading into what would be a beautiful terrace garden in a few weeks.

  Mrs. Ridgemont made a comment on the pleasant setting, ending, “Beech Hill is so rigidly formal.”

  “Yes,” agreed her hostess. “Beautiful and gracious though such places undoubtedly are, they were built for another age and style of life.”

  Tea was brought in almost immediately, and small bursts of conversation rang out while it was being dispensed, along with sherry and Madeira, by the butler as Lady Eversley prepared it for her guests. Trays of tempting jam tarts and slices of cake were greeted with pleasure, especially by the gentlemen.

  A footman entered with a message for Lady Eversley, who heard him out and then said, “Will you ask the doctor to join us for tea, Martin, if he can spare the time?” When the footman had gone out again, she explained to those within earshot, “Our housekeeper of many years is laid low with a severe case of influenza. I sent for Doctor Rydell an hour ago because it seemed to me her temperature was higher and she was even more restless.”

  Sarah could not help contrasting Lady Eversley’s pleasant manner with Doctor Rydell as she inquired about her housekeeper and then waited upon him herself when he chose tea over sherry to the condescension displayed by her Aunt Townsend the previous day. The doctor had looked a little overwhelmed at the horde of people watching his entrance, but his tactful hostess put him at ease at once, indicating the place beside Sarah on the long sofa. Obligingly, Sarah made room for the latest arrival by edging closer to Lady Eversley, and the three were soon chatting comfortably of the minor outbreak of influenza in the village and surrounding area that was keeping the doctor constantly on the move.

  “You are looking tired yourself, Doctor Rydell. You must try to get more rest,” Lady Eversley kindly advised him. “It would not do for you to succumb to an infectious complaint at this crucial point. We should have an epidemic on our hands.”

  “I am hoping we are over the worst of it, ma’am. To my knowledge, there have been no new cases since Saturday.”

  Sarah asked after Grace Medlark’s little daughter, who was still seriously ill. She was listening to Doctor Rydell’s reply when her eyes strayed to Arabella, who had been exerting all her considerable charm to monopolize her host’s attention since their arrival. For a second she was taken aback by the glance of pure venom directed at her by her cousin until she realized that she had earned it by virtue of her place beside the doctor. Since the only way to placate Arabella would be by being rude to the doctor, she could only pretend ignorance of the message in her cousin’s speaking eyes. Arabella’s response was to turn her shoulder on the party on the sofa and redouble her efforts to charm Lord Eversley, who, conscious of his duty to all his guests, was not about to cooperate in her scheme.

  The viscount smilingly extricated himself with the excuse of refilling the men’s glasses, and some shuffling of places occurred in the next few minutes. Balked of her prey, Arabella turned her attention to Cecil, who was seated nearest, but that young man, alerted by a dangerous glitter in her eyes that belied smiling lips, cravenly made his escape by claiming to be dying for another piece of cake.

  William, taking pity on his pretty cousin, slid into Cecil’s vacated chair and set about drawing her fire.

  The doctor’s manners were far too good to let him appear anything but pleased with his company, and he remained by Sarah even after the conversation, led by the viscount, became more general. If he cast one or two discreetly admiring looks at the effervescent young girl, who seemed oblivious to his existence, Sarah could only sympathize. If she could have released him to approach Arabella by going over and engaging William’s attention herself, she’d have been happy to oblige, despite a conviction that the attraction was fated to be crushed by parental disapproval. She was trapped on the sofa by her duty to her hostess, however, so she could only pretend ignorance of any undercurrents and carry on politely.

  His responsibilities as host notwithstanding, the viscount had been making some observations of his own during the party and drawing some unpalatable conclusions. Not having had the advantage of witnessing the first meeting between Arabella Townsend and Doctor Rydell, Mark had only the evidence of his own eyes to go on. His eyes told him that Sarah and the handsome doctor were already on comfortable terms with each other and that each was perfectly content to remain in the other’s company. This was unwelcome news enough but not the worst the afternoon had to offer.

  His nerves had prickled warningly at the outset this afternoon when he had seen William Ridgemont tenderly assisting Sarah down from the carriage, and his eyes had regularly sought out that young man almost without his brain’s direction ever since. He had been aware each time William’s glance had strayed to Sarah, which had happened frequently despite the fellow’s exemplary behaviour in acting the perfect guest. The result of this concentrated observation was the unwelcome conviction that William was in love with Sarah after knowing her for less than a sennight.

  Mark liked William Ridgemont better than any member of the general’s family. He had character, intelligence, and kindness, and was remarkably free of the pride, arrogance, and selfishness that characterized the others. He would undoubtedly make some fortunate woman a good husband.

  Having said all this, Mark was conscious of a burning desire to take this virtuous and inoffensive young man blindfolded into some huge dark forest and leave him there to find his own way out in a few years’ time.

  It was not lost upon him that his own attitude didn’t bear scrutiny. He was not yet ready to pin down his uncomfortable feelings for Sarah; therefore, he had no right to complain that another man had seen and appreciated the prize and was willing to make an immediate commitment. Granted, William was fortunate in that, not having had his trust betrayed in the past, he had the confidence to act on his judgment and feelings now, but who had ever decreed that fairness was an element in courtship? Fairness was for horse-racing, where weight handicaps could be assessed. The heart knew no such rules of fair play.

  By the time Mark had gone to see their guests into their carriages, Lady Eversley was fairly sure that today’s gathering had not come up to her son’s expectations. He was acting the perfect host to the end, but his mother sensed frustration in him. She supposed from the standpoint of information that the tea party had proved more satisfying to her. She now knew that her son’s interest did not lie with Arabella Townsend, which was an incalculable relief. She had not been happy to think of him entangled with a girl brought up by Adelaide Townsend, with her false values. It must be Sarah Ridgemont then, but she had had no opportunity to evaluate their reactions to each other for the simple reason that the two had not come within arm’s length or tongue’s reach of each other during the entire span of the tea party.

  Lady Eversley had been predisposed to like Sarah for her grandmother’s sake, but it was still a relief to find she could do so unreservedly. For Mark’s sake, his mother was prepared to accept a dumpy little thing with a squint or even a hump if she made him happy, but this young woman was truly lovely in a quiet way that did not seek to call attention to itself. Her looks would wear well also because part of her appeal lay in a natural sweetness of expression that would remain when youth had faded. The girl had a frank way of looking at everyone out of clear honest eyes. There was no affectation about her, a welcome rarity in these days, and her conduct today h
ad revealed a well-bred ease of manner and consideration for others. She had patiently submitted to being questioned about her life before her father died and about her brother, and she had done her best to set Doctor Rydell at ease.

  Lady Eversley’s lips quirked into a private smile as she added the mental qualification that it was hardly a sacrifice on any young woman’s part to devote time to the handsome doctor. Certainly the coquettish Townsend chit had been well enough aware of his attractions to begrudge her cousin his attention, but then she automatically set out to captivate every personable male in the room. It was a natural reflex in one of her type, though not a characteristic calculated to endear her to her own sex. The little smile on Lady Eversley’s lips deepened as she began to plan some future entertainments with the object of giving matters a nudge in the right direction.

  It was a determinedly cheerful Sarah who accomplished her simple preparations for dinner in a mechanical fashion that evening. As might be expected, her thoughts were much taken up by a recapitulation of the afternoon’s outing.

  For someone who had scarcely poked her head out of doors for a sennight, the short drive to Eversley had provided a welcome opportunity to see something of the neighbourhood in which she would henceforth be residing. Eversley itself had both surprised and delighted her: surprised by its complete contrast to Beech Hill, and delighted by the unconventional charm expressed in its picturesque but unregulated sprawl. Beech Hill was like a beautiful piece of sculpture, conceived and accomplished in its entirety in a single frenzy of creation, and thereafter remaining unchanged for more than a century. On the other hand, one had the impression that Eversley was still evolving, still creating itself daily. It was not as impressive as her grandfather’s house at first sight. The visitor came out of the avenue of copper beeches and feasted his eyes on the beautiful structure of Beech Hill in all its architectural purity, set like a single perfect jewel against a black velvet drape. The visitor almost sneaked up on Eversley, hiding and nestling among a lush and sometimes overgrown natural setting, revealing itself wing by wing as the drive curved. From her all-too-short inspection of the complicated and varied facade before the viscount had swept his guests inside, Sarah was bound to speculate that its creators had never heard of symmetry, for the building had obviously been expanded and altered at the whims of succeeding generations of owners. Still, the house’s visual interest and attractiveness were undeniable, whatever its probable shortcomings as good architecture.