The Arrangement

by Joan Wolf

  Not that I wanted to impress the Earl of Savile, I assured myself hastily. Rather, it was a matter of pride. I did not wish George’s relations to know how poor I really was.

  * * * *

  I was carrying my portmanteau toward the stairs early the following morning when Savile called to me from behind, in the passageway. I stopped, and he came to take the bag from my hand. I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it again. If the man wanted to carry my portmanteau, let him.

  Tim Haines was down at the stable doing the morning chores, so Nicky and Savile and I sat in the dining room and had breakfast. Nicky was remarkably cheerful, and I tried not to let either him or the earl see how dreadfully apprehensive I was about leaving him.

  It wasn’t until we went out into the cold morning air, and the coach steps were let down for me, that I saw a flicker of uncertainty on my son’s face.

  “I shall be home on the twentieth,” I said to him, and reached out to give him a brisk, reassuring hug. In return, his arms came up to hold me tightly. I kissed the top of his head, closing my eyes as I felt the silky texture of his hair under my lips. Then I forced myself to relax my grip on him and step away.

  “Take care of him, Mrs. Macintosh,” I said lightly.

  “You need na fear for Master Nicky, lass,” my faithful housekeeper said firmly. “He is as dear to me as if he were my verra ain bairn.”

  I think that the only thing that enabled me to get into the coach was that I knew she was speaking the truth.

  I scarcely registered the fact that the Earl of Savile had entered the coach after me and was sitting on the cushioned seat at a distance of barely a foot.

  We pulled out of my stable yard and onto the road that would take us to the village of Highgate and thence onto the highway to Kent.

  I didn’t say anything, I just stared blindly at the empty seat opposite mine, trying desperately not to cry.

  At last Savile spoke. “He really will be all right, you know.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “Most boys of eight are packed off to school, separated from their mothers for many months at a time.”

  I knew this was so.

  I said in a constricted voice, “It is just that since my husband’s death, Nicky and I have been rather on our own. It has made us very close.”

  “I can understand that.” His voice was, if possible, even gentler. “But you cannot smother him, Mrs. Saunders. He must learn to stand on his own.”

  A jolt of healthy anger shot through me. “I have always been of the opinion that it is extremely easy for those who have no children to give advice to those who do,” I snapped.

  “Doubtless you are right,” came the serene reply. “I did have a son once, but both he and his mother died two days after he was born. I can only assure you that I have two nephews and a niece whom I am often called upon to entertain, and so my knowledge of children is not totally theoretical.”

  Well, of course I felt utterly dreadful. The poor man—to lose a wife and a child like that!

  “I am so sorry, my lord,” I said with genuine contrition. “I did not mean to stir up an old wound.”

  “It happened eight years ago,” he returned. “I can assure you that though the scar is still there, it no longer aches.”

  I had lost Tommy six years ago. “I know exactly what you mean,” I said.

  We sat in sympathetic silence for perhaps ten minutes.

  Then I began to be aware that we were shut up together in the coach and that his thigh was not a foot away from mine. I felt a flush of heat course through me.

  What is the matter with you, Gail? I asked myself in agitation. You never feel like this!

  I cleared my throat and asked, “Who is likely to be at the reading of this will, my lord?”

  He leaned his shoulders against the rather worn blue velvet squabs, slid down a little on his spine, closing infinitesimally the space between us, and folded his arms across his chest. “Harriet will be there, of course, draped in her new blacks. She was not pleased that I refused to have the will read at Devane Hall and instead forced her to make the trip to Savile Castle.”

  There was a dry note in the earl’s voice when he spoke of Lady Devane that one could not miss. I said nothing, however. Harriet Melville, Lady Devane, could be the most angelic person in the world and I would still have hated her.

  Savile continued, “Harriet will, of course, be accompanied by her father. She is always accompanied by her father. His name is Albert Cole, and he made his money working poor wretches to death in the cotton mills of Manchester.”

  Savile did not even attempt to disguise his dislike of George’s father-in-law. “It was Cole money that bought Harriet her position as George’s wife, of course. My uncle’s pockets were all-to-let; poor George had no choice about whom he could wed. It was marry money or flee the country.”

  He spoke in a soft, even tone, clearly conscious that he was treading on very precarious ground.

  I could feel how my whole body had stiffened. “If George had resisted, I am convinced that another way out of the family financial difficulties could have been found,” I said coldly.

  “I really do not think there was another way,” Savile said. “My uncle should never have put poor George in such a position to begin with, of course. But a gambler is a gambler, and by the time Uncle Jack had finished, the entire estate was mortgaged to the hilt.”

  I did not want to hear this story. I did not want to hear anything that might cast George in a sympathetic light.

  I said, “Will anyone else be there besides the grieving widow and her father?”

  Savile agreeably followed this change of topic. “My cousin, Roger Melville, will be present. Roger is the new Lord Devane.”

  I thought that it would not be easy for Lady Devane to be in the company of her husband’s successor.

  All those daughters and no son, I thought piously, thinking of George and Harriet’s family. For all the money that Mr. Cole had paid for Devane Hall, he would not be able to retain it after all. His daughter had not provided George with a male heir.

  “My elder sister will undoubtedly be present as well,” Savile went on. “Not because she expects anything from the will, but because she is incurably nosy.” His voice sounded half amused, half exasperated.

  “What is your sister’s name?” I asked.

  “Regina.”

  “I meant, by what title should I address her?”

  “Oh. She is married to a commoner, so her name is still Lady Regina. I doubt that her husband will come with her. He is Gervase Austen—you know, the fellow who discovered that new comet everyone was talking about last year. Gervase is far more interested in the stars than he is in people.”

  I had heard of neither Mr. Austen nor his comet. I smiled faintly to indicate my interest and wisely said nothing.

  “My cousin John Melville will be there as well,” the earl went on. “John lives at Savile and is kind enough to act as my steward. I really don’t know how I should go on without him.”

  “And who is the attorney who has charge of the will?” I inquired.

  “Old Middleman of Middleman and Ambrose. He resides in London, of course, and that was another reason to have the will read at Savile Castle. We are much more convenient to London than is Devane Hall.”

  I said carefully, “Do any or all of these people know that George has left money to Nicky?”

  We were so close that I could actually feel him stiffen. “No,” he said in a clipped voice. “I have not confided that delightful news to anyone but you.”

  I had insulted him.

  “I wasn’t sure,” I said. “If what George told you is true, then they will all know it soon enough.”

  “I am the executor of George’s will, not the town crier.”

  He was really insulted.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” I said softly. I truly had not meant to offend him.

  He gave me a swift, eagle’s glare and said nothing.

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nbsp; I turned my head to look out the window. The sun had turned the snowy landscape into a sparkling scene of crystal splendor. The world was eerily quiet; even the horses’ hooves were muffled as they fell on the packed snow of the roadway.

  I drew in my breath with an audible catch.

  “It is beautiful indeed,” Savile said quietly. Evidently he had gotten over his ill humor.

  I said with a forced laugh, “And when it melts we shall be knee deep in mud!”

  Silence descended on the coach.

  “How long before we arrive?” I asked at last in a muffled voice.

  “It depends upon the road,” came the reply. “From what we have experienced thus far, I should say another five hours.”

  Five hours! I could not possibly remain cooped up with him there in that coach for five more hours, I thought.

  “I get sick if I ride too long inside a coach,” I said with inspired invention. “Do you think it would be possible for me to ride up on the box with Grove for a while?”

  I could feel him looking at my profile, which I tried to keep expressionless.

  “It will be cold up on the box,” he said.

  The cold on the box was infinitely preferable to the heat I was beginning to feel inside the coach.

  “I am dressed warmly,” I said firmly, “and I would rather be cold than sick.”

  “Very well.” He opened the window, leaned out, and shouted to Grove to stop the horses. We alighted in the middle of the road, which was the only area not covered in snowdrifts. I could see the tracks of the Brighton Mail that Grove was following.

  Before I could protest, Savile put his hands on my waist and swung me up next to Grove on the high box. I felt the touch of his hands all the way through my wool dress and my pelisse.

  Grove looked at me as if I were insane. “It’s too cold for you up here, Mrs. Saunders,” he said.

  I trotted out my lie about feeling sick.

  Grove’s mouth set in a disapproving line, but he unwrapped the plaid wool blanket from around his legs and handed it to me.

  “No, no, no!” I protested in distress. “I do not mean to rob you of your blanket, Grove. I shall be fine, I promise you.”

  From his position on the ground beside us, Savile recommended, “Tuck the blanket around yourself, Mrs. Saunders. I can promise you that as long as you’re beside him, Grove won’t use it himself, so someone might as well get the benefit of its warmth.”

  I looked at the set of Grove’s jaw and knew that Savile was speaking the truth. I felt terrible. “Thank you, Grove,” I said in a small voice.

  “Ye’re welcome, Mrs. Saunders.”

  The earl disappeared, and Grove picked up the reins after he heard the coach door slam closed. He clucked to the chestnuts and we moved off again at a slow trot.

  I hunched up, wrapped the blanket around myself, and tried to convince myself that I wasn’t freezing. I could have ridden in that temperature, because when you ride you are exercising. Driving is sedentary, however, and after an hour I was shivering badly. I was just about to ask Grove to stop so I could get back into the coach when the earl once again called for Grove to halt the horses.

  “Time to switch places, John,” Savile said as he came to stand beside the box. “I’ll drive while you get in out of the wind for a bit.”

  “It ain’t windy, your lordship,” Grove protested.

  “It is when you’re sitting on an open box behind trotting horses,” the earl returned. “Come on, man. Get down.”

  Grove wrapped the reins and slowly got to his feet. He moved stiffly, and I realized that the cold had gotten into his joints.

  I felt even more guilty about stealing his blanket.

  Grove jumped to the ground, staggered, and was supported by his lordship’s gloved hand.

  Savile looked at me. “You too, Mrs. Saunders,” he said. “Your stomach must be feeling better by now.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said through chattering teeth.

  The earl reached up, and without any hesitation I put my hands on his shoulders and let him lift me to the ground. He held the coach door for me and I got in, followed by Grove. Savile shut the door and after a minute we felt the coach rock a little on its springs as the earl climbed up onto the box. Then we were once more moving forward.

  “Oh dear,” I said. “I still have the blanket!”

  “Keep it, Mrs. Saunders,” Grove recommended.

  I felt a flash of irritation. If the two of them are so determined for me to keep this benighted blanket, then I will! I thought. I tucked it around my waist and leaned back, grateful for the soft squabs and the lack of wind. I closed my eyes and pretended to go to sleep.

  The slow trot of the horses was extremely soporific and I was almost asleep for real when the carriage stopped again and the men once more changed places. I lifted my heavy eyelids and regarded them sleepily. Then the carriage moved off and once again my eyes closed.

  Someone rearranged the blanket around me. I mumbled a word of thanks and drifted off into oblivion.

  * * * *

  I opened my eyes to feel a strong male arm holding me snugly against a big warm body. I realized that the wool under my cheek was that of a man’s coat.

  I struggled hazily up from the depths of unconsciousness.

  “Tommy?” I said.

  “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Saunders,” said the Earl of Savile.

  I jerked away from him and sat bolt upright, horrified that I had been sleeping on his shoulder.

  He appeared not to notice my reaction. “You woke up just in time,” he said. “Savile Castle is just ahead.”

  Chapter Six

  I gazed through the coach window and saw what looked like a magical castle right out of the Arthurian legend rising before me out of the snow.

  “Good heavens, it really is a castle,” I said.

  “Yes,” agreed its owner, “it is.”

  I stared at the distant, high gray stone walls, cornered with four perfectly symmetrical towers, and wondered if I would find noble knights and damsels in distress within. Surely they had to be in residence somewhere!

  Savile said, “You can’t see much of it now, because it’s frozen and covered by the snow, but there is a moat. Well, actually it’s a small lake. The castle is built on an island.”

  I turned from the window and gave him an incredulous look. “This amazing edifice actually has a moat?”

  He grinned, something he should not have been allowed to do.

  I turned back to the window, thus averting my eyes from that criminally attractive smile. “When was it built?” I asked. “During the same period as Camelot?”

  He laughed. “Not as early as that. One of my ancestors built it during the reign of Richard II.” His voice was pleasant and informative, but I could hear the pride he was trying to conceal.

  I couldn’t blame him.

  “The Hundred Years War was going on and there was fear of a French invasion,” he continued. “At that time the River Haver, which creates the lake, was a passable tributary of the Thames, so the king issued my ancestor a license to crenellate the manor house, which stood on the shore of the lake”—he gestured—“over there. My ancestor, the first Raoul, decided instead to pull down the manor house and build a fortified, castle on the island.”

  I looked at the walls and towers we were approaching. They appeared less magical and more formidable the closer we got. I stared at the notched battlements and said, “Well, it is most certainly crenellated and fortified.”

  “Yes, we are well equipped to pour slaked lime, stones, and boiling tar or water on any enemies who might make it past our outer defenses,” he assured me.

  I laughed.

  The coach bounced once and then rolled forward more smoothly. I could see from my post at the window that we had passed onto a narrow roadway from which all the snow had been cleared.

  “At one time, this causeway was made of timber,” Savile said. “Today, of course, it is made of stone.”<
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  The coach tooled along the cleared roadway, which apparently was really a bridge, until we reached a free-standing stone tower some two hundred yards in front of the main door set into the castle wall. I looked up, rather expecting to see Elaine hanging out the window searching for her long-lost Lancelot.

  “We are now on an island that is only a little larger than the tower next to us,” the earl informed me. “At one time this was the first line of defense for the castle.”

  The coach stopped, the tower door opened, and an elderly man stepped out. Savile rolled down his window and a blast of cold air rushed into the coach.

  “Welcome home, my lord!” the elderly man called. His face was beaming. “We made certain to get the causeway cleaned off for ye!”

  “Good job, Sims,” the earl said good-humoredly. “Tell me, has Lady Devane arrived yet?”

  The smile disappeared from Sims’s face. “That she has, my lord. And Mr. Cole with her.”

  “That’s no surprise,” Savile muttered under his breath. He nodded to the elderly gatekeeper, rolled up the window, and settled back against the squabs as the coach moved forward once more, a small frown between his brows.

  The earl had so obviously forgotten my presence that I hesitated to question him. Instead, I watched in silence as we passed through the huge, arched stone gate, which must once have been closed by a portcullis, and entered within the castle walls.

  Suddenly the Middle Ages vanished, and my amazed eyes beheld a snow-filled courtyard in the center of which stood an exquisitely beautiful Renaissance house built of rich golden-yellow stone streaked with reddish brown.

  It was a totally unexpected sight and I must have made a sound indicative of my astonishment, for at last the earl’s attention swung back to me.

  “It does that to everyone the first time they see it,” he said humorously. “I think it was the seventh Raoul who decided to tear down most of the medieval buildings and put up a modern residence for himself.”

  By “modern” I judged he meant either Elizabethan or Jacobean.

  “Your family rather went in for tearing down and starting fresh,” I said.

  He laughed.