The Arrangement

by Joan Wolf

I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere, “It seems to me that a round table is extremely appropriate for this house. When I first saw its walls and towers rising out of the snow, I thought I must surely be coming to Camelot.”

  The new Lord Devane, who was seated to my left, laughed. “You are thinking of Arthur’s round table, are you, Mrs. Saunders?”

  “Yes, my lord, I am.”

  He gave me a look of approval. “I had the same feeling myself the first time I came to Savile,” he said, and while the soup was being served he proceeded to regale the table with the amusing tale of his first visit to the castle.

  I sat with my soup in front of me, my hands folded in my lap, waiting. On either side of me, the men dipped their spoons into their bowls and began to eat. At this point I realized that grace was not going to be said, so I picked up my spoon and took a sip of the steamy liquid in front of me.

  I had just decided that it must be some kind of vegetable soup when the earl, who was seated to my right, murmured softly, “It doesn’t stand up to Mr. Macintosh’s, does it?”

  It didn’t, of course.

  “It is very good, my lord,” I said politely.

  He made a noise indicative of disbelief, and I smiled into my soup.

  The soup was removed and a fish course was set out next: a turbot in some sort of butter and herb sauce. It was good and I was hungry. I let the conversation eddy around me while I ate.

  After the fish dishes were removed, I was amazed to see the butler set a large roast turkey in front of the earl. I stared at the huge bird in wonder. Surely I wasn’t expected to eat that along with everything that had come before?

  It seemed that I was.

  The earl rose to his feet and took a large carving knife from Powell. I watched in astonishment as his long, slim hands, wielding the knife with decisive authority, slashed easily through the fowl, slicing off the succulent meat and depositing it on the plates, which a footman then brought to each of us seated around the table.

  The second footman poured more wine. I had drunk only about a fourth of my first glass, but I noticed that everyone else’s glass was almost empty.

  The third footman took an array of covered side dishes from the sideboard and arranged them on the table. The dish in front of me contained what I thought might be oyster stuffing for the turkey. It smelled delicious and I regretted having eaten so much turbot.

  Once the turkey had been served, everyone chose their side dishes. Two footmen assisted in this process; if the dish one wanted was out of reach, one simply asked a footman to bring it to one.

  I had some of the oyster stuffing and a few pickled beans. I looked at the amount of turkey that the earl had heaped upon my plate and wondered how I was going to get through all that food.

  How paltry Savile must have thought his dinner at Deepcote, I thought.

  “How did we fare with the snowfall, John?” the earl asked as we began our main course.

  Mr. John Melville, whom I remembered was Savile’s steward as well as his cousin, finished chewing his meat before he answered, “Not too badly, Raoul, from what I can see. At any rate, I have had no damage reports from any of the tenants.”

  Savile nodded and proceeded to ask a few specific questions, demonstrating that he was indeed aware of what was happening on his land.

  Mr. Cole interrupted rudely, “What time is this solicitor fellow coming tomorrow, Savile?”

  There was a pause as the earl turned to look at his guest. Then, “I expect him by early afternoon,” Savile said pleasantly.

  “I still don’t understand why Papa and I had to travel from Devane Hall all the way to Savile Castle in order to hear George’s will read,” Harriet said. “The weather was terrible, the journey was most unpleasant, and we had to put up overnight at a very inferior inn. One would think that you would show more concern for a newly made widow, Savile!”

  I could not help but notice that the newly made widow’s plate was heaped with food.

  “I am sorry that you were inconvenienced, Harriet,” Savile said, “but it was easier for Middleman to come to Kent than to Sussex.”

  “It ain’t for us to consider Middleman’s convenience, it’s for him to consider ours,” Mr. Cole said bluntly. His plate was heaped even higher than his daughter’s.

  “I also had to fetch Mrs. Saunders,” said the earl.

  Next to me, Roger Melville, the new Lord Devane, said gently, “Ah yes, the mysterious Mrs. Saunders.”

  I took a small bite of turkey and didn’t look at anyone.

  Harriet Melville’s rather high-pitched complaining went on. “It’s bad enough that I have to look at Roger and picture him throwing me and my beloved daughters out of my own home, but to be asked to sit down to take my dinner with the niece of our local witch! Really, Savile, I think it is too much.”

  “My girl’s right,” said Mr. Cole. “I call it scaly behavior all ‘round, that I do.”

  Roger Melville whispered in my ear, “It doesn’t seem to have affected their appetites.”

  I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

  The earl said, “I would much prefer not to hear any more about this so-called witch, Harriet. I have met Miss Longworth myself and she most certainly is not a witch.”

  “She is an herbal healer,” I repeated. “People come from all over the area for her medicines.”

  “They come to her for love potions,” Harriet said defiantly. She stared at me, her dark eyes glittering beneath their odd, sleepy-looking lids. “Everyone knows that. Everyone knows that that’s how you got Tom Saunders to marry you. You used a love potion!”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. The idea of Tommy as the victim of a love potion was so absurd that it was hilarious.

  Savile said coldly, “I think it is perfectly clear to anyone with eyes why Tom Saunders was attracted to his wife, and it has nothing to do with love potions.”

  “Good God,” said Lord Devane in exaggerated amazement. “Surely only an ignorant servant girl could be so unenlightened as to believe in love potions, Harriet!”

  Harriet’s face went scarlet.

  Albert Cole slammed his hands on the table, making some of the side dishes jump. “Are you callin’ my girl ignorant?” he demanded, staring truculently at Lord Devane.

  As Devane made a faintly amused, superficially polite reply, I stared at Harriet’s fiery face. For some reason, I didn’t think her embarrassment came from being likened to an ignorant serving girl.

  Good heavens, I thought. Could she possibly have asked Aunt Margaret for a love potion to use herself?

  I felt a sudden, unwanted stab of pity. It could not have been pleasant, being married to a man who was in love with another woman.

  Then she shouldn’t have married him, I thought.

  The earl took charge of the conversation, turning it firmly in another direction. He said to his sister, who was seated across the circle from him, “Why is Gervase not here with you, Ginny?”

  “He is in London for a meeting of the Royal Society,” she replied. “You know how they are always dying to hear him talk about his comet, Raoul. One would have thought they would have heard everything he had to say on the subject by now.”

  “What is the name of this comet?” I asked.

  “Austen’s Comet,” she replied with a laugh. “What else?”

  The warmth in her eyes was at odds with the casual humor of her voice. It was perfectly clear to me that Lady Regina was enormously proud of her husband.

  “Gervase is one of the great mathematical brains of our time,” the earl said to his sister. “Men of science will always want to hear him talk.”

  “Not one of the greatest, Raoul,” Lady Regina returned with sparkling eyes. “The greatest. There can be no doubt of that.”

  Albert Cole wiped his mouth with a large white linen napkin and said, “Waste of time if you ask me, using mathematics to look at the sky. Mathematics should be used to make money.”

  “Well, if making m
oney is to be our measure of greatness, then certainly you, Cole, must be the greatest man of our time.” The amused, malicious voice belonged to Lord Devane.

  I shot him a quick look and saw that the same amused malice danced in his very blue eyes.

  Mr. Cole returned seriously, “You are probably right, Devane. Did you know that I started as the son of a collier?”

  John Melville said gravely, “Yes, I believe you have mentioned that fact once or twice.”

  Across the table I saw John Melville’s eyes meet the earl’s. Savile coughed, picked up his napkin, and covered his mouth.

  Lady Regina said firmly, “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Cole, do not regale us once again with the saga of your journey from the depths of poverty to the heights of enormous wealth. We have all heard that tale more often than we care to, I can assure you of that.”

  Albert Cole was not insulted. “You can’t bamboozle me, Lady Regina,” he said. “You and that genius husband of yours would be mighty happy to have my money, I can tell you that.”

  Lady Regina’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and she began to open her mouth.

  Before she could speak, however, John Melville cut in. “Gervase would just spend it trying to make a more powerful telescope, or something like that. Money means nothing to a man like Gervase Austen, Cole.”

  Mr. Cole’s little, light eyes shone like twin lamps in the darkened flesh that surrounded them. “Money never means nothing, Mr. Melville,” he said.

  All of the Melvilles sitting around the table looked politely incredulous.

  I had met many men like Mr. Cole in my time—they were the mainstays of my client list—and I thought I understood far better than the aristocratic Melvilles the frame of reference from which a man like Albert Cole operated.

  Yes, he was a boor. Yes, he was rude and unpolished. But it was a fact that he had been born into bitter poverty and that he had made himself a fortune with nothing but his wits and his hard work to sustain him.

  In one thing, certainly, Albert Cole was right and the Melvilles were wrong: Money can only mean nothing to those who have it.

  The butler came to stand behind the earl and murmur softly, “Have you finished, my lord?”

  “Yes, I think so, Powell. You may remove the cloth and set out the sweet.”

  To my astonishment, that is precisely what the servants did. The table was cleared and the cloth was removed to reveal another immaculately clean one beneath it. Clean glasses were set before each diner, along with dessert plates, knives, forks, and fresh napkins. A sweet wine was served for the ladies and decanters of claret and port were set before the earl.

  Then Powell set an immense apple pie upon the table.

  “Will you have some, Harriet?” the earl inquired courteously of the grieving widow.

  “Yes, thank you, Savile, I will,” she replied.

  Powell cut a piece, put it upon a plate, and gave the plate to one of the footmen, who brought it to Harriet. This procedure was then repeated for each of us at the table.

  Even though the pie looked wonderful, I declined. I had eaten a much larger dinner than I was accustomed to, and my stomach felt uncomfortably full.

  Throughout the rest of the dinner, the earl and John Melville talked determinedly about things that were going on around the estate. Everyone else was silent as they applied themselves to the pie.

  After the pie was finished, Lady Regina rose.

  “Shall we retire to the Little Drawing Room for tea, ladies?”

  Harriet and I stood up obediently, and the three ladies filed out, leaving the men to their port and their conversation.

  We did not return to the room where we had met before dinner, but went instead up the great stairs and into the comfortable-looking parlor that was the first room to the right of the Great Chamber. The walls of this room were covered in pale green damask and the armchairs were gilt beechwood with green velvet upholstery. A very pretty rosewood book cabinet with brass trellises along the glass front stood against the wall between two large, green-draped windows. A settee was placed at right angles to the fire, and Harriet sat upon it. She looked at me.

  Suddenly, I couldn’t face the thought of spending one more minute in her company.

  I said to Lady Regina, “I am so sorry, but I am truly exhausted from today’s journey. Please make my excuses to the gentlemen, but I am going to say good night now and go to bed.”

  “Oh, don’t leave us to our own company, Mrs. Saunders,” Lady Regina said, and the look she gave me was heartfelt.

  I was not inclined toward mercy, however. “I would be no company at all, I assure you.” I looked toward the settee. “Good night, Lady Devane.”

  “Oh, good night,” she replied petulantly.

  Lady Regina sighed. “Shall I call a footman to escort you to your room?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I assured her.

  “Then I will send one of the maids to help you undress.”

  This service I declined as well. I had managed to get into my evening dress without help; I would get out of it the same way.

  The bedroom passageway was very cold, but a blast of warmth from the fireplace wafted out to greet me as I opened my bedroom door. The bedside and fireside oil lamps had been lit, and as I undressed in a leisurely fashion I compared the comfort of the room with the way I had to scramble out of my clothes and jump into bed at home in order to stay warm.

  I was just going to turn out the lamps and get into bed when there came a soft knock at the door and a maid entered.

  “I have a hot brick for your bed, ma’am,” she said.

  I watched as she folded down my bedclothes and slipped the hot brick down to the foot of the bed.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She gave me a prim little smile and exited quietly.

  Now, normally when one gets into bed in the wintertime, the sheets at the bottom are like ice. This was not the case at Savile Castle, however. The hot brick radiated heat all through the bottom part of the bed and I wiggled my bare toes blissfully.

  I had to admit that even though I had felt like a beggar girl dining at the table of King Cophetua, I had enjoyed my dinner immensely. I had never seen such a lavish display of food.

  And that was only a family dinner! I thought. What must a formal party be like at Savile Castle?

  That was one thing I would never find out, I thought, wiggling my toes again comfortably. Both birth and economic situation firmly excluded me from the kind of society in which the Earl of Savile moved.

  It was not that my birth wasn’t perfectly respectable; it was. My father was a doctor in the city of York and my mother was the daughter of a clergyman. When my sister and I were children, my family had automatically been included in the “good society” of York and its environs. It had never occurred to either Deborah or me that we were not every bit as good as everyone else we knew.

  Then my parents went on a short trip to a seaside resort and were killed in a hotel fire. Deborah was eleven and I was eight. Our world had never been the same again.

  I wrapped my arms around my knees, stared into the glowing coals, and remembered how frightened the two of us had been as we rode the stagecoach from York to Hatfield on our way to live with Aunt Margaret, my father’s sister and our only surviving relative. We had sat in mute silence all the way, our hands clasped together, our eyes focused unseeingly out the window.

  We had never before met Aunt Margaret, and when we did, she was a definite shock. Older than my father by ten years, she had been a semi-recluse for years. The addition of two lively children to her home had probably been as difficult for her as adjusting to her had been for us.

  It was not that she did not care about us. When she remembered us, she cared very much. But for the part of the day that Aunt Margaret spent in her garden, Deborah and I did not exist for her. And Aunt Margaret spent virtually her entire day in her garden.

  The result of this situation was that Deborah and I had brought ou
rselves up. In childhood we had been allowed to roam freely about the countryside, but as we grew into young womanhood, this lack of adult restraint started to become scandalous. The rector’s wife, Mrs. Bridge, had spoken to Aunt Margaret about her duty to chaperon her nieces, but poor Aunt Margaret was utterly incapable of leaving Littleton Cottage. To give Mrs. Bridge her due, she tried to include us along with her own daughter in many of the activities organized by the local mamas in order to introduce young men and women to one another as prospective spouses.

  I was fifteen when I first met Tommy, who was home from Eton for the summer. I was fishing at the pond that lay to the southeast of town when he came along, whistling and carrying his fishing pole. I liked him immediately because he did not patronize me the way so many of the older boys did.

  It was not until the following year, however, when I had begun to develop a figure, that Tommy began to pay me the kind of attention a young man pays to a young woman.

  The year after that, George made his appearance in neighborhood society. I remember very clearly the first occasion upon which I saw him. It was at a picnic given by Mrs. Bridge. George had come down from Cambridge for the summer and for some reason or another—boredom probably—he had decided to join Mrs. Bridge’s expedition to some local ruins.

  All the girls except me instantly fell in love with him. He was very handsome as well as being the next Lord Devane.

  From the day he’d first appeared at that benighted picnic, George had given me nothing but trouble. I devoutly hoped that tomorrow, when I declined his legacy, I would be able to say goodbye forever to George Melville, Lord Devane.

  Chapter Eight

  I awoke at my usual early hour the next morning, but as I was quite sure that none of the family would be stirring until much later, I decided to remain in bed. The only way I could keep myself from worrying about what might come out in George’s will that afternoon was by turning my brain to what seemed the eternal problem of my life: money.

  The money that I was presently making from my business was not going to be enough to see me through the next few years. Consequently, I had to either (a.) spend less or (b.) earn more. Since I had already cut my expenses to the bone, the only solution was to earn more.