by Joan Smith
“This is fortuitous,” he assured her.
Sally didn’t believe a word of it, especially when he walked quickly to their table and placed his burden on any empty chair before offering her a seat. Half the single hour allotted to the lovers was completely wasted. Not an amorous word was exchanged between them from that moment on, and very few words of any other sort.
The burden of talk fell on the elder couple. With Monstuart in a bad mood from carrying the foods and Sally in the boughs at his sly trick, the half hour lasted long. Derwent couldn’t even offer Melanie his arm upon leaving, for both parcels had been summarily placed in his hands. In order to deliver the groceries, Derwent, with Melanie, entered the house where it was his custom to take a good many of his meals. It was the greatest wish of every one of the young people that Monstuart go on home alone, but he got down from the carriage and entered the house with them, obviously bent on watching Derwent every moment that it should be possible. They were both invited to lunch, but with a scathing look at his uncle, Derwent declined.
“You will be having company this afternoon. We’ll leave,” Monstuart said. Before leaving, he approached Mrs. Hermitage and had a short private conversation with her.
As soon as the gentlemen were out the door, both daughters inquired what he had said. “He is reconsidering!” The happy mother beamed and laughed aloud in delight.
“There is nothing to consider,” Sally said. “Derwent has firmly offered. It’s all settled.”
“Derwent speaks of waiting a year or so,” Melanie confessed. “He dislikes to live on our money, you know. His uncle told him it was not at all the thing.”
“Much he cares about that!” Sally fired up. “It’s a trick to stave him off till he changes his mind.”
“Oh, dear, and the romance is bound to come off the boil with Monstuart forever hanging around,” Mrs. Hermitage said.
“He won’t change his mind,” Melanie exclaimed.
“Derwent wouldn’t have to live on our money if Monstuart would give him some of his own,” Sally said. “It’s outrageous that a full-grown man like Derwent must grovel to that monster.”
“He is reconsidering, dear,” her mother repeated, placing great faith that the reconsideration would have good results. “If he permits the marriage to go forth, he will give Derwent some of his money, and that would be so much better than having to spend our own.”
Miss Hermitage was far from convinced. “It’s an excuse to stick around and scotch the romance if he can. His blighting presence is enough to cool down Romeo and Juliet.” And Derwent, she knew, fell in and out of love easily. “When does Derwent return?” she asked Melanie.
“Not this afternoon. His uncle has seen to that.” Mellie pouted. “What company did he mean would be coming?”
Sally explained that Mr. Heppleworth was to call, a message that was received without a single shout of glee. “At least he’s coming in the afternoon” was her mother’s unenthusiastic response.
“A pity you couldn’t warm up to him, Mama,” Sally said.
“It’s not me he comes to see.”
“I hope you are not implying I am the one he has in his eye, Mama!” Sally objected, but she was coming to terms with that fact that it was so. Her friendliness, instigated to show Heppleworth he would be entirely welcome as a father, had led him astray.
“Perhaps Derwent will come this evening,” Mrs. Hermitage said, to remove the pout from Mellie’s face. “He would not at all enjoy being here when Heppleworth is telling us about his gout this afternoon, love.”
“Yes, but where will he be?” Melanie countered. “His uncle will take him to visit some other girl. I know it.”
“That’s what he’s up to!” Sally exclaimed, and wondered that she hadn’t thought of it herself. She didn’t continue, as she noticed that her agreement had thrown Melanie deeper into the sulks, but her mind was actively running over the likely young ladies in whose direction Monstuart might try to divert Derwent’s interest.
The afternoon was as dreary as Mr. Heppleworth could make it with his litany of ailments. His tired eyes rested often on Sally, in a way that spoke silently of his intentions. Dinner was little better, with Melanie wilting about like a tired bloom. The evening yawned before them. When the knocker sounded, Miss Hermitage hoped it was Derwent, even if his guardian was with him. In fact, she felt an explicable little hope that Monstuart had come as well.
Chapter Five
Sally was not aware of it, but her lively face wore an expression of anticipation that changed to a tentative smile when she saw Monstuart’s dark head looming behind Derwent at the doorway to the Rose Saloon. Nor was she consciously aware that the uncle looked first toward her, but she felt some little satisfaction when he took up a seat beside her. His first talk was directed to her mama, some trifling inquiry as to whether she had enjoyed her fish, which gave Sally time enough to wonder that she was not in a worse mood to see Monstuart again in their house.
But she was not in a bad mood. In fact, she was wishing he would stop talking to Mama and pay some attention to her. This was a great enough change from her former feeling that some rationalization must be found for it. She regarded his sleek black head, the back of which was her view at the moment, and his wide shoulders, covered in a jacket that was certainly the work of Weston. No wonder if she should be diverted to have a city gentleman to talk to after enduring two hours of Mr. Heppleworth’s gout, she decided.
The black head soon turned in her direction, and its owner caught her studying him with a pensive expression. “What’s the matter?” he asked, “Have I got my hair mussed?”
“No, I shouldn’t think you ever go into public without a careful perusal of your toilette from all angles,” she retorted, piqued to have been caught out in her examination.
“Very true. I have been pirouetting in front of my mirror this past half hour and can’t think what detail escaped me.”
“No detail. I have been admiring your barbering.”
“May I return the compliment and say I admire your coiffure? La Grecque suits you very well.” Monstuart took care that no hint of admiration lit his eyes or lightened his bored tone. “You are wise to continue wearing it, even though it is no longer considered the highest kick of fashion in London,” he added.
Miss Hermitage was not deceived into taking this for a compliment. Like any provincial lady, she was sensitive to the charge of being behind the style. His sly set-down was as good as an invitation to battle. “I must apologize if my antiquated hair style has offended you.”
“I have most particularly told you I admire it,” he pointed out.
“You have also told me it is out of style!”
“No, only out of fashion. Not all fashions are good. The macédoine of lace and ribbons and spangles often seen nowadays in evening toilettes, for example, is quite hideous.” He glanced at Sally’s severe gown.
She immediately inferred another insult. “Much I care about London,” she scoffed.
The dark eyes lingering on her mobile face held an unconscious tinge of admiration. “Were we there this evening, we would have something more lively to look forward to than a game of what, for want of a better word, we shall call chess. Kean is playing at Drury Lane. I have not been in town for some time, but I seem to recall there were some interesting balls offered this week. The Meltons, I think, the Melbournes certainly, and Lady Besswood’s ball, which she calls a rout. There is a new opera being premiered, and a ridotto at—”
“The week has only seven days, milord. Even such a confirmed hedonist as you could hardly take in more than you’ve already mentioned,” she said curtly. Her longing for these treats made her peevish.
“You underestimate me. For propriety’s sake, I’ve omitted some of my less worthy social doings.”
“For what reason do you hint at them, if propriety is of any interest to you at all?”
His dark eyes studied her till she felt uncomfortable. “You’re not seven y
ears old. I suspect you have an inkling how the world wags.”
Sally lifted an imperious brow and stared him down. Why was he speaking in this broad way to her, as though she were married, or a lady of advanced years? “Do you want to play cards or not?” she asked.
“No, but I want even less to sit and watch my nephew make a jackanapes of himself. What do they say, do you suppose, for hours in that little corner?” They both turned their attention to the inglenook.
“I’m surprised you have to ask. You have just implied that, despite your misogamy, you are no stranger to dalliance.”
A rakish smile took possession of his face. “If that’s the way he’s carrying on, I’ll go right over and box his ears,” he said. That smile lent a new aura to Monstuart’s dark, rather forbidding aspect. It hinted at intrigue and caused a warm flush to invade her being. “My sort of dalliance wouldn’t suit your sister at all,” he added, staring at her.
Sally colored at the implication that it would suit her. She decided to misunderstand him. “Derwent’s sort seems to suit her very well.”
His smile dwindled to an ironic grin. “All to do with pledges of eternal devotion, broken hearts if I manage to lure him off for a spell, and that sort of carry-on, I wager.”
“I see nothing wrong in that.”
His frown managed to include both disbelief and disapproval. “It is ridiculous for a puppy to be promising eternal love at the height of an infatuation that won’t outlive the season. Of course, love is madness, and madmen aren’t held accountable for their promises.”
“This one will be,” she cautioned.
When Sally looked toward the grate, she found Derwent’s expression not far removed from lunacy. The two were sitting close together, smiling and occasionally saying a word, as they have been for a month. How could her sister endure it night after night?
When Mrs. Hermitage arose to get her netting box, Monstuart said, “Would you have a spare needle? I’m about ready to try my hand at that embroidery business.”
“Why do you remain in Ashford, if you find it so boring?” Sally asked.
“I think you have an idea why I stick.” His eyes moved slowly from the grate to study Sally. His smile was enigmatic but less satirical than before.
“You’re wasting your time. You can’t stop this marriage. You will look foolish in the extreme if he must borrow from us to finance his first years of marriage.”
“I shall look nohow—in that extremely unlikely case. Shall we play with the chess pieces, or would you rather tackle something else this evening?”
“I’m a bit of a dab at backgammon,” she suggested.
“I don’t know the game.”
“Piquet?”
He nodded. “A shilling a point?”
“You forget I am a pauper. A penny a point.”
“Chicken stakes.”
Sally leveled a cool stare at him. “What stakes would you expect in a chicken roost?”
“That ill-chosen speech has been relayed by your mother, I see. I have apologized to her, and now I apologize to you,” he said, but curtly, with no air of contrition. “A penny a point it is.”
“You of all people ought not to encourage me to outrun the grocer, as I plan to dump all my expenses in Derwent’s lap.”
“I see we both assume I shall be the winner,” he said blandly.
They rose and walked to the games table, where Sally drew out cards and handed them to her partner to be dealt. During a game that lasted for over an hour, she was soundly trounced. She liked to win, but in spite of this, she had not found an evening to pass so quickly and pleasantly for some time. Monstuart could be maddening, but he could also be a highly entertaining partner. The battle between them added a welcome spice to it all and gave her a worthy conversational opponent. It came as a shock and a disappointment when her partner began to yawn into his fist and suggested he had had enough of cards.
“Even with the inducement of my colossal winnings,” he added, sweeping a few coins of small denomination into his hand and pocketing them. “Did the pharmacopoeia in breeches we met today come to call?” he asked.
“Mr. Heppleworth was here this afternoon,” she replied.
“Was Miss Hermitage home to greet him, as he so ardently hopped?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Is he an example of the suitors available to you at Ashford?”
She felt an unwelcome blush stain her cheeks, that Monstuart should see the paltry quality of her suitors. “I have always preferred older gentlemen.”
“Older is a relative term. Older than what? Watch your answer closely, Miss Hermitage. It cannot have escaped your sharp eyes that I am older than you.”
Her eyes snapped angrily. Was he daring to imply she had set her cap at him? Had she betrayed the growing interest?
“Caught without an answer, Miss Hermitage? Use that much-vaunted intelligence. You prefer white hair, perhaps? A touch of the gout?”
“I prefer white hair to town bronze, in any case.”
He rose and hunched his elegant shoulders nonchalantly. “We have already discussed the impossibility of accounting for taste on a former occasion. Now I bid you good evening.” On this speech he went to join the others.
Derwent was just rising to take his leave. “Tomorrow at six, then.” He smiled to Mrs. Hermitage.
“I hope you will join us for dinner tomorrow evening as well, Lord Monstuart,” the mother said. “We are having a few guests in—-Mr. Heppleworth and the Crosbys.”
“I have been hoping for an opportunity to know Mr. Heppleworth better. I will be delighted to come,” Monstuart said without a trace of a smile or a blush. Sally stared at him, but he kept his head averted, talking to her mother for another moment.
He only turned back to her when he took his leave. His satirical grin might have been caused by the invitation, or the fact that he was ushering Derwent out the door at such an early hour. It certainly did not match his polite murmurs of having had a delightful evening.
“I don’t see why you had to include Monstuart,” Melanie scolded as soon as the ladies were alone.
“He is reconsidering, my dear,” her mother reminded her. “It would not do to be rude at such a time. He hinted, just before he left, that if he finds you girls to behave with propriety, he will allow the match.”
“There’s nothing improper in what we do!” Melanie exclaimed.
It would have been difficult to level such a charge against Melanie. Sally often wished for more social awareness from her sister. She thought perhaps Monstuart wanted a more polished bride for his nephew. As a peer, he would be meeting persons from a high social level, and a wife that did no more than smile at her husband would be small asset. But her mother’s remark caused her to wonder whether it was Melanie’s manners he referred to.
“He has the greatest dislike of pertness,” Mrs. Hermitage mentioned. To accuse Melanie of pertness was like accusing a sloth of speed. When the mother slid a questioning look at her elder daughter and said, “I hope you were not pert, Sal,” Monstuart’s meaning became perfectly clear.
Indignation burned deep, and Sally flared up. “Is that what he was whispering in your ear, Mama?”
“He didn’t say so, not in the least, but as he spent all his time with you, I did just wonder whether it was not you he meant. You do have a habit of saying things you ought not to, no denying.”
“He’s a fine one to talk.”
“Oh, Sal, you have been flirting with him,” her mother charged.
“Flirting with that jackdaw? I’d as soon flirt with a—a weasel!” she declared, and flounced from the room. But when she was alone, she had to ask herself in good earnest whether she was not guilty. Her tongue had the habit of running free, but so far from trying to dampen it, Monstuart had egged her on at every turn. He was trying to make her behave ill, to have an excuse to find fault with the family! Knowing Melanie and Mama were unexceptionable, he had found out the weak link and concentrated
his efforts on her. And how easily she had fallen into the trap. Like a Bartholomew Baby, she had been cozened into behaving with an unbecoming freedom.
His repeatedly suggesting that she would like London—that, too, was a trick. He wanted to be able to tell Derwent she intended attaching herself to him and Melanie. He had been wise enough to see there was no love lost between Derwent and her. She could almost hear what he would say to his nephew: “A solicitor’s undowered daughter is disadvantage enough. But a pert sister who battens herself on you and leads your bride astray ...” That’s how he would twist things.
Her blood fairly boiled when she thought of it, and she longed to retaliate. A dozen brazen speeches occurred to her. If Derwent was not led astray by a philandering uncle, it was not likely his wife would be led astray by her sister. If Melanie was so biddable as that, why had she remained unspoiled for so long? And furthermore, Sally had no intention of living with them! An occasional visit, a few weeks during the Season, was all she ever had in mind.
After hearing Monstuart boast of his social whirl, Sally wanted those few weeks very much. And she wanted it from such an unexceptionable base as her sister, married to Lord Derwent, would provide. What was the point of hiring a set of rooms in some apartment house in Upper Grosvenor Square? She wanted Melanie’s marriage for her sister’s sake, and there was no reason a small benefit should not trickle down to Sally. Melanie would marry Derwent, and she would visit them. Strong as the temptation was to come to cuffs with Monstuart, she would behave with the greatest propriety he had ever seen. She would utter not a word that might not be said before the twelve apostles and their mothers.
The next meeting with him would be her mother’s dinner party. She would make Mr. Heppleworth her dinner partner and her conversation partner after dinner. It would take a miracle to make Mr. Heppleworth misbehave, but she must not encourage the old fool to think she loved him. Let Lord Monstuart raise his black brows and quiz her as much as he liked; she would not be betrayed into impropriety.