The Hermit's Daughter

by Joan Smith

  Chapter Six

  No definite meeting between Derwent and Melanie was set for any time before the dinner party, but there was a general expectation that he would not allow nearly twenty-four hours to roll by without a glimpse of his beloved, nor did he. He was there the next morning at ten forty-five, striking a balance between his own preferred time and that of his uncle, who was again with him. Monstuart’s city barbering and tailoring received no smiling welcome this morning. Sally sat silent in a corner, determined to be civil. He asked her to drive out again, and she bit back the rejoinder that she was surprised he should suggest it, when yesterday’s drive gave him so little pleasure.

  “I’m afraid I’m busy this morning,” she replied. From having been in the saloon since ten-thirty, waiting for him, she knew the gentlemen had come in two carriages, and her going was not necessary. She did wonder why he wanted to be alone with her and could only conclude he intended to step up his plan of luring her into indiscretion.

  “Setting up a new tambour frame?” he asked politely.

  “It is my sister and Mama who are the needlewomen,” she reminded him.

  “And you, if memory serves, like reading. What book have you discovered that you can’t be drawn away? Byron—it must be Byron. You have not fallen behind in your literary fashion, at any rate. All the young ladies are hiding the new cantos of Childe Harold from their mamas.”

  “I am reading a very exciting drama by Hannah More,” she said, lying through her teeth and enjoying it.

  Monstuart looked for a telltale movement of her lips and saw only a prim line. “Exciting in the same sentence as Hannah More? That sounds like a contradiction in terms to me.”

  “I enjoy her uplifting theological exercises.”

  Monstuart didn’t answer immediately but just lifted his quizzing glass and stared at her till she became nervous. “I had hoped you might be kind enough to accompany me to Canterbury,” he said next.

  The weather was particularly fine. A drive of fifteen or so miles to Canterbury in Monstuart’s elegant carriage and luncheon at a restaurant were a strong inducement. But as the outing offered so much opportunity for pertness, Sally declined.

  He never for a moment thought he was really being refused. She was playing hard to get, a game he knew well and rather enjoyed. “We could visit the cathedral—Hannah More would approve of that,” he tempted with a smile that had nothing to do with cathedrals.

  Sally thought Hannah herself would find that smile hard to resist, but she was made of sterner stuff. “Living so close, we have toured the cathedral several times. I do recommend it to you, however, if you haven’t been there. It is considered a particularly fine example of perpendicular architecture, I believe.”

  “I’ve paid my duty visit to admire it. That removes the onus of having to do so today. My real reason for the trip is to visit an everything store and find some games to help us wile away the evenings,” he tempted, but still she demurred.

  Finally convinced that Sally was adamant, he rose with a questioning look. “It seems we must rely on a recital of Mr. Heppleworth’s assorted ills for our evening’s entertainment, unless you can suggest something I pick up while there?”

  Sally had not a single suggestion to make.

  “You won’t be needing any fish—mutton?” he teased, trying to beguile her into a smile before leaving. He discerned a glitter in her green eyes and waited expectantly for her retort.

  “No, thank you,” she said calmly.

  No jibes, no sparks, no taunts. “I didn’t expect my advice to your mother would have this effect!” He scowled and finally left, alone.

  Sally was well satisfied with her fortitude. He had thought her temper so unstable that she would be betrayed into even worse behavior than usual, and had the barefaced audacity to say as much. That evening she would be even more polite, let him goad as he might. She was in good spirits for half an hour, till she began envisioning the trip she had missed, at which point she turned waspish.

  As afternoon advanced into evening, her spirits rose once more. Determined to be acceptable, she wore her least dashing gown and wished it were even less dashing. It was an elegant robe of deep mulberry that brought her ivory neck and shoulders into prominence without suggesting any impropriety. Around her throat she wore the small strand of diamonds Papa had given her on her seventeenth birthday, and had her hair dressed à la Grecque. To change it would suggest she cared for Monstuart’s opinion.

  Looking at her image in the mirror, Sally gurgled softly to herself to consider that this fashionable lady was about to play the role of Bath Miss. She hunched her impertinent shoulders and danced downstairs when she heard the knocker through her open door. The gentlemen being shown in by Rinkin caught only a glimpse of her laughing eyes. The minute she recognized Monstuart’s dark head and wide shoulders, she pokered up and advanced at a stately gait to make them welcome. Her curtsy was the stiffest curtsy ever performed by her lithe young body.

  The single glimpse he had seen of Sally’s habitual self had already put a smile on Monstuart’s saturnine face. He bowed, flickering a practiced eye over her toilette. “Enchanting,” he murmured.

  “Mulberry is still being worn in the provinces,” she replied, and led the guests into the Rose Saloon with a word tossed over her shoulder to Derwent to assure him Melanie would be down presently. Little tendrils of black curls fell below the Greek knot and nestled on her white neck, causing sufficient interest to Monstuart that he was still smiling when she showed him a seat.

  “Did you have a pleasant drive to Canterbury?” she inquired.

  “Not so pleasant as it would have been if you had accompanied me, but tolerable. I found a book I hope you will accept,” he said, and handed her a small volume bound in Russian leather.

  Surprised, she glanced at the title and saw it to be a play by Hannah More entitled The Fatal Falsehood. “A dramatic tragedy by your favorite author,” he said, his dark eyes laughing.

  Sally refused to recognize any significance in the title and thanked him calmly. “I look forward to reading it. This is one that hasn’t come my way before. I have just been dipping into her Thoughts on the Manners of the Great and found it most amusing,” she said, not betraying by an accent that she was retaliating for his daring to hint she had lied to say she was busy.

  “That’s Thoughts on the Importance of the Manners of the Great, ma’am, if I’m not mistaken,” Monstuart pointed out. “Not quite so apropos—from your point of view—but a very good riposte. I congratulate you.”

  Her raised brows and blank look were meant to imply she was lost at his rejoinder, but as some widening of her great green eyes accompanied the gesture, Monstuart failed to perceive anything but their beauty and smiled on, bemused. “Is the wandering pharmacopoeia not here yet?" he asked. “I made sure he was the sort who would be awkwardly on time and rushed Derwent out of the house with his cravat untied in a race to beat him.”

  It provided an excuse to include Derwent in the conversation. “I see you have managed to get it tied, and must congratulate you on doing it so well in a jostling carriage,” she said.

  “Your congratulations are misdirected, Miss Hermitage,” Monstuart informed her. “It was I who executed the Oriental you are admiring. I wear the same style myself. Perhaps you would care to admire mine as well?”

  This venture earned him a brief glance and a very mild “Lovely."

  “Where did you and Melanie go this afternoon?” she asked Derwent. Melanie had already related every stop and every flower seen, but Sally was determined to converse with the less interesting gentleman, and trying to talk to Derwent was always a trial.

  “We drove toward Dover,” he said. “It was very nice, with all the spring flowers and sunshine and whatnot. I picked Mellie a bouquet.”

  “Every flower of which will be pressed before her head hits the pillow this evening,” Monstuart prophesied with an air of ennui.

  Sally knew they were already being fl
attened between the pages of stout volumes, for she had been asked to help find books for the job. “What a novel idea. I shall suggest it to my sister,” she replied with a determined smile.

  “It was only daisies and buttercups,” Derwent said idly.

  “And bluebells,” Sally added, then looked quickly away as she received a knowing shot from the other gentleman.

  “I wonder what ladies do with all the bushels of flowers they press annually,” Monstuart asked of no one in particular. “A distressing number of them find their way behind frames. Do you press flowers and make arrangements, Miss Hermitage?”

  “No, I am not at all artistic.”

  “Neither are most of the ladies who stick a bunch of dry and discolored weeds into a frame. For some reason the fact that they did it themselves is considered sufficient justification for hanging the results on the wall to offend the aesthetic sensitivities of their guests. I think there ought to be a law against it. The anti-dried flower framing law, it would be called. Why don’t you suggest it in your maiden speech in the House, Derwent? You will earn the undying gratitude of every man in the kingdom.”

  “He is only funning,” Derwent told Sally. “Monty is a Whig. He has an odd sense of humor.”

  Sally cast an understanding smile at the lover, who hardly knew what to say. They both found themselves staring at the bunch of dried May flowers arranged by his unartistic beloved not a month ago and now decorating the wall. Aware of a stretching silence, Sally said, “You are not sentimental, Monstuart.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he inserted quickly.

  She ignored him and continued talking to Derwent, who was astonished to receive so much friendly condescension from Sally. “To persons of sensibility, the fact that the work was done by a loved one, in memory of a shared experience, constitutes the point of it.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Monstuart, determined to spoil her disquisition, said, “I’m glad to hear there’s some point. One trembles to think of the results if they took into their heads to frame every shared book and box of bonbons and tearstained handkerchief that speaks of their love.”

  “They could hardly frame a consumed box of candy, in any case,” Sally snapped. Her color rose and her eyes sparkled in vexation.

  “They don’t usually consume the box,” he pointed out. “Unless they happen to be goats, of course.”

  The supporters of sentiment exchanged a commiserating smile. “I make sure Melanie will make a lovely arrangement from the daisies and buttercups,” Sally said.

  “And bluebells,” Monstuart added. “You should break down and buy the lady a bouquet of roses if she is a lover of flowers, Derwent.”

  “Buying is not at all the same thing,” Sally pointed out. “It is the gathering of the blooms together that makes up the memory. A quiet stroll through sun-dappled fields ...”

  Derwent was amazed to hear such good sense from her. “You have hit it dead on, Miss Hermitage.”

  “It has been my experience that ladies are very well satisfied with a dozen or two of roses from a mildew-dappled florist.” Monstuart insisted.

  “There are ladies and there are ladies,” Sally said ever so gently. Her speaking eyes held a touch of innuendo.

  “Very true.” Monstuart nodded. “Some of them are even sensible enough to prefer a less perishable gift than a flower. And what is so imperishable as a diamond?”

  “But we are discussing ladies, milord,” Sally reminded him, still gentle.

  “I was beginning to think it was geese or some other bird-witted creatures we were talking about.”

  As the phrase “bird-witted creatures” was uttered, Miss Melanie and her mama entered the saloon on cue and welcomed their guests.

  “Is Heppleworth not here yet?” Mrs. Hermitage asked. “I made sure when I saw the hats and canes in the hall he was here. He always will land in on the dot, like a farmer.”

  Monstuart gave her a quizzing smile. “My apologies for being on time, ma’am.” It was laughed away with the assurance that Mrs. Hermitage was sorry she was late. “Next time I shall follow London punctuality. I see you and your daughters have not quite broken city habits yet.”

  Alert to a trap, Sally declared that she adored the country and wouldn’t leave it for anything.

  “Why, Sal, what a plumper!” her mother exclaimed. “I’m sure if you’ve bemoaned missing the Season once, you’ve done it seven times a week.”

  “Even on Sunday, eh?” Monstuart asked archly.

  Having no reply to save her face, Miss Hermitage was obliged not to hear the question, nor to realize Monstuart went on looking at her, waiting for an answer. “I wonder what can be keeping Mr. Heppleworth,” she said.

  “Very likely the gout, or it could be an upset stomach, or a stop at the chemist shop,” her mother suggested. Monstuart watched Sally closely, ready to smile if she glanced his way, but she was busy pressing an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt with her fingers.

  When Heppleworth arrived a few moments later, it proved to be no medical errand but a social one that had delayed him. He had stopped at the sweet shop to purchase two large, gaudy boxes of bonbons, one for Mrs. Hermitage and one for Sally. “Sweets for the sweet,” he said, presenting them with a flourish and wishing at the moment of truth that he had either gone whole hog and got one for Melanie, too, or had the courage to limit his gifts to Sally. The arrival of Monstuart on the scene had caused him to step up his desultory courting.

  “How nice!” Mrs. Hermitage said. “My, two whole pounds—this is a surprise. You shouldn’t have, Mr. Heppleworth.”

  “Thank you,” Sally said quietly. She wished the box were not quite so large, the satin covering not quite so red, the quantity of lace paper and bows not so great. It was the sort of gift shopkeepers presented to their lovers and it did not escape her eyes that Monstuart was biting his lips in amusement. She felt less inclined to favor Mr. Heppleworth with her company after this gift. When Monstuart got a step ahead of him to the sofa beside her, she was half-glad.

  “It will look spectacular in a frame,” he told her in a quiet aside, glancing at the box. “I suggest a very plain one, to counter the extravagance of the lid. Really, your lack of artistry will never be noticed.”

  It required a deal of self-command to take this in humor, but Sally managed it. “A lovely thought, is it not?” she asked.

  “What, sweets for the sweet? Lovely, perhaps, highly original, of course, but inappropriate for Miss Hermitage.”

  “I think you are not being nice, milord,” she said through thin lips.

  “It is costing you more than it’s worth to go on being nice in the face of such wanton provocation as this,” he told her, again eyeing the vulgar box. “You’ll need a dose of that paregoric draft. May I ask what accounts for this unaccustomed fit of propriety?”

  “I hope I am not accustomed to behaving with anything but propriety!”

  A brief, puzzled frown flitted over Monstuart’s swarthy face. Then he turned his attention to Heppleworth. Was it even remotely conceivable that Sally was putting on this show of niceness for the old slice’s benefit? Surely he was mistaken.

  The Crosbys soon arrived, and dinner was called. Mrs. Hermitage set an elegant table, with two courses and two removes. With the increase to the party of the Crosbys, a conversable couple of good breeding and broad interests, the meal was a success. After dinner, Mrs. Crosby kept Melanie entertained by asking her questions about Derwent till the gentlemen joined them.

  At this point, someone suggested a round of whist, and while the table was being set up there was some discussion as to who would partner Mrs. Hermitage against the Crosbys. Derwent was, of course, excused, which left Monstuart and Heppleworth. It was patently obvious that both wished to cry off and have Miss Hermitage to himself. She had only to engage one in conversation and the other would fall victim to the table. She was loath to be stuck with Heppleworth for an hour or two, yet wouldn’t satisfy Monstuart to choose him. Hepplew
orth, with more nerve and less manners, carried the day.

  “I can’t settle down to cards so soon after a heavy meal,” he decreed. “My stomach is always upset till I have my gargle of tea. I must sit quietly and digest my food.”

  With a bland countenance and a burning temper, Monstuart begged permission to be allowed to be the fourth player. Heppleworth aided the heavy meal’s digestion by topping it off with a quarter of a pound of gooey bonbons. Miss Hermitage realized she should be relieved that she was spared Monstuart’s company. She had been on tiptoes to light into him all evening, and now she was safe. He would be at cards for an hour at least, probably more.

  During the whole time, he never once glanced at her. He looked occasionally toward his nephew and Melanie, but Sally felt she might as well not have been there for all the attention he paid to her.

  It seemed hours before the tea tray was brought in. If she could have drawn her sister and Derwent into the conversation, it would have relieved the tedium, but repeated hints and two direct requests brought no results. She was stuck to entertain Mr. Heppleworth by herself and eat at least a few of his bonbons, for he kept shoving the box at her.

  Worst of all, it was becoming perfectly clear that she was the object of his affection. Subtle hints were dropped as to the pleasure of being “alone with her at last, suitably chaperoned, of course.” “In the not too far distant future, I hope we may, with all propriety, dispense with a chaperon entirely.” At length, Sally could endure it no longer.

  She did the unthinkable. She barged in on the duo by the fireside and made them talk to her, or at least listen. Heppleworth hobbled over, too, but he was quiet. She felt as welcome as rain at a picnic, but she stayed with them till the tea was brought in. Sally usurped her mother’s prerogative and hastened to the table to pour. There was only one chair at the table, so Heppleworth could not join her.