by Joan Smith
Mrs. Crosby, a lady of some sophistication, had seen enough of Sally’s problem that she took a seat beside Mr. Heppleworth and charmed him into a discussion of all his recent ills. When all the cups were filled, Sally took hers to the farthest side of the room from her aged pursuer.
Monstuart immediately rose and joined her. “My turn,” he said with a teasing smile. “To hound and harass you,” he explained when she gave him a dazed look. “But I promise not to force a single bonbon down your throat. They’re ghastly. The square ones have chunks of bitter orange peel in them.”
“I know. I had four,” she said, and was too weary to wonder whether she was being indiscreet.
“One would have been sufficient to show your good will in the matter. You don’t want to encourage him.” He waited expectantly for some denial of this ridiculous charge.
Sally sat with her spine stiff and her expression schooled to primness. “Why should I not? He is very eligible. Mr. Heppleworth owns Tintagel Farm, a vast enterprise. He raises milchers.”
”That would explain his bovine manner, but it does not explain your complacence to his courting.”
Why should she “explain” anything to this interloper? “Did you enjoy your card game?” she asked.
“No.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“I think not. You’re delighted that I, too, have been miserable for the past sixty minutes. Don’t let politeness stand in the way of our enjoying at least the dog end of this awful evening.”
The temptation to give vent to some of her pent-up vexation was strong, but with a final effort, Sally resisted. “I’m sorry you have had a flat time.”
Monstuart’s brows drew together in perplexity. “Are you not feeling well, Miss Hermitage?”
“I feel fine.”
“You aren’t behaving like yourself. I lay the blame in Heppleworth’s dish—er, box.”
“Why do you disparage him?” she said rather loudly. “And please lower your voice, or Mr. Heppleworth will hear you.”
“You are the one who raised her voice. And in any case, would it be a calamity if he caught a glimpse of the real you?”
She tossed her head boldly. “Of course not. He is sufficiently smitten to withstand my manner.”
A few more efforts at flirtation were roundly snubbed. Monstuart was not accustomed to playing second fiddle to anyone, and to find himself second to an aging invalid with neither conversation nor looks put his back up. He decided to play his trump. “I shall be leaving the neighborhood tomorrow,” he said. That should jar her out of her smugness.
A look of alarm leaped into her eyes. “Do you take Derwent with you?”
That was her only interest in him, his control over Derwent. “Good idea. I’m glad you thought of it.”
“But you said you would reconsider!”
“So I shall—at Beauwood.”
Monstuart rose and left, taking Derwent with him. As soon as the other guests left—and it was quite late before Heppleworth was finally ejected—Sally told the family the startling news.
“Derwent is coming to call tomorrow. Monstuart was only trying to frighten you,” Melanie said. “Let him return to his mistress’s houseparty. I wish he would stay there.”
“I wish we knew Lady Dennison’s feeling about all this,” Mrs. Hermitage said worriedly. “She could be some kin to Lady Mary DeBeirs, for all we know. Oh, dear, now what shall we do?”
“Let us go to bed,” Sally suggested,
“But what has put Monstuart out of sorts?” the mother persisted. “Did you say anything to him, Sally? I thought you looked strangely morose all evening. You didn’t offend him. I hope?”
“I didn’t say a word that could possibly offend anyone,” Sally exclaimed. “Pray don’t lay it in my dish. Monstuart was looking for an excuse to forbid the match, and since he couldn’t find one, he’s going to forbid it anyway. I don’t know why he stayed so long, beast of a man.”
On this angry speech she flounced upstairs.
Chapter Seven
The most surprised party in the house when Derwent actually appeared for his appointment was Sally. She was sure his uncle would whisk him off to court Lady Mary and her fortune. Strangely enough, this troubled her less than the knowledge that Monstuart had returned to Lady Dennison.
“It seems to me he was a very poor choice of guardian for you, Derwent,” she said. “I have often heard Papa say the first prerequisite of a guardian is that he have high morals. I, for one, would not pay a libertine like Monstuart the least heed.”
“He told me you’d say that.” Derwent nodded. “The fact is he says it is not all entertainment at Beauwood. There is some Whig skullduggery going on as well. In any case, I told him I would not do anything rash till he returned, to be rid of him.”
“Does that ugly word ‘rash’ refer to your marriage with Melanie?” Sally demanded. Melanie shot him an offended look.
“Certainly not!” he answered promptly. “That is—I daresay that is what he meant. Well, it was, but I do not consider it rash. I would be rash not to marry her while I have the chance, in my opinion."
“You promised not to do anything rash, Der-went,” Sally replied, half in jest. “In that case, you had best marry her, then.”
Melanie was never much inclined to appreciate a jest. Her blue eyes widened with interest as she gazed a question at her fiancé. “She’s right, Der-went,” she said.
“No, really! I was joking!” Sally exclaimed.
“It is better than running away to Gretna Green, at least, and that is what—that is ...” Melanie came to a breathless stop while Derwent squirmed in his seat.
“Derwent—you spoke of waiting a year!” Mrs. Hermitage gasped. “You cannot be so foolish as to even consider Gretna Green. To be married over the anvil—it would sink you. And it is not at all necessary. Monstuart. is reconsidering.”
“We only spoke of Gretna Green the first evening Monty came and kicked up such a dust,” Derwent assured her. He shook his head diffidently. “He was dashed angry again last night. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he does forbid the match. The money, I mean, for he can’t forbid the marriage, exactly. He often pretends he is going to give permission for things, but in the end he manages to put a spoke into it somehow or other. I expect where he is really gone is to Chêne Baie to be in touch with the DeBeirses, to bring Lady Mary here or some such thing.”
A shock of dreadful alarm ran through the room. Even Derwent seemed to be affected by it. “I cannot like Gretna Green,” Mrs. Hermitage said weakly.
Sally was stunned into silence, which she put to use to scan the situation. Before long, she had taken her decision, and in a roomful of indecisive people, she was listened to. “We are a parcel of fools!” she said. “Derwent is not a minor, nor is Melanie. They do not have to dart to Gretna Green. They can be married very respectably right here, in the bride’s home.”
“Yes, dear,” her mother pointed out, “but the banns take two weeks, and before then Monstuart will come pouncing back to prevent it.”
“It can be done in a day with special license. Now, you know there is nothing havey-cavey in that, Mama. Dozens of people do it for a small wedding.”
“But I want a large wedding,” Melanie declared.
“If you want any wedding at all to Derwent, you had best be satisfied with a small one,” her mama warned.
Melanie considered this for a moment. “It would be romantic,” Derwent urged. “And once it is done, you know, he could do nothing about it.”
“He could withhold your money for two years,” Sally reminded him. She was already feeling some qualms as to whether she’d done the right thing to rush the wedding forward.
“We weren’t planning to wait two years, I promise you,” Derwent said. “I mean two years! As far as that goes, even Monstuart would prefer a quiet, private, decent wedding to a dash to the Border.”
Mrs. Hermitage fanned herself vigorously. “I wish you would not say such
horrid things, Derwent.” Then she turned to the most sensible member of the group and continued. “What is to be done, Sal? We cannot have this pair romping off to Gretna Green. It would quite ruin your chances, to say nothing of Mellie’s reputation. Yet Derwent feels Monstuart will never give his approval. It looks as though we must give them a wedding, and if necessary use our own money till Monstuart relents.”
All faces turned eagerly to hear her answer. Sally had only to say “let’s do it,” and the thing would be done. Yet something held her back, and that something, she knew, was the fear of Monstuart’s wrath. There was an element in the situation that angered her—either that she feared Monstuart or that the onus of a final decision had shifted to her shoulders. She replied curtly, “It’s not my decision. Ask Derwent—he’s of age. It is for him to decide— and, of course, Mellie.”
Her heart accelerated as she turned to hear Derwent’s decision. She did not know what she wanted him to say. To show Monstuart a lesson appealed strongly to her. To go to London and make her bows from Derwent’s mansion, too, was a treat she craved. The Season was beginning—she would be there, at last. But on the other hand, she had a premonition that Monstuart would wreak a revenge of no small proportions. What could he do? “Always consider the worst alternative, and see if you could live with it,” her father used to advise. Well, the worst Monstuart could do was keep Derwent’s money from him for two years, and she could live with that. He couldn’t have the marriage annulled. There were no possible grounds.
“Well, Derwent?” she asked.
Derwent didn’t hear her. He sat with Melanie’s white fingers curled up in his own while he smiled fondly on her. The decision was already made. “What? Oh—yes, we shall do it, absolutely. And we shall have a great party in London, dear, to make up for the small wedding,” he promised his blushing bride.
“Can you afford it?” Sally asked.
“It won’t cost that much. Monstuart keeps a few servants at my house at Portman Place year-round. As to the expenses of running it, my hope was that you and Melanie’s mama would stay with us in London and share expenses. In that manner, there is only one household to run. And it would only be for the Season. Afterwards, Melanie and I would go to Gravenhurst, and you would return to Ashford.”
A whole Season in London! “Monstuart would particularly hate it,” Sally pointed out. Her expression hovered between delight and chagrin.
“You said yourself you would pay no heed to him. It is the only way it can be accomplished. Naturally I will reimburse Mrs. Hermitage in two years,” Derwent explained.
“You must say yes, Sally,” Melanie begged. Tears pooled in her big blue eyes. “It won’t be for long. Monstuart will have to give us money if we force his hand.”
Forcing Monstuart’s hand appealed strongly to Sally. The other three members of the group urged her to agree, and in the end she did, reluctantly.
* * * *
The next twenty-four hours were a whirlwind of activity. There was the dash to the Bishop for a special license, to the local minister to make the arrangements; there were the wedding gowns to be enriched with new lace, a ring to be purchased, a footman sent off to London to ready the family mansion on Portman Square. There was a finer-than-usual meal to be ordered and arranged, and there was some secrecy to maintain through it all, for the town was not to be told till it was over. This last was Derwent’s idea. “Just in case,” as he ominously phrased it. His worry, obviously, was that Mrs. Colchester would write to Monstuart, and he would come bounding back to scotch the plan.
The small wedding took place without undue incident. The couple made their vows in the Hermitages’ Rose Saloon, which was bedecked with many flowers for the occasion. Mrs. Hermitage wept copiously for joy, and Sally, too, felt tears welling up in her eyes. Melanie was a picture-book bride. Her sister wished she could capture the image by some magical means and hold it forever. It was impossible not to consider her own state of singleness and wonder if she would ever be standing before a minister, repeating those solemn vows. Twenty-one years old and not a sign of a suitor.
The arrangement was that the newlyweds would set straight off for London to take up residence in Derwent’s house there, and the Hermitage ladies would join them in a week, allowing them that period of adjustment and honeymoon. It was not an idle week for Sally and her mother by any means. They had their toilette to attend to, as the London Season called for more elegance than even they possessed. It was Sally’s hope to sublet the house during their absence, but this proved impossible on such short notice, and they hired an estate agent to do it for them after their remove. Throughout the seven days they were in considerable agitation, lest Monstuart come back. Mrs. Colchester and a few cronies were told of the wedding.
Monstuart did not come, but a letter from him addressed to Derwent was sent down from the Colchester house and forwarded to London. Mrs. Hermitage was convinced it was a summons to go to DeBeirs, and was happy she had seen Melanie safely married before the missive should be read by Derwent. On the day of their departure, the post brought a brief note from Derwent, informing them to go to an address on Cavendish Square upon their arrival.
“What can this mean?” Mrs. Hermitage asked. “Are we not to stay with them at Portman Place?”
“It says we are to join them on Cavendish Square,” Sally pointed out. “Perhaps his house is not ready, and some relative has lent them a place temporarily. Derwent is related to half of London. That must be it. No doubt we shall remove to Portman Place very soon.”
In any case, the mansion before which their traveling carriage drew to a stop on Cavendish Square was an impressive edifice. Three stories of brick rose skyward, and the facade gleamed with dozens of windows. Everything about the house was of the first stare, from the high polish on the massive lion’s-head brass knocker to the slate roof. Even the chimney pots glowed.
For Sally, it had felt like coming home to be driving once more through the bustling streets of London. She hadn’t seen so many people for years and realized how very much she had missed dear, busy London. The awful feeling came over her that she had turned into a country mouse. A glance at the ladies’ toilettes brought a stinging reminder of Monstuart’s left-handed compliment on her coiffure à la Grecque. What fun to have a stylish hairdresser in to tend her locks.
With tears in her eyes, Melanie came pelting out the door of the mansion to embrace them. “Oh, Mama, Sally, I am so happy to see you. I never dreamed I would be so lonesome.”
For half a heartbeat Sally feared the marriage was going poorly, but it was no such a thing. Melanie was the happiest of brides, lacking only her family to complete her bliss. Ronald—for Derwent was now called Ronald—was a paragon of a husband.
“He insisted on hiring this huge house when that horrid Monstuart rented our own out from under us, without even asking us,” Melanie explained.
“You cannot mean it!” Her mother gasped. She was soon uttering further cries of outrage when Derwent rushed out to add his welcome.
“Not only did he rent the house on Portman Square; he is pocketing the money himself—putting it in my account, I mean, to pile up interest,” Derwent said accusingly. “So I had to hire this one. I tremble to tell you what it is costing me, Mrs. Hermitage. I may have to borrow a little something from you before the Season is over,”
“How much is the rent?” Sally asked with the direst forebodings.
“A thousand for the Season,” he replied. “But with servants and so on, it will be more like twice that sum, for Monstuart saw fit to include my servants in the deal he made for letting my house out from under me.”
“You have no idea how horrid he is,” Melanie threw in.
“Does he know about the marriage, then?” Sally asked.
“Come inside and we shall tell you all about it,” her sister said. The group hastened inside to hear the worst.
The interior of the mansion was every bit as fine as the exterior suggested. Sally could not bu
t feel, when she looked at acres of marble hallway and molded ceilings, at a gilt-bannistered horseshoe stairway and a chandelier the size of a beech tree, that the four of them could have been comfortable with half the space, at half the price. They entered a palatial Gold Saloon, where they huddled together in one corner, feeling lost in space. A hundred guests would hardly have filled the area.
“Ronald wrote him the very day we arrived,” Melanie replied, “and we have had an answer back today.”
“Did he rent Derwent’s house before he knew of the wedding?” Sally asked.
“Yes, months ago, and never telling Ronald. Imagine! His excuse was that he thought Ronald would put up with him while he was in London, as he did last year. You would think Ronald was a boy, to have these things kept from him—his own house.”
“At least it was not revenge, then, as I feared,” Sally said “What had he to say about the wedding?”
Melanie lifted her chin pugnaciously. “He ordered us to go to Gravenhurst, Ronald’s country estate, if you please.”
“Why would he do that?” Sally asked.
“Because that is the only place we can afford to live without borrowing money from Mama. He refuses to give us so much as a farthing more than Ronald’s bachelor allowance. It is all spite because of that DeBeirs girl.”
“Is that what his letter was about?”
“The first one that he sent to Colchesters just told Ronald to join him at Chêne Baie, hoping he would eventually offer for Lady Mary, but after he learned we were married, he wrote the worst things, warning Ronald not to have you and Mama to live with us and that we are a very expensive brood and— everything. Oh, I hate him, I will not let him enter this house, and neither will Ronald. And that is why we are so glad you and Mama are here.”
Sally felt weak with foreboding. “Perhaps he won’t wish to enter,” she said hopefully.
“Oh, yes, he is coming tomorrow morning, and you must handle him, Sally,” Melanie told her.
“I wish you would not draw me into this any more than necessary.”