by Joan Smith
“And you can avoid the strenuous exertion of the country dance,” she riposted. “I have noticed you always avoid them, Monty. Don’t bother letting on that staying in my company has anything to do with it.”
He smiled, unfazed at her charge of selfishness. “Wouldn’t you like to hear the cool trickle of the punch fountain?” he tempted.
“Not in the least, but I wouldn’t mind slaking my thirst on a glass of champagne.”
They sat in a private corner, half-hidden by a spreading palm, and talked the greatest nonsense. “Is London living up to your expectations?” Monstuart asked.
“Now that you have permitted the eligible bachelors to recognize me, it surpasses them.”
“Would it assuage your vanity if I admitted what a hard time I have had holding them back?”
“You surely don’t expect to trap me into admitting vanity by that loaded question?”
“Vanity was the wrong word. I should have said pride. That is a good Anglo-Saxon virtue. I am virtuous myself, in that one respect.”
“And no other?” she asked, batting her eyes in mock horror.
“I lay claim to all the gentleman’s virtues. I never seduce innocent ladies or fail to pay my gambling debts or vote Conservative,” he joked.
Sally observed the cynical nature of his answer but failed to notice his joking mood. “Papa always voted Conservative.”
“He got a deal of business from them.”
She felt the prickle of anger that could no longer be controlled. “And what do you get from the Whigs, Monstuart?”
“Peace of conscience. I don’t parade my philanthropy, but any man with a heart has to support the reforms of the Whigs. Have I surprised you? You thought because you only see me in society that I have no other interests? What you imagined to be an orgy at Lady Dennison’s was, in fact, a meeting of Whigs planning to wrest power and reform the electoral ridings. We deem it unfair that Lord Suddaby’s barn has a vote in parliament, whereas many towns of ten or twelve thousand have not.”
It was the first time she had heard Monstuart speak of such serious things, and she looked alarmed. That he should come out on the side of the underprivileged was as surprising as the rest.
“I hope I have impressed you,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was only a fashionable fribble or that my wife would have no more strenuous duties than being popular.”
Wife! She was ambushed by the word and all it implied. An air of constraint came over her. She looked uncertainly at him and felt terribly ill at ease.
“I’ve chosen a poor moment to speak of politics,” he said at once. “Blame it on my lust for your approval. And now, if you’ve had all the champagne you can hold, I’ll take you back to the ballroom. You haven’t stood up with Derwent yet,” he said laughing. “Fair is fair. I hauled Mellie around the floor. You must submit to Derwent’s two left feet.”
Derwent was found and agreed sulkily to stand up with Sally. “I have a ripping headache, if you want the truth,” he complained. “Mellie don’t like London above half, and I come to think I don’t either.” Gravenhurst would be a much cheaper place to rusticate. The difficulty was Mrs. Hermitage and Sally.
“The Season only lasts six weeks. There is plenty of time for Gravenhurst.”
“The Season is more than half over. I don’t see why we can’t leave at once.”
“And cheat Melanie of her ball? Derwent, don’t be so selfish. It is all arranged.”
“The cards ain’t out yet.” And more important, none of the expensive orders had arrived. No reason it couldn’t all be canceled and save a thousand pounds. “It’s dashed expensive, entertaining half of London.”
“Half of London has entertained us. Social obligations must be repaid.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“And what of the expensive house in Cavendish Square?”
“I know a chap who’d sublet and pay nearly the whole price we paid for the entire Season, for as time goes on, places are impossible to hire.”
Sally fell into alarm to learn he was actively working to leave London. “Don’t be ridiculous!” she scoffed. “We’re not that poor. We still have six thousand pounds—haven’t we?”
Derwent scowled and stumbled on to the next step of the dance. You could have bowled him over with a zephyr when Tinny Hendry was standing there with Peacock, also with his fist full of I.O.U.s. Another thousand pounds. It came as close to wiping him out as made no difference. And how was he to tell the ladies? Lord Derwent felt like Atlas, trying to plod up a hill with a great weight on his back.
If it were only he and Mellie, there would be nothing to it. It seemed hard that a man had to deal with his bride’s whole family, and Monstuart thrown into the bargain, making him buy that ugly tiara that Mellie hated. Maybe he could sell it. When the steps of the dance brought Sally back to him, she repeated, “Haven’t we got six thousand left, Derwent?”
“Of course we have.” He scowled. There was something in her green stare that unmanned him.
As soon as the dance was over, Derwent took Melanie home. “You tell Mama we decided to leave,” Melanie said to her sister.
Sally was concerned and spoke to her mother as soon as she left the card table. Her mother brushed it aside. “It is only natural they should want their house to themselves from time to time,” she said archly. “Newlyweds—and to have the pair of us forever hanging over their shoulders like vultures.”
“They have plenty of time to themselves. The house is huge. They need only see us at meals if they want to.”
Mrs. Hermitage sighed. “It’s different when you’re in love, Sal. You never were sensitive to the finer emotions.”
“I don’t like it,” Sally insisted. “He even spoke of returning to Gravenhurst—immediately, before the ball. What has he got in his head?”
Mrs. Hermitage looked interested at this news. If Derwent took Mellie off to Gravenhurst, there would be nothing to delay her own match with Darrow. Sally would no longer have the prestige of being under Lord Derwent’s roof, so she couldn’t object to removing to Darrow’s apartment. Except that it really was too small for the three of them.
“You don’t mean it,” she said pensively. “What would he do with Cavendish Square?”
“He mentioned subletting it. Did you ever hear of anything so foolish?”
“Subletting, you say?” It flashed into her mind in an instant that Darrow could sublet, and they wouldn’t even have the bother of moving. He could just move in with them till the lease was up.
“More to the point, what are we to do? We’ll have to go home. It will be pretty tight, living in Ashford when we’ve spent so much of our money.”
“Ashford? I don’t intend to return there, Sal. It is like a stagnant pond, after the pleasure of London.”
London had given Sally about as much pleasure as a bad tooth. “Perhaps one of us will have Heppleworth after all,” she said wearily.
“Surely not! You can do better than that, Sal.”
“Actually, Mama, it was you I had in mind. I only said it to frighten you into talking some sense into Mellie, in the hope that she will persuade Derwent out of this freakish idea.”
Mrs. Hermitage patted her curls and said, “Darrow might have something to say to my marrying Heppleworth.”
It took a moment for her meaning to sink in. “You don’t mean he has offered!”
“Several times, and I haven’t said no.”
“Oh, Mama! How lovely for you.”
“For us all, Sal. We will want you to live with us. We’ll have a good cose when we get home.” Then she strode out of the room, leaving Sally behind with a musing smile on her face. Mama and Sir Darrow—what a boon that would be! It seemed all the family was having success except her. It never occurred to her that her mother would marry immediately, which still left her with the problem of Derwent’s wanting to leave London.
Monstuart rushed forward as soon as he saw Sally alone. “I hadn’t
the foresight to ask you to join me for supper,” he said. “I hope I am not too late.”
“I’m promised to Sir Darrow Willowby’s table, Monstuart.”
His black brow rose quizzically. “Monstuart? We leaped that hurdle when last I spoke to you. I was hoping to be calling you Sally before the evening is over.”
He frowned at her lack of attention. She didn’t invite him to use her name, or forbid it, or utter any of the light sort of banter he had been expecting. “Is something the matter, Miss Hermitage?” he asked.
“Derwent and Mellie have gone home,” she said.
“That is hardly a tragedy. They are newlyweds, after all.”
“Yes, it seems to be contagious.”
His black brow rose imperceptibly. He had not said anything definite enough to warrant that assumption. “Like the plague,” he agreed blandly.
“I must join Sir Darrow now. Good evening, Monstu—Monty.”
“Must I say good evening, Miss Hermitage?”
“No, you may say ‘au revoir.’ I trust we shall be meeting again soon.”
“Very soon. Au revoir, Mam’selle.”
Sally darted to Sir Darrow to congratulate him. Her face was wreathed in smiles. “Are congratulations premature, Papa?” she asked pertly.
“Ho, sly minx. You have weaseled it out of Mabel, I see. Well, it is true. She has been foolish enough to have me. I can manage her, but what I am to do with you I have no idea. I’m too old to be turning the bucks off the premises. You must hop to it and find yourself a husband.”
She wagged his chin playfully. “All the best ones are taken.” She smiled.
He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “On the other hand, I shouldn’t mind having such a bright pair of eyes in the house for a few months.”
Monstuart watched the meeting with rising consternation. He hadn’t observed this playfulness between Sally and Willowby before. And the mother looking on as placid as may be. Was it possible she was promoting a match between that old slice and Sal? She had certainly encouraged the walking pharmacopeia in Ashford. He felt a shudder of revulsion but no fear that Willowby provided him any real competition. All the same, he would make his offer very soon. His friends were finding Sally too attractive for his peace of mind.
At Cavendish Square, Lord Derwent quickly drank up half a bottle of wine and confessed his sins to Lady Derwent. Her reaction couldn’t have been more understanding if he’d written the script himself.
“I never liked Peacock above half,” she told him. “What a wretched person he is, just the kind of man Sally would introduce to you.”
“By Jove, I never would have met him on my own, for he isn’t let into any decent club. How was a gentleman supposed to know how the likes of him carried on?”
“You’re too good to even think of anyone cheating at cards,” she assured him. “I fear London is a wicked place, Ronald. We were happier in Ashford, were we not? With those nice drives and walks in the countryside and family dinner parties. We never get to sit together in London, and at the balls, we have to dance with other people. I even had to stand up with Monstuart.”
Derwent was completely sympathetic to this fate. “We could be together more at Gravenhurst,” he pointed out, “and it wouldn’t cost us a sou.”
“But we’d have Sally with us,” she reminded him. This certainly took the bloom off the idyll. “Unless Monstuart agreed to repay Mama’s money, and they could go back to Ashford,” she added diffidently. She knew Ronald disliked speaking to Monty about money. “We can hardly ask Sally to speak to Monstuart,” she pointed out. “Not when she will have her jaw set against the plan.”
“It would almost be worth risking speaking to him myself,” he said uncertainly. “Sal will be in a rare pelter at Gravenhurst with the ball cancelled and having to cut short the Season before she nabs a husband.”
“Why don’t you write to Monty?” Melanie suggested. “That way he won’t be able to say anything nasty.”
“Clever minx, that’s the ticket. And you must help me butter him up. It ain’t as if we’re asking for the moon, after all. It’s my money.”
“I shall tell Mama,” Mellie said bravely. “She never cuts up stiff. She knows how easy it is to spend money, so she’ll understand.”
“You’re the best, bravest wife in the world, Mellie. I don’t deserve you.”
Lady Derwent smiled contentedly. “Yes, you do,” she said generously. They debated the point for as long as possible to stave off writing to Monstuart, but at last Derwent had his way. He was unworthy of her, and to achieve worthiness he bravely took up pen and wrote to his guardian, explaining in confusing detail that he needed some of his own money for a pressing matter, if it would not be too inconvenient.
“You write beautifully,” Melanie said. “Let us not send the letter till tomorrow, or Monstuart will come charging in at breakfast and spoil the whole day. If you send it around eleven, he won’t come till three or four.”
“And that will give you time to speak to your mama in the morning.”
They exchanged a loving look of complete understanding and went upstairs to take advantage of their solitude.
Chapter Thirteen
Lady Derwent found it easier to confess Ronald’s sins to her mother than to Sally. Mrs. Hermitage, with her own profitable union to buttress her against poverty, proved not at all condemning when Melanie cornered her in the privacy of her bedroom the next morning for the revelation.
“It is shocking the way money evaporates in London. There was never anything like it,” she said, shaking her head in mystery. “So that is why you are going to Gravenhurst. I found it excessively odd when Sally mentioned it last evening. When are you planning to leave?”
“Right away, Mama.”
“Immediately? Oh, dear, will you not be here for the wedding, then?”
“Wedding! You never mean Sally has had an offer! Who was it from?”
“Sally? No such a thing. Who would ever offer for—not to say she is unattractive, but such a tongue! She turns all the fellows off with it. Darrow is marrying me.”
Melanie was delighted with the news. “When?” she asked after a few repetitions of all the customary compliments.
“As soon as possible. I have been trying to put him off till the Season is over, for I was afraid Sal would cut up stiff if she had to leave Cavendish Square. But if you and Ronald are leaving in any case, it begins to look as if we must speed up the marriage. We can do it by special license. Then Darrow can sublet this place from Ronald, and we shall all go on living here—Sally and Darrow and I, I mean. The rent from this place will give Ronald a little money to get you two to Gravenhurst.”
After going over the logistics a few times, the advantages of the scheme were finally clear to Melanie, and she sent off for Ronald to join them. He entered the room diffidently, casting a frightened face at his wife. Mellie was smiling so sweetly that he knew she had smoothed his path.
“That’s something like,” he said, beaming, when he was let in on the secret. “I’m sorry I bothered to dash that note off to Monstuart. We might have kept the whole thing from him, for your mother won’t need her blunt right away, now that she is marrying Willowby.”
“There is still Sally to consider,” Mrs. Hermitage pointed out. “She would have something to say about your nipping off and leaving her without a sou. For that matter, I would be happy to have the money back myself. Weddings are very dear, and I dislike to dun Darrow for money before we are shackled.”
“Sally will be in the boughs,” Melanie agreed. “Especially when she learns we are canceling our ball. She quite looked forward to it.”
“Canceling the ball?” Mrs. Hermitage asked in alarm. “Oh, my dear, who will tell her that?”
The two pairs of pleading eyes directed at her gave her a hint as to who was to do the deed. She began fanning herself vigorously. “One thing at a time,” she decided. “She was chirping merry at my engagement to Darrow last night. After sh
e has got over her fit when she learns you two are leaving, I shall talk up the advantages of my match, and when she is in a good mood sometime, I’ll tell her.”
“But it must be soon, Mama,” Mellie urged, “or she will go ahead and mail the invitations.”
Fate cast a few rubs in the path of the conspirators. The first was that Lord Monstuart was not at home when Derwent’s note was delivered. He had made a dashing visit to his own country estate in Berkshire and was not expected back for two days. That same morning a letter arrived from the estate agent in Ashford who had been trying to sublet the Hermitages’ house there. He had found a taker who wanted immediate occupancy, which meant someone had to go to Ashford to tie up the details and attend to the packing.
It struck all three conspirators that getting Sally out of the house on Cavendish Square for a few days would be an advantage. As they fully expected, however, she scotched their plan.
“I cannot sign the lease over, Mama. It is in your name. In any case, I shall be fully occupied here, arranging the ball.” Sally had taken control of plans for this grand occasion, and no one had yet found the courage to tell her she worked in vain.
“I have some planning to do myself,” Mrs. Hermitage said with an air of importance. Sally looked at her expectantly. “I told you—I am marrying Darrow.”
“You don’t have to begin plans so soon, surely.”
“We have decided not to wait, Sal. We are going to get a special license and get married right away.”
“What is the rush?”
“You know Ronald and Mellie want to leave London. Unless we wish to go to Gravenhurst with them, I must marry now, or you and I will have nowhere to lay our heads.”
“There’s no reason we must go. This house is hired for the Season.”
“They plan to sublet,” Mrs. Hermitage said, not without a quiver of apprehension.
Sally’s eyes darkened. “The cheek of that Derwent! He spends our money, then plans to hire the house out from under us. Well, we’ll take the sublet money and hire something smaller.”
“Oh, my dear, would it not be nicer to stay on here?”