Sweet and Twenty

by Joan Smith

  But her condemnation was not absolute, for there were two parties to be prepared for and anticipated, and of course these would provide opportunities for closer questioning. With the daily trips to Crockett to watch the circus in progress there, time could not be said to drag.

  It was always surprising to see Mr. Hudson and Fellows in converse with such lowly types in the village, talking to them with every sign of pleasure—not only the men, but women, too, who could by no stretch of the imagination be called ladies. Their both being bachelors was perhaps the reason for the women’s interest. The number of lowly types increased markedly as the election drew nearer. The very day of the Tory frolic saw already a number of highly ornamented females whom Sara declared were not local residents, but local or not, they were on the best of terms with Fellows and his whipper-in.

  Martha allowed her charges to attend the festival in the village and made Lady Monteith come along to help her chaperone, which resulted in her having to keep an eye on three rather than two, for Melanie was indiscriminate regarding the people she chose to mingle with.

  The main street had been closed off, with decorations and lanterns strung up to lend a holiday spirit. Everyone of both high and low degree turned out for the party, including a goodly number of dogs and cats and children who ought to have been in their beds. As free ale was on tap, there was no lack of insobriety even early on in the proceedings, and it seemed certain that before long there would be many staggering drunkards as well.

  A band played on a platform set up in front of the Town Hall, where also a magician and three jugglers were performing various ingenious feats of legerdemain. Perhaps the more interesting sleight-of-hand tricks were going forward in the audience, where moneys and votes were exchanging hands as invisibly as the magician’s rabbit vanished into his hat.

  Mr. Hudson was right there in the thick of it, surrounded by persons whom Lillian suspected of being flash culls—and not all male culls either. He appeared to take no notice of the party from New Moon, but was in fact edging his way by degrees toward them, impeded by so many “friends” that his progress was slow. It took him half an hour to reach them, and Martha had about decided to take her three charges home. The show was over and a space being cleared for dancing.

  “It was a mistake for us to come here,” Martha said to the gentlemen. “It is a rowdy sort of a do. I’ll take the girls home before they are accosted by ruffians.”

  “You won’t want to stay much longer, but I see Lord Allingham working his way toward us. I would like to present him to you,” Hudson said.

  “Allingham, you say?” Fellows asked, looking about with an eager smile. “There he is, by Jove, coming right over to me.”

  He had soon reached them, and this oft-quoted gentleman was at last made known to them. He was a tall man somewhere in his sixties, with dignified white hair, a sweeping mustache, and wearing a monocle. He looked very out of place in evening clothes at this common country festival, though Fellows and Martha were happy to see him dressed as they believed a lord should be.

  After he had been introduced, he expressed delight in making their acquaintance. It was Tony who performed the introduction, making Allingham known as “a real lord, an earl and the nephew of a duke, too, by Jove.”

  “And more importantly, a Whig, eh, Fellows?” Allingham added, laughing in embarrassment at such a gauche recital of his dignities. “How does it go, Matthew? Any chance at all of pulling the thing off?”

  “I still have five hundred that says so,” Matt told him. The two chatted between themselves, thus depriving Lillian of a much-anticipated tête-à-tête with Mr. Hudson.

  Her only consolation was that he twice glanced at her and smiled while he talked to Allingham. He didn’t say a private word to her, and she disliked very much what she managed to overhear him say to his lordship.

  “You must make me known to Ratchett tonight. He is here, just back from London, I understand. An uncommitted vote.”

  “It ain’t only his vote you’re after, I bet.”

  “No, I want a little more than that from him. I hear he has a young daughter, quite pretty. I am anxious to meet her.”

  “That’s Ratchett there, and got the young filly with him too. Handsome gel. We’ll get on over there now.”

  They made their bows and left, while Lillian turned to Mr. Fellows to inquire who Mr. Ratchett might be.

  “A Cit,” was the condemning reply. “A rich merchant, full of grease—a low type. You wouldn’t want to meet him.”

  A single glance at the gentleman, however, assured Miss Watters that he was one of the more civilized-looking persons present. His daughter was not only pretty but extremely modish. She curtsied to Mr. Hudson and was soon laughing and flirting with him. To hear her over the surrounding din, Hudson lowered his head toward her, looking at her with smiling admiration. She was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, vivacious girl. Lillian instantaneously felt a pang of jealousy that she told herself was fatigue, and suggested to her Aunt Martha that they leave at once.

  “We haven’t spoken to Mr. Alistair yet,” objected Sara.

  Mr. Fellows looked offended, and walked off toward Allingham and Ratchett, who were becoming a little parted from Hudson and the daughter.

  “There is Mr. Alistair now,” Sara suddenly said, and walked off to meet him, causing the three other women to follow in her wake, as they disliked to be without a male for protection. Mr. Alistair chatted with them for a few minutes and civilly offered to see them to their carriage before leaving.

  “Is it true they threw potatoes at you, Mr. Alistair?” Sara asked as they walked along.

  “Yes, Hudson had some troublemakers brought in, but Reising is up to anything. He let it be known there was free ale outside, and they all deserted the hall. There was a terrible fight outside—the constables finally managed to break it up. Hudson pulled a door right off its hinges when one of our boys went for him with a pitchfork. He is a great boxer, Reising says—floored Jackson in London. The handle of the pitchfork caught him a knock, but he didn’t lose the eye.”

  This was not quite Hudson’s version of the story, but close enough to it that Lillian had no doubt he was in the middle of the fight and very likely the ringleader.

  “Were you hurt at all?” Sara continued.

  “No, I am quicker on my feet than that. I caught a potato and threw it back. I see Hudson is making up to Ratchett’s daughter. I’d give a monkey to know what he’s up to. It’s certain the heir to a barony is not planning to get himself buckled to a Cit’s daughter. Did he say anything?”

  “No, nothing,” Sara told him.

  Lillian, walking on Alistair’s other arm, was sent reeling at this disclosure. “Mr. Hudson is heir to a barony, you say?” she asked.

  “Yes—old Cecilford’s heir. He is only a nephew, but Cecilford has no sons, just two plug-ugly daughters. I fancy they plan to palm one of them off on Hudson if they can. He’ll be inheriting any day; the old boy is eighty and the younger daughter nearly thirty. I wonder that Hudson bothers to embroil himself in a matter of this sort, for he has a dandy spread of his own in Kent. But they have been ardent Whigs forever, of course, and Brougham keeps him busy. He is putting up a tough fight, I can tell you. We thought this riding a shoo-in, especially with Fellows running, but Reising says Hudson is a devil and will stop at nothing. Well, here is your carriage, ladies.” He smiled and was off.

  “What do you make of that?” Lillian said to Sara, so overcome at Hudson’s new eminence that she could hardly think straight.

  “I didn’t know you saw it,” Sara answered shyly.

  “Saw it? Heard it, you mean.”

  “No, no, he didn’t say anything of interest, but he squeezed my fingers ever so tight before he left, and smiled.”

  No mention was made of either the squeezed fingers or the barony on the way home, and Lillian was not sure even then whether to tell her aunt. With a homely cousin and Miss Ratchett after Hudson, she had no desire for Ma
rtha to add Sara to the list. But Martha had heard intimations of Hudson’s glory from other sources at the frolic, and brought it up at once.

  “They are saying about town that Hudson is heir to Cecilford,” she declared.

  “Yes, Mr. Alistair told us so. What is a barony anyway?” Sara asked.

  “It is a title, goose!” her aunt snapped, “and here we have been wasting our time chasing that clothhead of a Fellows, when we ought to have been concentrating on Hudson. I’ll tell you what to do, Lillian. Next time they come, you chat up to Fellows, and let Sara smile at Hudson.”

  “Maybe I would like to take a crack at a baron myself!” she answered hotly.

  “You have been doing your best ever since we met him, but he paid no notice to you tonight. It was Miss Ratchett he was interested in. Thorstein is as well as caught—I had a note from him today inquiring after you. I often notice Hudson glancing toward Sara, smiling to himself. Anyone would be proud to have such a beautiful wife, even a fine, distinguished gentleman like Mr. Hudson. I suspected from the start he was no common clerk. You recall I mentioned early on that he was very clever . . . running the show, in fact. His tailoring, his carriage—everything about him of the first stare. He will want a wife, a beautiful wife, to set him off, and it is no matter that Sara is a ninnyhammer, for he has brains enough for two.”

  Mr. Hudson had finally been placed on the pinnacle where he belonged, and it seemed hard that now that he was acknowledged to be unexceptionable, she must hand him over to Sara. “Mr. Hudson might have something to say about that!” she said perversely.

  “Do you think you can get him?” Martha asked with harrowing directness.

  “No, Auntie, but perhaps Miss Ratchett can get him.”

  “Pooh—a Cit’s daughter! That is only a flirtation to get Ratchett’s vote or money for the campaign. He will look higher than that for a wife. He is using the chit. We have nothing to fear from her.”

  “He does use people,” Lillian admitted sadly. Certainly he had used her—used her to address envelopes and direct the delivery of vegetables and to give him any ideas her poor brain could come up with. He had used her and used her badly, for he had not said a word to her the whole evening, but gone off in front of her eyes, flirting with Miss Ratchett.

  “More power to him,” was Martha’s opinion. “And we shall use him to make a husband for Sara.”

  Chapter 8

  Lillian deduced the whipper-in had been to call at the rectory when Mr. Fellows took the stand for the reading in church the next morning. Whatever about his putting a body to sleep with reading pornography, he certainly managed to make the epistle soporific. Heads were nodding and eyes were glazed before he stepped down, but spirits revived after the service.

  The rector, well-pleased with the gift of a new desk and bookshelves for his study (especially as they were understood to be a private donation to himself, to go with him when he left—Hudson didn’t miss a trick), was eager to show his pleasure. He had invited a party to the rectory for lunch, to be composed entirely of Whigs and uncommitted votes. But the crowd outside the church could not be let go without a little politicking, and both Alistair and Fellows were busy campaigning in a subdued, sabbatical way.

  Lillian observed that while Fellows was caught up with some farmers, Hudson had edged his way toward the Ratchetts and was making himself pleasant to the family. Miss Ratchett was surely the most stylish lady in the congregation. She wore a fashionable green pelisse and a bonnet with black feathers. Lillian was possibly even happier than Sara when Mr. Alistair came up to speak with them, for she disliked to be seen standing about with no young man to lend her consequence.

  In her pique she said, “I think you would have done the reading better, Mr. Alistair.”

  “I could hardly have done worse, could I?” he laughed, delighted with praise from the girl he privately considered Hudson’s flirt.

  “No, indeed you could not, and I think you should speak to Dr. Everett about taking the stand next Sunday.”

  “This is strange talk for a Whig supporter. Has Miss Sara been giving you our literature?”

  “She did give me a copy of your pamphlet, and I read it with interest. I think you make some good points too.”

  “Lillian is very clever,” Sara warned him.

  He looked at Lillian with interest. “I hope her cleverness will remove the scales from her eyes and lead her to a more proper view in politics.”

  “Oh, but it is the Whigs who have seen the light!” Sara told him, with no notion that she might be causing offense.

  “Now that is the sheerest folly!” Alistair laughed. They talked on and soon began to excite interest in those around them, for the handsome young Tory candidate was usually observed pretty closely, wherever he went. Hudson looked twice in their direction, and was soon making a graceful bow to the Ratchetts and hastening his steps toward the group.

  “Are you poaching on my territory, Mr. Alistair?” he asked with a smile that divested the question of ill humor.

  “Oh, as to that, I consider charming young ladies free territory till they are officially claimed, Mr. Hudson. I am not always bent on politics, you know, as you seem to be. Don’t be led into believing Mr. Hudson cares for anything but your politics, ladies.”

  “We are not so deceived in him, Mr. Alistair,” Lillian assured the Tory. “We have enough chance to observe him that we know pretty well what he is up to.”

  “One would take me for a candidate to hear me so traduced,” Hudson marveled. “But on the Sabbath, at least I can think of other things.”

  “Miss Watters suggests I take the reading next Sunday, Mr. Hudson,” Alistair said. “Have you already booked Fellows for the job, or will it be worth my while to speak to Dr. Everett?”

  “Miss Watters suggested it, did she?” Hudson asked, casting an accusing glance at Lillian. “Are you changing horses in mid-stream, ma’am? A dangerous stunt. I see I must get busy and whip you into line.” Then he turned to Alistair and added, “Fellows is booked for the duration.”

  “It is clear neither of you has a thought for politics on this day of rest,” Lillian said ironically.

  “Have you caught any more potatoes?” Sara asked Alistair, and he began a private flirtation with her, leaving Lillian free to monopolize Mr. Hudson.

  “What a low trick to play,” Hudson said to her.

  “You will empty every pew in the church if you have Fellows reading to us all month.”

  “I don’t refer to that particular low trick, but to your other one of setting up a flirtation with Sara’s beau. I do occasionally give a thought to something beyond politics you know.”

  “Was it not politics you were discussing with Miss Ratchett just now?” she asked.

  “Offense is the best defense. Is that it? Very well, I have set up a flirtation with Miss Ratchett, and if you forgive me, I shall forgive you. But I doubt Sara will be so lenient with you.”

  “I don’t consider it a matter for forgiveness on either side.”

  “Not unforgivable, surely? You can’t be so hardhearted as that.”

  “It has nothing to do with forgiveness. We are both free individuals and may flirt with whomever we like.”

  “Whomever! What a school-teacherish touch you give your broadmindedness,” he said with a laugh. “Well, I am not so broadminded and take it very much amiss in you to be flirting with Alistair while my back is turned.”

  He was clearly not through using her yet, trying to jolly her along in this cunning manner. She sniffed and said, “You are wasting precious time, Mr. Hudson, and don’t bother to pretend you aren’t politicking, Sunday or no. There are the corn merchants without a soul whispering in their ears. Seven votes for you to toady up to.”

  He wrinkled a brow and frowned at her bad humor. “I’ll get around to them. First things first. I have already twisted the arms and, I hope, votes of three merchants . . .”

  “First things first!”

  “Oh yes, I
walked right into that one, didn’t I? But in any case I feel all my recent efforts have earned me a reward. As I find you unoccupied, I would like to claim it now. I like to mix a little pleasure with my business when I can.”

  “I have noticed it.”

  “I hoped it might not escape your notice that I come to you as often as I can.”

  “Or to any halfway presentable female who is unattached. But I have no influence and no vote, so you can mix little business with the pleasure of speaking to me.”

  “It is the unalloyed pleasure of your conversation that attracts me. I come to bask myself in the glow of your insults and innuendo.”

  “With all the other women—you will notice I don’t limit your coterie to ladies—puffing you up in your own conceit, you can well do with a little deflating.”

  “You have noticed how badly Mr. Saunders’s hat fits my swollen head. But really, you know, the Baxter I brought with me still fits to a T.”

  “The swelling had set in before you got to Crockett then.”

  “Never at a loss for a quick set-down. Poor Fellows could do with some of your wit.”

  “He seems to be doing pretty well with yours. Alistair says he is doing better than they expected in any case.”

  “He’ll make a fair puppet once we get him to London. His memory is not too bad.”

  Peeved that the conversation was turning again to politics, Lillian turned on him in some anger. “How can you in conscience put such a man up for office?”

  “I wouldn’t have; he was chosen as the candidate before I arrived. Allingham and Basingstoke are the culprits. But the party can use a few compliant hacks; we don’t want every man a philosopher. He’ll do just as he’s told.”

  “You try to give the impression he is intelligent—someone who will personally look after his constituents.”