The Unlikely Rivals

by Megan Daniel

  At these seemingly innocuous words, the old man’s face turned an alarming shade of purple, and he half

  stood up out of his chair. “Rowbridgel Rowbridger he thundered.

  “Why yes, sir,” Mrs. van Houten went on serenely. “Susannah Weddington Rowbridge, may she rest in peace, poor thing.”

  Saskia had never before seen anyone who looked more likely to pop, and she viewed the old man with a mixture of amusement and alarm. His mouth worked soundlessly, as though words were too much for it. His breathing rasped noisily, and he trembled visibly. Then, as suddenly as his rage appeared, and as inexplicably, it seemed to drain away. He closed his mouth and his eyes and sank weakly into his chair. When the eyes opened again, they darted from Trix to Mama and back again, and finally he smiled. Well, not precisely a smile. More like the memory of a smile, from very long ago. His face seemed to be out of practice.

  “Susannah,” he sighed, feasting his watery old eyes on Trix. “My Susannah’s grandchild.” His voice dropped even further, till he was barely whispering. “And I never even knew.”

  “Your Susannah?” said Saskia, then before she could catch her unruly tongue she went on. “Good God! You must be the “hateful father’!” Her hands flew to her mouth on a gasp, too late to pull back the uncivil words.

  He turned to her. “That’s right,” he said, not pretending to mistake her meaning. “Samuel Weddington, the hateful father.”

  “I beg pardon, sir. I didn’t. . . that is, I hope . . . oh, dear. Can it be possible, sir? Are you really Mama’s . . . grandfather?”

  “If her mother is the ungrateful chit who ran off with that curst rake of an Edward Rowbridge, I am.”

  “Sir!” cried Mama, in full glory. “I must protest! Papa was not a rake! At least, I expect he was,” she modified, "but not after he married Mama. Most certainly not!”

  “Much you know! And I suppose you’ll be saying Susannah wasn’t an ungrateful chit to run off with him just when I’d got a Marquis lined up for her.”

  Despite her best intentions, a bubble of laughter burst from Saskia. “I hardly think, Mr. Weddington, that any of us can agree with you there. If she hadn’t done so, none of us would be here, you know.”

  “Very true, darling,” said Mrs. van Houten. “And I shouldn’t like that at all. So, you are my grandfather? I never had one, you know, so I expect it will be diverting.”

  “You think so, do you? And what did Susannah tell you about me?”

  "Why, nothing at all. Indeed, I don’t believe I ever heard her mention you.” The words were lightly said, with no intention to wound, but no one could miss the look of pain that shot across the old man’s tired old face. Beatrix certainly didn’t miss it and deftly diverted his attention.

  “Mama, that makes Mr. Weddington our greot-grand- papa! How famous! How did you know who we were, sir?”

  “Your face,” he said.

  “My face? But. . .”

  “I’ve often told you, dearest,” said Mrs. van Houten, “that you favor Mama. You have her eyes.”

  “Favor?” growled the old man. “She’s the image of her. Of my Susannah.”

  “Saskia, only think!” said Trix. “Just a week ago we’d hardly any relatives at all, and now we are positively inundated with them. Isn’t it a lark?”

  “Well, it certainly is a change, I’ll admit,” said Saskia. “But you must think us shockingly uncivil, sir. Allow me to introduce our friends.” She did so, but the man paid not the least attention, being quite unable to tear his eyes from Beatrix. In this he was not alone. The thinfaced young attendant, once over his embarrassment at his employer’s behavior, stood staring at the girl like a hungry orphan at a sweet-shop window.

  “And, Mr. Weddington,” began Beatrix. “Oh, dear, I really cannot call you that. And Great-grandpapa is so very long. I know! We shall call you Opa. That’s Dutch

  for Grandpapa!”

  “Opa? Silly name!” His voice was gruff, but one could not help but see that the idea gratified him immensely. “Well, what an incredible coincidence,” said Saskia.

  Mr. Weddington raised his bushy eyebrows in her direction. “Coincidence? Do you try to tell me you didn’t know I was in Bath?”

  “Of course we didn’t know. We didn’t even know you were alive,” said Saskia. “Do you live here, sir?”

  “I should think not! Don’t see how anyone can stand the place. I’m a Londoner, born and bred, and I’ll thank the doctors to get me back there.”

  “Have you come to drink the waters, then?” asked Saskia. “I hope you are not ill, sir?”

  “Can’t think why you should hope any such thing. And why the devil shouldn’t I be ill. Been ill for years. I’m eighty-six, girl. I’ve earned it.”

  “But, Opa,” said Beatrix. “You cannot mean you enjoy being ill. You are funning us.”

  “If it’s a jokester you want, missy, you’ve come to the wrong man,” was his gruff answer.

  “I do hope it is nothing serious,” Saskia said politely. “Damned gout! Doctors pouring all that swill into me all day.” He made a disparaging gesture toward the pump. “Bound to make a body sick. You ask me, a good bumper of strong ale’d do me better.”

  “Now, sir, you know .. .” began his attendant.

  “Shut your trap, Hawkins. You’re as bad as the rest of them.”

  Saskia frowned at the old man. He may be their great-grandfather, she thought, but he was shockingly uncivil. But she would not react as she would wish. She was a properly brought-up young lady.

  “You must come and dine with us one day, sir,” she said politely.

  “Oh, must I? Never say must to me, my girl. I don’t dine out.”

  “Well then, we shall come and visit you, Opa,” said Beatrix. “Where are you lodging?”

  “Walcot Street, the Pelican.”

  “The Pelican!” cried Mama, clapping her hands together in delight. “Dr. Johnson!”

  “Eh?”

  “The history of those walls! Boswell! Hory Walpole! I must visit!”

  “Oh, yes!” chimed in Mrs. Crinshaw, who had, in any case, kept up a running stream of “yeses” ever since Mr. Weddington’s approach. Miss Letitia was far too intimidated by the man’s countenance to have uttered a word.

  “Very well, then,” said Beatrix. "The Pelican. When may we come, Opa? We have so much to talk to you about! So many questions to ask.”

  Mr. Weddington took a long look around at his newfound family, then gave them a perceptible nod. as though he had decided some argument in his own mind. “You may come to lunch. Day after tomorrow.”

  She might have imagined it, but Saskia fancied she saw a tear forming in the comer of the old man’s eye. He shut them abruptly.

  “I am tired, Hawkins,” he said. “Take me home.”

  Mr. Hawkins bowed to the ladies, and the old man was wheeled away. The ladies watched him go, quite struck with the coincidence of the whole thing.

  “Well, Mama!” exclaimed Saskia as soon as Mr. Weddington was out of earshot “Only fancy your grandfather Weddington still alive and here in Bath. He’s awfully gruff and ill-mannered, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, no!” cried Beatrix. “I think he’s sweet.”

  “Sweet?” said Saskia with a lifted brow. “I would hardly have chosen that word.”

  “No, I know you wouldn’t. And I think he goes to great pains not to let people know that he is.” Beatrix, for all her giddiness, could often surprise with her insight. “I think he has had a very unhappy life, and he is not well. We must be very kind to Opa.”

  “Oh, yes,” clucked Mrs. Crinshaw. “Obviously unwell. And staying at the Pelican, too. Well, it is perfectly respectable, of course, but far from luxurious these days.

  “But Aunt Hester said he was terribly rich, did she not?” asked Beatrix.

  “Rich as Croesus was what she said,” said Saskia. “But that was many years ago. And she also said he was a great friend of Grandfather Rowbridge, at least until Grandmama
ran off with him. Perhaps he was a gamester too and lost his entire fortune in some despicable gaming hell.”

  “How romantic!” exclaimed Mama.

  “Romantic?” asked Saskia. “I would rather have called it inconvenient.”

  Mama clapped her hands in romantic reverie. “Don’t you see? He suffered such a shock when his only daughter ran away that he threw himself into dissipation, became quite reckless, and lost everything.”

  “It sounds suspiciously like one of your stories, Mama,” said Beatrix with a little laugh. “And in this case it may be the truth. He certainly does not look overprosperous.”

  “Oh, dear!” said Saskia with a glance at the long-case clock reposing at the feet of Beau Nash. “Only look at the time. Aunt Hester will be calling in Laura Place shortly. I sent her word that you were arrived, and she is anxious to meet you. Come, Mama, Trix. We mustn’t keep her waiting.” She turned to Mrs. Crinshaw. “You will forgive us, ma’am?”

  “Yes, yes. Oh, yes. Run along. But do say you will come to a small gathering I am giving on Wednesday. Nothing formal. A young people’s party for Letty. Do come.”

  The invitation was eagerly accepted. The van Houtens had made their dive into the social world of Bath. Saskia herded them from the room.

  Lady Eccles made the promised call of inspection, and she brought Derek Rowbridge with her. Neither

  was displeased with what they saw. In fact, Derek was struck quite speechless, rooted to the floor, at first sight of Beatrix van Houten. It was exactly the sort of reaction Saskia had come to expect from every gentleman first laying eyes on her sister. It amused her to see that the proud Mr. Rowbridge was as vulnerable as any of them.

  When he recovered from his reverie sufficiently to acknowledge the other introductions, he set about making himself agreeable to his new relations. To Saskia’s surprise, he did this very well. He had never been so agreeable to her. He even went so far as to convince Rembrandt to lick his hand with abandon.

  The twins had been admonished on pain of the direst consequences to be on their best behavior for their aunt. They tried bravely, but their cousin’s casual and teasing attitude proved a sore trial to them. Luckily, it turned out that their Aunt Hester was more charmed by the real flesh-and-blood children they were than by the perfectly mannered dolls they were striving to be for her benefit.

  Derek’s mathematical skill, necessary for any naval officer, set him firmly in the role of paragon in Neil’s eyes, and Beatrix quite simply thought him the handsomest, most delightful gentleman she had ever encountered.

  Once Lady Eccles accustomed herself to the idea of all those children, she was very ready to act as mentor and benefactress to them all. Plans were made for Trix and Mama to accompany her shopping on the following morning, much to their delight.

  The whole family seemed to be in high spirits, looking forward to the coming adventure. All except Saskia.

  That night found her alone in her pretty bedchamber, wrapped in a sumptuous dressing gown of softest silk, delicate satin ribbons tied at the throat. She was staring into the fire and brooding. Tomorrow marked the official beginning of the contest. She must set her mind to the problem of Rowbridge Manor.

  She couldn’t imagine why anyone would buy an estate, then simply shut it up and abandon it. And she didn’t truly think the house, after so many years, could hold any clues. Yet she could think of no place else to begin. Perhaps, she not very sanguinely hoped, it would offer up some shred of information, a starting point, to lead her she knew not where.

  So. She would visit Rowbridge Manor tomorrow. What she hoped to find, how she would even gain access, she hadn’t the smallest notion. But since she hadn’t another idea in her head, it seemed worth a try.

  Derek Rowbridge sipped gratefully at a glass of fine brandy and stretched his long, well-formed legs to the fire. He looked down at his grinning face, reflected in the mirrorlike shine of his new Hessians. He brushed an infinitesimal speck of lint from the sleeve of his new coat, a Bath superfine of deep blue. Derek was quite enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of the life of a gentleman of leisure. It was, after all, the life he had been born to, then been cheated of by circumstances beyond his control.

  But alas, the leisure must end, for there was a job he must do, or at least attempt, to repay his great-aunt for all this munificence. If he succeeded, it need never end.

  Derek was a man of action, quick-thinking under stress. He could command men to follow him in battle, or react instantly amidst blazing guns and threatening seas. These were the enemies he understood: tides and winds, storms, guns, and Frenchmen. But in this new battle he felt out of his depth. The enemies were beyond his ken. A faceless landowner and a chit of a girl with a sharp tongue and a governess’s lack of humor. Where to begin?

  He stared into the fire intently, considering the question with the same cold calculation he used in pondering his opening play in a game of piquet which he could not afford to lose. There seemed to be only one logical place to begin, and that was with Rowbridge Manor. He had no idea what he would find there, or even what he

  hoped to find, but perhaps inspiration would strike at the proper moment. His luck seemed to be running.

  So tomorrow he would mount Pasha and ride out to see what he could see.

  Chapter Ten

  Saskia was strangely touched as she turned Sunshine through the gates of Rowbridge Manor and began up the once famous “Oak Drive.” The brisk ride from Bath had given her a more optimistic view of things than she’d had the night previous. She knew that a pair of elderly caretakers inhabited the house and looked after the grounds, but she expected to find it in a sad state of decay after so many years.

  She was, therefore, pleasantly surprised when the house came into view. There was an undeniably lone y look to the great Tudor mansion. The rows of leaded windows were shuttered; no welcoming thread of smoke rose from the twisted brick chimneys. But it seemed to be in good repair. No broken panes let in the spring damp, and the shingled roof looked intact. It was still a lovely house, and Saskia could understand why her Aunt Hester wanted it.

  She turned Sunshine toward the kitchens and tethered her in the shade of a giant elm, then approached the house with resolution. Her knock resonated through the kitchens. Then came a soft pattering of steps and a tinkly voice. “Yes, yes, an’ it’s me a-comin' fast as ever I can."

  The door opened, and she found herself gazing down at a friendly-looking antique of a lady, small and terrier-like. She had a yelpy but not unpleasant voice, springy grey hair under a mobcap, and spirited blue eyes. She wore spectacles and carried a small, marble-covered volume in her hand.

  At sight of her visitor, the woman bounced back from the door, smoothed her apron and exclaimed, “Oh, lawks, miss! I do beg pardon for speakin’ so. I thought as how it must be Mary Manners a-comin’ to fetch back her mistress’s book, an’ I ha’n’t finished with it yet. But come in, come in, do.” She ushered Saskia into a comfortable and spotless kitchen, then peered up at the girl closely. “Do I know you?”

  Saskia gave a charming laugh. “No, I’m afraid you don’t”

  “Oh, that’s nought to be afraid of. There’s many a body I don’t know, I s’pose.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. And I’m sorry to have dropped out of nowhere in this odiously unexpected fashion. Are you Mrs. Gleason?”

  “That I am. Well, at least I’m Miss Gleason. Why is it a housekeeper’s always Mrs., even when she’s Miss? Never did understand that. I wouldn’t mind being Mrs., though not Gleason, in course,” she finished with a girlish giggle.

  Saskia looked puzzled. “But I was told there was a couple here. Is there no Mr. Gleason?”

  “Oh, aye, to be sure. We are a couple, I s’pose. Gleason’s my brother, you know.” Without asking if her guest was tired or thirsty, Mrs. Gleason was already putting the kettle to the boil. Saskia thrashed about in her mind for what to say next. She set down her crop, removed her gauntleted gloves, and idly pic
ked up the book Mrs. Gleason had laid on a table. Her instant smile showed that the sides had opened and manna from heaven poured down upon her head. It was a copy of The Deadly Ruins of Grammonti, by Cornelia Crawley. Mrs. Gleason was one of Mama’s fans, and Saskia, with blinding brilliance, had her approach.

  “You’re a reader, Mrs. Gleason.” _ ,

  “Oh, lawks, yes, miss. Me and Mary Manners, thats Mrs. Carlton’s nurse, we be the great readers of the neighborhood. Now if Sukey Cotton or that Shifton woman can read so much as a receipt, it’s more n I ever knew. But my mama made sine I could read the Bible, which in course I still do reg’lar. But I like a good story now an’ again, yTcnow. ’Specially the romantical ones. “You’re a fan of Miss Crawley’s?”

  Mrs. Gleason clapped her hands in delight. Ohhhhl In’t she jest the best? Her words are so, well, so real. I don’t know when I had such a good cry as for those poor orphans in Castle Vedrino. And shudder? My, my, my. Gleason had to fix me a nice cuppa tea ’afore I could close my eyes that night.” She handed her guest a nice “cuppa” tea.

  “Yes, it is very scary,” said Saskia with a twinkle. “Miss Crawley nearly changed the plot for fear her readers would go into spasms. She told me so herself.

  The sparkling blue eyes opened into pools of astonishment. “Never say you know Miss Crawleyl Really? I mean to talk to an’ all?”

  "Well, yes. I’m afraid I speak to her quite frequently. She’s my mother, you see.”

  “Cornelia Crawley? Almerris Revenge! The Marquis of Shadows! That Cornelia Crawley?”

  “The very one,” laughed Saskia. “I am Miss van Houten. Crawley is Mama’s nom de plume, you see.