by Joan Smith
“Let us eat before our mutton is stone cold,” Lady Haldiman decreed, and the group headed for the dining room, where her servants had done her proud. An elegant table sparkled with crystal and silver, and in the center a low bowl of roses spoke of spring.
“The darling buds of May!” Sir Swithin exclaimed, and minced forward to smell them. “The simplicity of rural life is such a relief from London. Ice sculptures are the new rage. I blame Prinny’s chef, Carème. I always think of poor Prinny when I behold an ice sculpture. So cold and transparent, and so obviously destined to short life.” He shivered gently.
Haldiman had been busy arranging seats so that Sara sat beside Peter. Miss Harvey was treated as the guest of honor and sat on Haldiman’s right hand. Sir Swithin was her other partner. Nothing about the arrangement pleased Sara, especially her own place between Peter and Reverend Kane.
Peter sensed that references to Canada were best kept at a minimum, and over the turbot he tried his hand beguiling her with stories of the boys’ delight in England.
“I did the right thing to bring them home,” he told her. “My only regret is that I waited so long.”
“You should have come sooner,” Sara replied. “No doubt your late wife would have enjoyed to see England, too.” Then she turned to Reverend Kane and encouraged him to hold forth on church matters.
Lord Peter was not the only dinner partner who was ignored. Lord Haldiman found himself similarly abandoned, for Miss Harvey found a willing flirt in Sir Swithin.
“I have never before met a colonial lady,” he told her. “You make me realize how deprived I have been. You must tell me all about the Indians.”
She batted her hand. “Lud, you’d think to hear you Brits talk the country was nothing but tepees and wild bush. I’ll have you know at Retford we are very civilized, sir. Ten thousand acres in hard timber. My papa has a forty-room mansion with pillars in front, to say nothing of more servants than you can shake a stick at. We ladies don’t do our own washing and cooking, you know.”
“You disappoint me,” he declared. “I dared to hope for something more savage than mere gentility.”
“Indeed no! All the usual proprieties prevail, at least in my class. In society it is all dowries—my own is twenty-five thousand—and connections. My cousin, the governor, was just saying before we left that I would feel quite at home in England. Mind you my uncle, the judge, disagreed. Papa has one brother, a judge, and a cousin, a governor.”
Sir Swithin turned a lackluster eye on her. “Civil servants. Take care, Miss Harvey, or you will rapidly lose your hearer’s interest. If I were you, I should claim a more interesting past for myself. Kinship to an Indian chieftain certainly and arcane knowledge of native lore. But perhaps I am mistaken in thinking you wish to make yourself stand out from the crowd?”
Miss Harvey listened, trying to figure out whether she had been insulted. “I’ll stand out right enough. I doubt there are many ladies with twenty-five thousand in the neighborhood,” she replied.
Idle smiled vaguely. “I wouldn’t know. The ladies of my acquaintances are less forthcoming about the size of their dowries.”
“Then you may be sure the dot is nothing to brag about,” she said, unfazed.
“You leave me quite speechless, ma’am,” he replied, and immediately began a long dissertation, directed to the table in general, on how the London Season had so bored him that he had left early. “For if I want tedious company and pedestrian conversation, I can find it here. In the provinces at large, I mean. Present company always excepted, ça va sans dire.”
“What does he say?” Lady Haldiman demanded of her partner.
“Nothing of any account, ma’am. It is only idle chatter.”
“I know it is Idle’s chatter, but what does he say?”
Her unfortunate partner drew a deep breath and began to tell her.
Chapter Six
After a lengthy meal the ladies retired to the salon and left the gentlemen to their port. Miss Harvey took a seat beside Sara. “Who is this Sir Swithin Idle that brought you to dinner, Miss Wood?” she asked.
“He is our neighbor from Heron Hall.”
“That would be the stone mansion overlooking the sea? I had a glimpse of it this morning when I was riding.”
“Yes, a lovely situation.”
“What does the ‘Sir’ stand for, if you understand my meaning?”
“He is a baronet, not a knight.”
“Then his wife would be a baroness?”
“Not at all. A baron’s wife would be a baroness. Baronets are not members of the peerage, you see.”
“You mean they’re not even lords?” Miss Harvey demanded.
“Not exactly, but they are the next best thing to it.”
An angry snort rent the air. “Hmph. He talks pretty grand for a baronet, does he not?” Sir Swithin was mentally struck from Miss Harvey’s list of possible husbands. The only question remaining in her mind was whether to marry Peter and return to Retford, or remain in England and become Lady Haldiman.
“Yes, he is vastly amusing,” Sara said. She disliked being alone with Miss Harvey and cast an imploring eye on Mary. Before long her sister joined her.
“Did Sara tell you Sir Swithin is having a ball?” Mary said.
“Indeed, she did not!” The sharp look accompanying this speech hinted that the news had been purposely suppressed.
“Yes, he will be inviting all his friends from London. It will be a great opportunity for us to meet some new gentlemen,” Mary said.
“He moves in a good circle, does he?” Miss Harvey asked with interest.
“The very best, I believe,” Sara told her.
Miss Harvey and Mary fell into congenial conversation and soon Sara excused herself to speak to .her hostess. “Are you seeing much of Idle these days, Sara?” Lady Haldiman asked.
“He is painting my picture, ma’am.”
“Eh?”
“Painting my portrait in the garden at home.”
“I know you are well guarded at home, my dear. I would not venture abroad with him. A bit of a high flyer, young Idle. I was surprised you came in his carriage. I doubt Peter will like it.”
“It is not really Peter’s affair,” Sara said, hackles rising.
“More than fair,” the dame admitted. “I can quite understand your wishing to pay him back. A nasty trick he served you, and so I told him, but he is back now. Let bygones be bygones.”
Short of shouting and drawing the attention of everyone in the room, Sara saw no way of explaining the matter. She opted for acquiescence, but her blood simmered.
When the gentlemen joined the ladies, Peter strode immediately to Sara’s side. “You two will want to be alone,” Lady Haldiman said coyly, and went to sit with Reverend Kane.
Peter sat down beside Sara. “It was like old times, seeing you at our table again, Sara,” he said. His eyes glowed with meaning.
Sara felt she was being drawn back into the nightmare web of the past. She wanted to let Peter know this dinner was not an augur of things to come. “I expect your mama wanted to fete you before you remove to the Poplars. When will you be leaving?”
“Rufus and I will be taking a run over tomorrow. There will be a few things that want doing before I move permanently. Giving the place a good cleanup, hiring servants, and so on. I can hardly take Betsy with me to a bachelor’s house and cannot like to lumber Rufus and Mama with her. I shall be at the Hall a month or so, I expect.”
Sara felt a stab of disappointment. “A month!” she exclaimed.
His soft smile told her he had misinterpreted the cause of her chagrin. “It is long enough, if we put the time to good use,” he said.
She leveled a quelling stare at him. “I daresay if you put your mind to it, you can have the Poplars running smoothly by then.”
“It will want a lady’s hand to put on the finishing touches.”
“You will be hiring a housekeeper, I collect?”
He
gave a knowing little laugh. “Oh, that was not the lady I referred to,” he said.
Unable to endure these loving insinuations, Sara jumped to her feet. “Excuse me, I must speak to Mama.”
Peter watched her go, satisfied that the romance was progressing smoothly. Sara was certainly not indifferent to him. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled with some deep emotion. Absence had certainly made her grow fonder.
Sir Swithin, watching the encounter, dashed forward. Of course he let the lady believe she was pulling the wool over his eyes and spoke of his attentions as a rescue. “Something in this mad dash reminds me of the fox pursued by hounds. You have reached ground safely, my dear. Was Peter being terribly obtrusive?”
“Yes, terribly. I wish we could go home.”
He patted her hand solicitously. “When the fox runs, the hound pursues. What we must do is strengthen the false scent. I was so overcome with sympathy when I saw you cowering in the corner with him that I hinted to Haldiman my ball was in your honor. He immediately leapt to the hinted-at conclusion. Wasn’t that devious of me? We must tread softly, or we shall find ourselves betrothed. He was furious, by the way.”
“I don’t know why they are all so determined I must marry Peter!”
“My dear innocent, it is so obvious a hummingbird could see through it in an instant. It is not so much wishing to snare you as to escape the Sauvage. I erred to think vulgarity would be amusing. It was merely tedious. She is a vapid little creature, though the eyes are good. Not that brown is my favorite color. Too doglike to really suit me.”
“I don’t suppose we could go home?” Sara asked.
“Not yet. I have promised Perdita I would sing a few simple tunes for her, accompanying myself on the harpsichord. A few ditties of my own composition. A waste of time really. Her ears worsen. Talking to her is like fishing an empty pond. She never rises to the fly. We can escape to the music room on the pretext of trying the instrument, however, if that would mitigate your agony.”
“Yes, let us do it.”
Idle noticed that she cast one last look at Lord Peter before leaving. The two left hastily. Peter was not watching, but Haldiman saw them go, and when they had not returned in five minutes, he learned from his mother what was afoot and went after them.
He found Sir Swithin sitting at the harpsichord, practicing his ditties, while Sara sat alone, looking cross and bored. A lady did not wear such an expression when she was alone with her lover. This business between Idle and Sara was dust in his eyes. It was Peter she loved. He watched silently from the doorway a moment before joining her.
“So this is where you have gotten to,” he said, and sat beside her.
Sara looked over his shoulder, and when she saw he was alone, she relaxed visibly. “Swithin is going to play a few tunes for us,” she explained.
He cocked his head to one side. “Aren’t we fortunate?” he said facetiously. “Will you sing while he plays?”
“Oh no, you are not that fortunate.”
“Idle tells me he is having a ball.”
“Yes, that will be a charming diversion.”
“Well, a diversion in any case. I daresay I ought to do something on a grand scale to mark Peter’s return.”
One ball a season in this quiet corner of the land was an unusual treat. To hear of a second caused Sara to smile in delight. Her dove-gray eyes glowed luminously. They reminded Haldiman of an opal. All tints of the rainbow seemed trapped in their depths. “What a good idea!” she exclaimed.
“I do have them occasionally, you know. Ideas, I mean.”
“Along with some very bad ones,” she pointed out. The opals darkened noticeably.
“Rushing Peter off to the Poplars tomorrow, you mean?”
“No, bringing him back for a month while the place is made ready. Surely it cannot be that rundown.”
“It is more than habitable. Peter’s delay has another cause, I think?” He made the speech a question.
Sara realized exactly what he was asking, but chose to ignore it. “He mentioned not wishing to leave Miss Harvey here alone.”
Haldiman gave a conning smile. “I don’t believe Harvey was the miss he mentioned. Peter plans to enlarge the Poplars, now that he has a family and money to do it.”
This reminder of his enlarged fortune caused not a jot of interest. “How nice for him,” Sara said, and rose to join Swithin at the harpsichord.
Haldiman followed along, curious to see how she and Swithin behaved together. Idle didn’t interrupt his music, but he turned to gaze at Sara as he sang “Belle Mam’selle,” a song of love in springtime. His voice, though high, was good. Sara clapped when he was finished and said, “That was lovely, Swithin.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I wrote it myself a few years ago as the intermission music for a drama I was putting on. The only change necessary for this evening’s performance is that I shall change Belle Mam’selle’s eyes from blue to gray.”
“I am honored, sir,” Sara smiled, and curtsied playfully.
“Those eyes will defeat me, I fear,” Idle said, studying her. “Not musically, but when I paint you. Gray won’t do at all. Odd that eyes of that evanescent shade are called gray. They are nothing of the sort. Limestone is gray. A pebble on the beach is gray. Old ladies’ hair is gray, but your eyes are— what color would you call them, Haldiman?”
“Opalescent,” Haldiman answered promptly. His mind had latched on to another matter. He disliked to think of Swithin painting Sara’s picture. There was too much possibility of dalliance.
“Mmmm—close, and much better than I expected of you,” Idle said. “I would have said nacreous, but perhaps that is splitting hairs. They will present a real challenge.”
“When will you begin this portrait?” Haldiman asked.
“It is already begun. We resume tomorrow afternoon,” Swithin replied. “And I have chosen your outfit, Sara. That green gown you are wearing this evening. It will give just the contrast I wish, the gentle greenery of spring leaves against your alabaster bosom.”
Haldiman’s eyes strayed to the described area. When he realized what he was about, he looked up guiltily to see Sara staring at him, with two splotches of pink coloring her cheeks. “Where will the sitting take place?” he inquired. It had occurred to him that Sara would not be safe if it were to occur at Heron Hall. This talk of eyes and bosoms was upsetting.
“At home in the garden,” Sara said.
Sir Swithin began to press the keys again. “You may tell the guests I am ready, Sara.”
Sara left, accompanied by Haldiman. “He’s very talented, is he not?” she asked. Her voice was just a trifle breathless.
“Too talented for my liking.” He directed a quizzing smile at her. “I fear he may cut Peter out entirely.”
“I feel I am talking to the wind to tell anyone I don’t plan to marry Peter.”
Before they entered the front hallway, Haldiman placed his hand on Sara’s wrist and drew her to a stop. “You can’t be serious about Idle,” he said.
“Can I not?” she asked in a teasing way. “Perhaps you overestimate my sense. I have exhibited poor judgment in the past, Haldiman. Some of us never learn.”
“But he’s so--”
“Talented? I have no aversion to talent. He’s clever, well to grass, and Heron Hall is right next door to my home. I wonder it never occurred to me to go after Swithin before.”
“Odd it should occur just now when a better choice is available to you.”
“Better?” she asked, with a sharp look. Haldiman gave a conscious look but said nothing. “Coincidence is famous for her long arm, is she not? She has reached out and caught me in her grip.”
He scowled. “You’re only doing it to make Peter jealous. It is not necessary, I promise you.”
The embers of discontent flared to flames, and she answered hotly. “I’m not trying to make him jealous. That’s the last thing in my mind! I just want him to see it is pointless fo
r him to dangle after me. I don’t want to marry him. If necessary, I would even go so far as to marry Swithin to escape him. At least he has not been married before, with a ready-made family in tow.” On that angry speech she stalked off to the salon to announce that the music was about to begin.
Haldiman stood, frowning after her. He had always assumed it would take a little time for Sara to accept Peter’s marriage to Fiona, and the boys. When seats were taken in the music room, he sat behind Sara at an angle that allowed him to observe her. He saw her jaw firm when Peter sat beside her. He observed that she did not instigate any conversation, and when Peter spoke to her, she answered briefly. Was it possible she had stopped loving him? For six years he had pitied her. The whole neighborhood pitied her, and she had let them.
Of course it was infamous how Peter had treated her. Perhaps the offense was too large for a proud woman to forgive, ever. Strange, he had never thought of Sara as a proud woman before, but she now carried her head very high. His eyes strayed to Peter’s other side, where Betsy was chattering away, oblivious to the music. Idle was perfectly aware of her chatter, too. He didn’t like anyone interfering with his performance, silly fop. Though really, it was too gauche of Betsy. God, if Peter didn’t attach Sara, he’d marry that vulgar woman.
Soon a worse interference than Betsy’s talking was loose in the audience. His mother had fallen sound asleep and began to snore. When her gentle buzzing turned to stertorous snorts, Haldiman slid across the aisle and jiggled her awake.
“What, what!” she exclaimed loudly. “Oh dear! I nodded off. Sorry, Idle,” she called from her chair. “I shan’t do it again. The music is lovely. Play on.”
Swithin rose from the harpsichord. “That is enough music for one night.”
“What does he say?” Lady Haldiman asked her son.
“The music is done, Mama.”
“Yes, great fun. Thank you, Idle. Is everyone ready for tea?”
Tea was served and hastily drunk up. Haldiman went to the door to see his guests off. He felt a reluctance to see Sara get into Swithin’s carriage.