The Merry Month of May

by Joan Smith

  She examined him with her sharp brown eyes. “Then it might be a good idea to stop meeting her in the meadow, or you’ll be giving the poor girl ideas.”

  “I only met her there once, by accident. I never call on her. I plan to spend the evening with my sons. I have promised to teach Charlie and Rufus how to play all fours. Perhaps you would like to join us?”

  Betsy fluffed her fingers through her hair and said, “Another time, perhaps. Kevin is teaching me how to play faro this evening. All the crack in London,” she added, with a meaningful look. “I really must see London before I leave England. Kevin says the shops alone are worth the trip. And, of course, the theaters and parks.” She spoke on for some minutes, repeating Moore’s description of London.

  Somewhere along the way she managed to impart the idea that Mr. Moore himself would be her guide when she finally reached London. Lord Peter drew the line at openly slandering his cousin, but he wanted to give her a hint of the man’s ineligibility.

  “Ladies aren’t allowed as much freedom in England as you have enjoyed in Canada, Betsy. Unless you plan to marry Moore, you had best limit your running around unchaperoned with him.”

  She lifted her chin and gave him a bold look. “Perhaps I do plan to marry him.”

  “But does he plan to marry you?”

  “He could do worse than a dot of twenty-five thousand, I fancy.”

  “And you could do a deal better—if you behaved yourself. It is your dowry that attracts him, I fear.”

  The angry undertone to this conversation made it the wrong moment for a proposal. Peter went up to the nursery, and Betsy remained behind to await Mr. Moore. She spent a very boring evening playing the pianoforte while Mr. Moore sang. Lady Haldiman and her son listened to the concert from the distance of the salon. There were no pauses in the music long enough to indicate peril, though plenty of the proper length to suggest flirtation.

  Mr. Moore, perfectly aware that he was watched and unwanted, returned to the salon at a respectable hour. Instead of going with him, Betsy went to the kitchen to oversee the preparing of the picnic lunch.

  “I expect you will soon be running off to London, Mr. Moore,” Lady Haldiman said hopefully.

  “In a day or two. I cannot like to miss that picnic,” he said heartily. God! Nasty, wet breezes, the stench of seaweed, sand, and ants, and Lord Peter’s boys whooping like Indians.

  “The day after tomorrow then,” she said, still hopeful.

  “London is so expensive I am in no hurry to return there.”

  Haldiman took the idea the man’s pockets were to let and suggested a hand of cards. He was careful to lose five pounds, which ought to be enough to get him to London.

  * * * *

  Sir Swithin was at loose ends and went to Whitehern that evening to discuss his water party with the ladies. He brought with him a sample of his invitation. It was lovely, done in a romantic mode, with a female silhouette drawn in India ink against a mauve waterfall.

  “It is beautiful!” Mary exclaimed. “I shall frame mine when the party is over.”

  “That is the general idea, my pet. These objets d’art are not destined for the dustbin.”

  “Have you set the date?” she demanded eagerly.

  “It will take me two weeks hard labor to complete the invitations. Perhaps—a month’s time.”

  “That long! We’ll all help with the invitations,” Mary said. “But not tomorrow. Tomorrow we are going on a picnic to the beach.”

  “Excellent! I have managed to avoid that particular torment for two decades now. I shall go with you and commune atavistically with my origins. One always feels that consanguinity with the sea, n’est-ce pas?”

  “You don’t look at all like a fish to me,” Mary laughed. “More like a bird, I always thought.”

  “A bird of paradise, do you mean, or a peacock? I have heard both comparisons before.”

  Examining his meager frame, she said, “Actually it was a canary I had in mind.”

  “There is that delicacy of bone structure, and a thertain thweet melodiousness of voice.” The lisp on this occasion was deliberate. When Idle was railed at, he did not pull in his horns but pushed them farther forward. “But really, you know, we are whistling into the wind to seek a comparison. I am sui generis. I alone constitute my class.”

  “Thank God for that!” Mary laughed.

  Mr. Deverel called his beloved to order, and Sir Swithin turned his attention to Sara. “We are noticeably wan and lifeless this evening, Sara. What portends?”

  She felt the need to confide in someone, and chose Idle as her confidant. “The Sauvage would never in a million years have said no, had Haldiman offered,” Idle assured her. “Ergo, he did not offer. At the picnic tomorrow we shall observe the trio. Lord Peter, too, is involved. Tomorrow evening, I shall explain how the situation stands, and we shall lay plans. I do not accept failure when I set about something, and I have decided you shall have Haldiman—if you are quite sure you want him.” He looked at her expectantly. “Well, do you?”

  Sara gave an angry look. “Yes, I want him,” she said, and was amazed at her own temerity. She had never before admitted publicly to such a private thing.

  He patted her hand. “There now, it was not so difficult, was it?”

  Sara laughed at her own foolishness. “You are a tyrant, Swithin, but I like you very much.”

  Richard Deverel watched them, amused. It was hard not to watch Sir Swithin. When Deverel returned to the Hall, his hostess had retired. Haldiman sat alone, waiting to hear what had transpired at Whitehern.

  “Sir Swithin dropped around to visit Miss Wood,” Deverel mentioned. Haldiman stiffened perceptibly. “I take it he runs quite tame there. Hard to imagine what Miss Wood sees in him, but she was mighty amused at his ranting.”

  “What had he to say?”

  “Nothing of any account. We all had to decide what kind of bird he was. A peacock or a bird of paradise. I felt like telling him he was a popinjay, but managed to keep my tongue between my teeth. I doubt I shall keep up such good manners if he marries Miss Wood, and I have to see much of him.”

  “Is it settled between them?” Haldiman demanded sharply.

  “They did not say so, but surely that is the way the wind blows. They sit tête-à-tête in the corner, whispering and smiling as lovers do. Mary speaks of it as quite settled. He invited himself to the picnic. Will you be coming with us, Haldiman?”

  It was the last thing Haldiman wanted, but he said, “Yes, it was my intention,” while his breast swelled in anger. He felt in some vague way that Peter was to blame for all his troubles. If he had not brought that wretched Betsy Harvey down on their heads, none of this would have happened. The least he could do was marry her, take her off to the Poplars, and have done with it. In his present mood, Haldiman would not have balked even at the couple’s remove to Canada.

  His only small consolation was that the sky was overcast, and with luck they might all be reprieved from the picnic by rain.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The day of the picnic dawned bright and clear. Messages flew back and forth between Haldiman Hall, Whitehern, and Heron Hall as to what food, servants, and vehicles would be required. All the details were eventually settled, and at eleven, Sara and Mary set out with Sir Swithin in his carriage. They met up with the remainder of the party at the Hall, where Mary immediately removed to Richard’s carriage. Peter took his sons in his rig, and after much clamorous debate, Betsy and Moore joined Haldiman.

  “I see you got your rig repaired,” Betsy remarked, with a gimlet shot from her brown eyes, before turning all her attention to Mr. Moore and ignoring her host entirely.

  The half-hour drive to the chosen stretch of beach was accomplished without incident. The sky paled from blue to white as they progressed, but there was a globe of dull orange behind the misty clouds that was taken as a harbinger of continuing fair weather. The coast fell gently from grassy slopes to a stretch of shingled beach, and be
yond the beach the gray-green water rippled off to the horizon. A breeze that oldsters would call nasty, younger adults slightly chilly, and children ignore, blew constantly from the sea.

  While the servants took charge of making a fire for tea and arranging refreshments, the younger members of the party went immediately to the water. Ere long, Mary and Richard, like Peter’s boys, had their shoes off and were wading in the foam. Even Lord Peter found it not beneath his dignity to pull off his boots and socks and join them. The more sedate members of the party contented themselves with strolling in a group away from the water, but close enough to gather shells and smooth pebbles.

  “I expect your ocean is more impressive in Canada,” Sir Swithin remarked languidly to Miss Harvey. He was rather bored and hoped to enliven the visit with some ill manners.

  “It’s the same old water, isn’t it?” she answered. “Mind you, our rivers make yours look like creeks. The St. Lawrence—now there is a river. You can scarcely see across it. After crossing the Atlantic, and having to cross it again when I go home, I don’t much care to spend a day just looking at it.”

  “Have you made plans to return home?” Sir Swithin asked. Every ear in the group stretched to hear her answer.

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” she demanded. “I may surprise the lot of you and stay.”

  “But what of the tall timbers? You are their inheritor, I think?”

  “They can be chopped down by a steward, and the money sent to me. Or Papa could sell the whole estate and join me here.” She slid a sly eye toward Moore. “I’m not all that eager to leave England.”

  Mr. Moore smiled uneasily at Haldiman. “Actually, I would rather like to see America and Canada,” he said.

  “Oh ho! You see what he is hinting at,” she laughed. “I have painted too attractive a picture of Retford for you, Kevin. But you have made London sound very enticing to me.”

  She drew ahead with Moore, giving the remainder of the party a perfect view of their flirtation. She leapt at every wave that came near her, using it as an excuse to flaunt her ankles and clutch on to Moore’s arm for assistance. She shrieked at every breeze that lifted her skirt or moved her bonnet and generally behaved like the hoyden she was.

  Sara’s eyes turned from Miss Harvey to Haldiman, still unable to credit any attachment on his side. Yet there was no denying he was keenly interested in her antics. The clenching of his jaw looked wonderfully like jealousy. After a long walk, Sir Swithin announced that he had communed enough with raw nature and was ready to commune with her more refined daughter, the grape. Sara went with him to a trestle table above the beach, where some optimistic soul had felt an umbrella might be required against the sun.

  In the privacy of its shade, Sara said, “You have observed the soi-disant lovers, Sir Swithin. Have you reached a verdict yet?”

  “The case is as plain as the nose on your face, my dear, but not so pretty. The Sauvage is employing all her Indian manners plus the handsome mannequin, Moore, to incite Lord Peter to a pitch of jealous passion that will culminate in an offer of marriage.”

  “It seems to me it is Haldiman who is jealous.”

  “That would be because you have not bothered toobserve Lord Peter. His body is with his sons in thesurf, but his eyes and heart are with the Sauvage.A man’s knuckles do not turn white from pleasureat seeing his sons wade in water to their knees andyelp like hyenas. It is only fear and hatred thatwhiten the knuckles. He fears losing her, and, onesurmises, hates Moore for being so handsome andavailable.”

  “Then why is Haldiman in such a snit?”

  “I fancy he has some misapprehension Moore will run off with Peter’s heiress, landing the disgrace of not protecting her in his dish. You will observe as well that half his glares are for us,” he added, glancing beachward.

  Looking where he indicated, Sara noticed that Haldiman was regarding them. He said something to Peter and left, to walk swiftly to the table. Sara immediately assumed an expression of total indifference and gazed past him, down to the beach.

  “I could do with some of that wine,” he said, pouring himself a glass.

  “You will like it, I think. It is champagne from my cellar,” Idle said. “And now if you will bear Sara company, Haldiman, I shall gather a few choice specimens of seashells for my collection. Pray do not ask what I plan to do with them. I confess my only plan is to throw them into a box with the others I have collected over the years. Seashells and smooth pebbles always defeat. One feels there is an artwork waiting to be contrived from them, but in the end they go into the box to gather dust.”

  Haldiman sat down and looked uncertainly at Sara’s averted profile. His eyes lingered a moment on the sweep of lashes, the straight nose, slightly tilted at the end, and the clean line of throat. “We got a nice day for our outing,” he said.

  “Yes, lovely. The boys are certainly enjoying it.”

  “They’ll sleep like tops tonight.”

  She turned her face halfway toward him. “Do they have trouble sleeping?” she asked dutifully. They both felt they ought to be speaking of something more interesting than the sleeping habits of Peter’s boys, but found the transition difficult to make.

  “A little, at first. They’re settling in now.”

  “I expect they miss their home.”

  “This is their home now. Peter doesn’t speak of returning.”

  “I see.”

  Mary and Deverel joined them for a glass of wine, and private conversation was at an end. Sara’s only consolation was that Haldiman looked frustrated at their arrival. He looked as though he wished to say something, but he didn’t say it. Before long the others left the beach, and it was time for food. Platters of fowl and meat and bread and pickles were laid on the table, with fruit, cheese, and a hamper of sweets waiting to replace them.

  “Look at the tiny little chickens!” Betsy laughed, holding aloft a squab. “It would fit in the egg of one of our turkeys at home.”

  “That is not a chicken. It’s a pigeon,” Mary told her.

  Betsy dropped it as if it were a worm. “Aaagh. You mean we are eating dirty old pigeons?”

  “They are considered a delicacy,” Mr. Deverel told her. “Why do you think people have dovecotes?”

  “I thought they were ornaments, like gazebos. Lud! I expect you eat crows and robins as well. Pass me an orange, Mary. I like to know what I am eating.”

  “This pigeon tastes good, Aunt Betsy,” Rufus assured her.

  “Put it down, child. You’ll get worms, or worse.”

  “Here, have an eel pie instead,” Mr. Deverel said, to roast her.

  “Oh no! You are making me positively ill, Richard. You are teasing me. How horrid you are. I cannot imagine what you see in this quiz, Mary. Get me an orange at once, Kevin. I will not eat eels or pigeons.”

  By such simple and vulgar ruses as this, Miss Harvey managed to dominate the luncheon and make it unpleasant for everyone else, except Beau and Rufus, who thought her a regular jokesmith, and laughed uproariously.

  “You disappoint me, Miss Harvey,” Idle said sadly, for he resented anyone stealing attention from him. “Our colonial daughters, like Shakespeare’s ambition, should be made of sterner stuff.”

  “Oh, Shakespeare, I have no opinion of him. If a man cannot say what he means without a pageful of prithee’s and antique words, he should put down his quill.”

  “He has, actually,” Mr. Deverel pointed out.

  “How horrid this boy is. You must teach him some manners, Mary. He is making sport of me, calling me an ignoramus. As if I did not know Shakespeare is dead. Mama got a set of his books for a wedding gift, and they were already unreadable then. We have had all his books at Retford Hall forever.”

  “Forever is so short, in Canada,” Idle smiled. “When we speak of ‘forever’ in England, Miss Harvey, we usually refer to the Middle Ages, or earlier.”

  Betsy glinted a malicious smile at him. “I have often noted the age of English culture. Especial
ly your graybeard jokes.”

  Despite her delicate palate, Miss Harvey made a good meal and enjoyed herself immensely. When she was finished, she suggested they go home.

  “There are hours of daylight yet,” Peter pointed out.

  “What else is there to do? We have walked along the water. We have eaten. No one thought to hire a boat, it seems, and the water is too frigid to swim. We will have time for a canter if we leave now. Let us go home. Besides, Kevin has to pack. He is leaving this evening.”

  “Tonight!” Haldiman exclaimed in alarm. “You didn’t mention this, Moore.”

  “I had a letter from a friend who is on his way to London. I am meeting him in the village—if you will be kind enough to see I get there. My carriage lost a wheel,” he added lamely, as he knew his imaginary carriage was long overdue for repairs.

  “Oh, certainly. At what time ...”

  “I am meeting my friend at the inn at eight-thirty. I shall have to leave immediately after dinner, which is why I must go to the Hall now and pack.”

  Miss Harvey was not the only one feeling the tedium of the outing. With the cheerful word that Mr. Moore wished to prepare to leave, the others agreed to return home at once. The only change in the arrangement within the carriages was that Betsy and Moore went in Deverel’s rig. Sara noted this with curiosity. She could not think it indicated any lessening of Haldiman’s interest in Betsy. He would not have asked her to go with Deverel. It was obviously her own idea.

  And Mr. Moore was leaving. What did that indicate? It was assumed he only hung around in hopes of attaching Betsy. Had she rejected him then ... as a forerunner to accepting Haldiman? She mentioned this to Idle.

  “It has nothing to do with anything,” he decided, after a moment’s musing. “Moore is taking advantage of a free trip to London. C’est tout. I daresay his welcome at the Hall is wearing thin. His sort leave before they are quite shown the door, in hope of being asked again. One cannot help feeling sorry for them. We who have money are too swift to point the finger of scorn at our less endowed brethren. Having delivered that requisite platitude, however, I shall add that perennial guests like Moore ought to make more effort to be amusing. Were I in his position, I would attach myself to the hostess like a barnacle and make myself indispensable to her comfort.”