Red Sky at Night, Lovers' Delight

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  Receiving his summons in the schoolroom, Kate sighed and put down the Latin grammar she and Giles had been studying. “I shall expect you to be perfect in the fourthconjugation when I return,” she said. “And Sue, if you will help Harriet with her reading?”

  “Miss Warrender,” said Giles eagerly, “will you ask him about ponies for Sue and me? So we can all go out together again. You said you would.”

  “If I can.” Making her way down the network of passages between schoolroom and study she thought how much easier the children’s lives would be if she should accept their father. But she was not going to do so. How strange it seemed.

  She had made no concessions to the possibility of this interview when she dressed. Her governess’s grey was demure as usual, her hair swept severely back off her face as she wore it in the mornings. A quick glance in a glass in the main hall told her that she was neat as a pin and white as a sheet.

  “Miss Warrender.” He rose to greet her. “It is good of you to come.”

  “You sent for me.”

  “The domestic tyrant? If you really think me that, Miss Warrender, you know how to set about reforming me. I have just been speaking to your mother.” He was into it now and no escape.

  “Yes? And what did she say?”

  “She gave me her permission to ask for your hand in marriage.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Well, no.” Why was he saying this? “She read me a lecture, Miss Warrender, about marriages without love. But she gave me her permission.”

  “I see.” She sounded as if she did. “And you still wish to offer for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Having made up your mind? Or having committed yourself?”

  “Both! Neither!” What a devilish gift these two women had for getting under a man’s skin. “I told, you yesterday, Miss Warrender, that I need a wife. Nothing has happened since I got home to change my mind.”

  “I should think not indeed,” she said with lively sympathy. “Miss Lintott in hysterics and Sue in the doldrums. Why not cut your losses, my lord, and go back to town.”

  He gritted his teeth. “May I have an answer, Miss Warrender? I have asked you, formally, to be my wife. Must I go down on one knee to do it?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary. But in view of my mother’s remark, do you not think some kind of a statement might be in order?”

  “You mean, I am to say I love you, whether I do or not?”

  “No. Just if you do. And, I think, if you did, there would be no need. So is it not a fortunate thing, my lord, that I do not love you either, and we can part friends, with no harm done.”

  “You mean, you are refusing me?” His pride was lacerated and his heart leapt with relief. It was all very confusing.

  “Precisely.” She held out her hand. “Shake hands on it, my lord, and admit you are as relieved as I am to have this interview well over. You have done me a great honour, and I thank you for it, but we would not suit, you and I, and in your heart, I think you know it.”

  He took her hand in both of his, and for the first time felt real regret at her refusal. “I’m sorry,” he began.

  “Don’t be. It wouldn’t do. We both know it. May we, please, forget all about it and be friends?”

  “Your mother says it’s not that cousin …” He was still amazed at her refusal.

  Her eyes blazed suddenly. Then: “My cousin Kit?” She laughed lightly and shook her head and two curls escaped from their bondage and fell on either side of her face. “No, it’s not Kit.”

  “But what will happen to you?” Surprising to find, after her renewed refusal, how much he cared.

  “God knows. But for the time being, I hope you will let me continue as governess to your delightful children. And that reminds me—” she brought the conversation firmly down to earth—“Sue and Giles are desperate for ponies. Lord Hawth, do you think …”

  “Incorrigible woman!” But he could not help laughing. “I do think. I talked to Susan a little last night. I have already give the orders. Will you be prepared to ride out with the little nuisances, Miss Warrender?”

  “Indeed I will. May I tell them? May they come and thank you?”

  “Not now. I have to finish Knowles’ books.”

  “Oh.” For the first time in the interview, she blushed, and he remembered how her mother’s colour had come and gone. “Knowles. I am sorry. Will you miss him very badly?”

  “From what I have seen of his books, Miss Warrender, I shall miss him very pleasantly. Pray do not let that lie on your conscience.”

  “I won’t. I never did like the man. In fact—” she stopped.

  “Yes?”

  “I—I don’t trust him.” She had realised, in the nick of time, that she could not tell him of that strange, wild suspicion of hers based on her sight of Knowles and Coombe sitting so sociably together at the Bell on the night George Warren was attacked. Had they had something to do with the attack? Or, equally possible, equally strange, with the rescue? They could not have been in either party, but might they have been behind one of them. And if so, which? She had fretted over the problem all winter, in the enforced inactivity of the dark, wet nights. If only she could have discussed the problem with George Warren, but to do so would have meant admitting to her masquerade as Kit Warrender, and how could she do that?

  “Well, no wonder.” Lord Hawth had taken her remark at its face value. “After yesterday. And as to his books…. Whatever he has been doing this winter, it’s certainly not the work he is paid for. I think I shall have to stay at home for a while and look into things for myself. You will not mind it?”

  “Why should I? Oh—my lord!”

  “Yes?”

  “One other thing. Giles is almost beyond me in his classics. About that tutor …”

  “What a wretched father you think me. And rightly. No ponies, no tutor. I am glad to be able to tell you, Miss Warrender, that your classical labours are almost over. I engaged a most suitable man only the other day. He comes next week. A classics scholar, I was lucky to get him. I would have thought him fit for better things, but he tells me his health has been indifferent this winter and he will be glad of a period of country retirement. As for the ponies, I’ll lose no time. Susan should be riding more and reading less.”

  And whose fault was that, Kate thought angrily as she took the remark for dismissal and left the room. Nothing went right that day. Returning to the children and announcing the imminent arrival of the new tutor, she realised that she had not even thought to ask his name. Oh, well, there would be time enough for that, but it made her feel a fool vis a vis the children, and she did not much like that.

  She was glad when the long day was over and it was time to put on her pelisse for the walk back to the Dower House. Her mother finished her work in the course of the morning and usually went home for lunch, and Kate, saying the daily farewell to the children, suddenly found that she did not much look forward to the walk back across the park. Absurd, of course. Knowles was gone, but just the same ….

  “Miss Warrender.” One of the footmen was waiting outside the schoolroom door. “His lordship said I was to walk home with you.”

  “Oh.” She found herself swallowing a lump of tears. Why was this unexpected thoughtfulness on Lord Hawth’s part such a last straw?

  Arriving at the Dower House, she found that her mother had a caller. George Warren was sitting in the comfortable living room that looked out over herbaceous borders towards the park.

  “Miss Warrender.” He rose at sight of Kate and, surprisingly, blushed. “How are you? And the children?”

  “Well, thank you.” She bent to drop a kiss on her mother’s cheek and saw that she, too, was blushing.

  “Look what Mr. Warren has brought us,” said Mrs. Warrender. “That book we saw noticed in the Critical Review. Sense and Sensibility. Do you remember?”

  “Yes. How kind of Mr. Warren.” She looked down at the neatly bound volumes. �
��And giving us a binding, too. You should not have troubled, Mr. Warren.”

  “I like buying books,” he said, and rose to take his leave.

  Alone with her: “What in the world, mamma?” Kate turned to her blushing mother.

  Mrs. Warrender’s blush deepened. “Kate, do you know, I really believe the poor young thing has taken a boy’s fancy to me. What am I to do?”

  “Discourage him,” said Kate.

  “I did my best.” Defensively. And then, with an effort: “Kate, did Lord Hawth speak to you today?”

  “Yes, indeed, and with your permission, he told me. I’ve a crow to pluck with you over that, mamma. Why did you not tell him how much I dislike him?”

  “I did try. But how could I make him believe it when I don’t myself? How could you?”

  “Such a preux chevalier,” said Kate bitterly. “You may enjoy lying down and letting him walk over you, but it is more than I do.”

  “You did not quarrel with him?” asked her mother anxiously.

  “I did my best to, but he does not care for me enough to quarrel. No need to look so fretted, love. We’re not out of work. We parted on the best of terms, my Lord Hawth and I, as master and governess. Oh—there’s a tutor coming next week. Did you know?”

  “No. What’s his name?”

  “His lordship did not trouble to tell me.”

  Their dinner that night, normally so cheerful, was a silent meal, each of them deep in her own thoughts. Afterwards, Kate sat down as usual at the upright piano to play to her mother as she worked at another chair cover, but soon rose to her feet with a long, angry concluding chord. “I’m out of sorts! Blue-devilled. Forgive me. I’ll take my bad temper to bed.”

  “Kate.” Her mother pulled her down for a long, loving kiss, then looked up at her anxiously. “You’re not regretting? You’d not like me to say a word to Lord Hawth?”

  “Regretting? Lord Hawth! Are you out of your wits?”

  “Just worried,” said her mother.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The new tutor, John Winterton, came a week later, and Kate, who found silent fault with most of what Lord Hawth did these days, could find no fault with him. The only mystery was why he should choose to bury himself in the deep countryside to teach a small boy his Latin verbs. Tall, dark and athletic-looking, he was anything but handsome, having had his nose badly broken in what he ruefully described as “a bit of trouble” at Harrow. He also had an ugly scar down one side of his face, and a weakness in his right arm for which, he said, the exercise of riding was the very thing. The children’s new ponies had arrived a few days before he did, and he was soon their daily companion, ranging further and further afield with them as they got used to their new mounts, and the evenings lengthened.

  “But why don’t you go too?” asked Mrs. Warrender, when Kate came glumly home straight after nursery lunch.

  “Because I am not invited.” Kate looked out at the garden, where quickly shifting patterns of sun and shade spoke of the chancy brilliance of an April day.

  “But, Kate, you surely do not need to stand on points with the tutor! If you wanted to go, you should have said so.”

  “He made it impossible,” said Kate crossly. “And the children don’t care. He’s all in all to them since he came. Even Sue looks better. It will serve my autocratic Lord Hawth right if he finds he has another tutorial romance on his hands.”

  “Perhaps that is what he wishes,” said her mother. “After all, poor Sue. … She can’t look very high, placed as she is, I did wonder, last autumn, whether Lord Hawth might not have built some hopes on George Warren.”

  “If he did, he has been disappointed.” Kate’s laugh was a little off-key. “The way that young man dangles after you is a perfect scandal, mamma. I had no idea he was such a frequent visitor.”

  “He says I am teaching him how to go on in English society.” There was just the hint of a stress on the word “says.”

  “He does, does he? Well, who better? Only, you’re not going to break his heart for him, mamma dear?”

  “Good God, no!” Her mother laughed. “You’re right, of course. He has convinced himself, just a little, I think, that he nourishes a passion for me. A boy’s folly, that’s all. He’ll get over it. Poor thing, he knows so little about women. I’m getting very fond of him. Kate. He’s interested in things—poetry … painting. I even like hearing him talk about his agricultural plans. You have no idea how knowledgeable I am getting about turnips and fallowing.”

  “Wicked one! Just so long as you keep your pretty little head, mamma! No wonder you are in such looks, I like you in that lavender coloured jaconet. I’m so glad you have decided to come out of full mourning.”

  “It’s two years since Christopher was drowned.” Mrs. Warrender sounded almost defensive.

  “And you do not mourn for papa? Quite right. Mamma?”

  “Yes?” Her mother looked up quickly at her change of tone.

  “Have you ever thought that with my £100 a year and the £500 of yours that so miraculously escaped from papa’s debts we could set up housekeeping for ourselves?”

  “But why?” Her mother looked at her in amazement. “Are you not happy here?”

  “Happy!” exclaimed Kate. And then: “Are you?”

  “Why, yes, I think so. It’s good to be useful. I thought you felt that, too. Just think how the children have come on in the course of the winter!”

  “To such a point that they can do very well without me! And Mamma, think what will happen when Lord Hawth finds himself, a bride. It won’t be long, I wager, now he’s on the catch for one. Next trip to London and some charming young schoolroom miss will snap him up, and it will be marching orders for you and me. How much better to find ourselves a genteel little apartment in Bath. Or maybe Tunbridge Wells? Cheaper there, and not so far to move? And go, before we are pushed?”

  “But, Kate,” wailed her mother, “I don’t want to go!”

  “Mamma dear.” Kate, who had been standing all this time, gazing out at the spring green of the garden, turned and came over to put both hands lovingly on her mother’s shoulders and look searchingly down at her. “It would be better. You must see that. For both of us.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about!” But Mrs. Warrender had blushed crimson, and turned with a mixture of relief and dismay as Joe appeared to announce Mr. Warren.

  His pretext for the call was a copy of The Memoirs of a Female Dandy which he had just received from London. “But I am afraid you will think it sad enough stuff, ma’am.” He handed it to Mrs. Warrender. “Imagine the heroine dressing up in men’s clothes and parading about the country so! All very well in a Shakespeare play, perhaps. Doublet and hose might have acted as a disguise, but imagine a modem young lady in buckskins and top-boots!”

  “Shakespeare wrote for boy actors,” said Kate crossly. “And Lady Caroline Lamb masquerades often enough, they say, as one of her own pages. I envy her. To be able to ride astride for once instead of sitting perched up sideways like a bundle of old clothes!”

  “Lady Caroline Lamb may,” Warren said with some firmness, “but if I had a sister, as I wish I had, I should most certainly not wish to see her tramping about the countryside in men’s clothes, exposed to God knows what in the way of insult. Still less riding astride! I am surprised you even see fit to mention such a possibility, Miss Warrender.”

  “Shocked you, have I? Poor Mr. Warren! Do you find us British females so very free-spoken?”

  “Well.” He spoke to her but smiled at her mother. “A little surprising, perhaps. My fault, of course. Our Philadelphia young ladies don’t mix with the gentlemen quite the way that happens here. I like it,” he hastened to add. “Only—” he turned ruefully to Mrs. Warrender—“I don’t quite know how to go on.”

  “We’ll do our best to teach you,” said Mrs. Warrender.

  “Much use we’ll be,” said her daughter. “Shut up here like a couple of nuns. But, Mr. Warren, surely your
mother …”

  “Died when I was a child?”

  “Oh! I’m sorry.” And then, irrepressibly: “Don’t tell me! You were brought up by a maiden aunt.”

  “Precisely. My mother’s sister. I loved her dearly. She and my father both died of the smallpox when I was fifteen. That’s when I went to sea with her brother, my uncle. Not much female companionship there, Miss Warrender.” Once again he turned to her mother, who had been making small noises of sympathy. “May I show you my aunt’s picture, ma’am?”

  “I should like it above all things. But, where…”

  “Here.” He reached into his pocket, produced what looked like a watch and flicked it open.

  “She’s beautiful,” said Mrs. Warrender as she and Kate gazed at the delicate miniature.

  “So is the painting,” said Kate. “Who in the world did you get to do it? It looks like one of Mr. Cosway’s.”

  George Warren laughed. “You flatter me, Miss Warrender.”

  “You did it yourself? At fifteen? I don’t believe it!”

  “Kate,” said her mother.

  But Kate had already blushed fiery red and held out a hand in apology. “Forgive me, Cousin George. My wretched tongue! I’m in the dismals today, but that’s no excuse for being rude to you. My occupation’s gone. The children are out riding with that paragon of a new tutor, who, by the way, I suspect of having been involved in several duels. How else could he have got that weak arm and scar on his face?”

  “Hawth did not tell you?” Warren looked surprised. “Winterton was with the 19th Division at the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo in January. You did not know he was an army man? He does not talk of it much. The wounds he got at Ciudad are likely to make him a civilian for life, and he’s wretched about it. But I would have thought Hawth would have warned you.”

  “Warned is the word,” said Kate angrily. “It would have saved me from making a complete fool of myself.” She rose and took an angry turn across the room, muslin skirts swishing. “No doubt he’s told the children all about it. Of course they dote on him! As for me, I may as well go lead apes in hell!”