Lovers' Vows

by Smith, Joan

  “My dear Roots, would I have hired such an excellent and expensive steward if I did not care for their welfare? And, of course, my own. Pray consider yourself in loco Dewaris in my absence. Do as you see fit for anything under a thousand pounds, and don’t hesitate to write me in London for anything above that sum. I always answer your billets-doux, do I not?”

  “Eventually. It would be handy if you could get an answer back to me inside of a week or two. When cattle is up for sale, or a planting of trees is to be chopped, six months is a long time to wait.”

  “Those are the very sort of details I pay you so handsomely to tend to, Roots. Don’t be shy in the matter of earning your money. Should an important matter arise, I shall bear in mind your love of promptness. Good day, Roots.”

  Rex Homberly was straggling past the doorway as Roots strode out. “Oh, there you are, Dew,” he said, drawing up to chat. Then he happened to notice the earth on his hands from burying the hound, and pulled them hastily behind his back.

  “Come in, Rex, and we shall have a glass of wine. A new case I have got hold of from France. Burgundy—my wine steward tells me it is unexceptionable. He likes it so well it is half gone already, and I have not tried it yet.”

  “Burgundy, eh? Don’t mind if I do,” Rex answered, giving his hands a surreptitious wipe on the seat of his trousers, while Dewar busied himself pouring the wine and admired its deep red glow by holding his glass in front of the window.

  Homberly took a mouthful and proceeded to chew it. “Did I get a piece of cork in it?” Dewar asked.

  “Nope. Testing the taste,” Rex gurgled, then swallowed the mouthful and took another, somewhat larger one, emptying the glass. “Good stuff,” he congratulated. “Not a forward, encroaching type. Musigny, I think?” He preferred his glass for a refill, while Dewar regarded him with amusement. “Alvanley taught me the trick. You chew it, to get the taste.”

  “I see. What is it you look for?”

  “Well—for the taste,” Homberly repeated. “Tastes very good, but you’ve got to say more than that, you see. It’s got to taste like something.”

  “Something other than grapes?”

  “Yes—like cloth or people. It can be smooth as velvet or satin, if you like, or it can be impertinent or shy—or even argumentative if you don’t like it. Well, there’s no fight in this bottle, is there? Have another, Dew. Have several. Something I want to tell you.”

  “Preparing me for good news, are you?”

  “Good news? Hardly call it good news. Not that a man needs thirty-six hounds. In a kind of a way, it is good news to have one less mouth to feed....”

  “You’ve shot a hound!” Dewar said. “Now how the devil did you come to do that, Rex? Those are a specially trained pack!”

  “Accident. And it ain’t the leader of the pack or anything like it. In fact, it’s a dashed troublemaker. Sneaked out of the enclosure and came pelting after me and Foxey, scaring the hares so we didn’t catch a thing. Didn’t shoot it on purpose, whatever Foxey may tell you. Well—white and brown—took it for a hare.”

  “And the hunting season about to begin!” Dewar rolled up his eyes in vexation, then was struck with inspiration. “Rex,” he went on in a pleasant voice, “I have an excellent idea. Why don’t you and Foxey run into the village for me and … and go to the lending library.”

  “Foxey don’t care for reading.”

  “I want you to see if you can find a play for us to put on. Take your time! No hurry.”

  “A play? You promised you wouldn’t. Besides, I’ve left the horse suit in London.”

  “You can send for it. Or, for that matter, you need not feel compelled to participate.”

  “I ain’t lending that suit to nobody. Well, I’ll see if I can find a play about a horse then, but it won’t be easy, Dew. I know there is one. My Horse, My Horse, My Kingdom for a Horse. Think that’s the name of it.”

  The knocker of the front door sounded, and within a minute a servant was at the study, informing his lordship that Mr. Johnson, the incumbent minister of St. Alton’s, was come to call.

  “That prosy old bore! Tell him I just stepped out. I’ll go with you, Rex.” Dewar snatched up his hat and cane and slipped out the French doors, to disappear around the corner to the stables.

  The two were soon strolling along the main street of Harknell. Dewar’s eyes focused on the old Gothic church that was visible on a slight promontory at the street’s end. He admired its clean, soaring lines, its lancet windows, and found the stark black branches of nude trees added just the right touch of gloom to the view. It might do as an illustration for a gothic novel. Even the heavy grey sky was in keeping with the atmosphere. At such moments of contemplating the harmony of Man’s and Nature’s work, Dewar preferred silence. Wrapped up in the joys of artistic appreciation as he was, he failed to notice the cause of Homberly’s unusual reticence, and was only grateful for it.

  After he had gazed his fill, however, he looked to his companion, and observed that his blue eyes were popping, and his lower lip hanging loose. He followed the line of vision, smiling to himself at the fellow’s lack of facial control. His own lips did not open, nor did his eyes pop, but they narrowed slightly, as they settled on the vision of loveliness that was passing them by across the street.

  He suddenly felt Rex’s elbow poke him on the hip. “Who’s that?” Rex asked in a smitten voice. There was no other word for it. Rex was in love again.

  “No idea, but it won’t be hard to find out.” With no more words spoken, they both headed across the road, just as the vision and her companion turned in at the drapery shop.

  “Can’t go in there. Pity,” Rex said, and leaned against the window to await the girl’s exit.

  “I can go anywhere. It is my village,” was the bland answer as Dewar pushed the door open and strolled in, with Rex nipping eagerly at his heels.

  Once inside, he had some reservations about accosting the beauty, however. He contented himself to stand back and observe her as she discussed with her companion the purchase of ribbons and thread. After the two ladies had left, he mentioned to the proprietor that he did not believe he recognized the young ladies.

  “That is Sir Egbert Proctor’s daughter and her cousin,” Mr. Rogers told him. “Miss Proctor is to be presented in London next spring, milord.”

  “She is not out yet then?” Dewar asked, a little disappointed to hear the girl was so young.

  “Out?” Rogers asked uncertainly. “Well, she goes to the assemblies and dancing parties. She is out in Harknell, if you see what I mean.”

  “I understand. When is the next assembly in the village, Mr. Rogers?”

  “There is one this Friday evening, sir. At the Assembly Rooms. Will you be taking a look in, as you are here for a visit?”

  That His Lordship should ‘visit’ his own home was an odd way to put it, but it did not strike either speaker or listener as odd, as Dewar was so seldom in the neighbourhood. “Certainly I shall,” he replied, then left, without bothering to pretend he had entered to make a purchase. When Mr. Johnson was spotted across the street, Dewar and Homberly turned and went back to the Abbey, without so much as a thought for the lending library.

  * * *

  The young ladies did not go directly home. They stopped to chat to friends, and visited a few more stores. Before they climbed into the carriage, they were accosted by Mr. Johnson. It was his custom to accost Miss McCormack at every possible opportunity. He was not precisely a suitor—he never called on her without the excuse of church or orphanage work to discuss. He never drove out with her, or even offered his arm if they happened to walk along a street together, but he did not take it amiss to be teased in a discreet way about her.

  It was quite settled by custom that he would be her first partner and her last at the local assemblies. He was a tall, lanky gentleman with sandy hair and sloping shoulders. He had rather more nose than his face could well accommodate, and less chin, but he was not downright ugly.
His excesses and deficiencies were noticeable without being disfiguring. His smile was rather pleasant, and his conversation rational, if repetitive. The latter was due more to circumstances than anything else. In the dull routine of Harknell, it was hard to find new topics of conversation, but he certainly had one today.

  “Well, ladies, you have heard Lord Dewar is in residence?” he asked, lifting his hat.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson. We saw him in the drapery shop half an hour ago,” Miss McCormack replied.

  “Then you have heard that he plans to attend the assembly.”

  “No, we did not hear it. We were not speaking to him. I have not met Lord Dewar.”

  “But you have been here an age now. How does it come you have not made his acquaintance?”

  “He is here so seldom, and I have not chanced to be anywhere to be presented to him. I have seen him in the village before, and recognize him by sight. I was surprised he did not recognize Jane, but he did not appear to do so.”

  “I’ve only met him two times myself,” Jane pointed out. “I was young then. Did you happen to hear who the gentleman with him is, Mr. Johnson?”

  “Not by name, but I heard he has four gentlemen with him—all bachelors—or one is a widower, I believe, an older gentleman. You girls will have a fine time at the assembly. I will be lucky to have a partner at all. I hope you will do me the honour of reserving the first dance for me, as usual, Miss McCormack?”

  Holly felt a jab of annoyance. It was not so much the certainty of missing out on the interesting newcomers that vexed her as the possessive sound of ‘as usual.’ The daughter of a minister herself, she placed great importance on the position, and could not screw herself up to any rude or sharp answer. “I look forward to it,” she replied, with no great enthusiasm.

  “Excellent. Excellent. I am just back from the Abbey. I went to speak to Lord Dewar about getting some increase in the orphanage funds, but he had just left. I seem to have missed him in the village as well. He is very generous. He will raise the funding when he comes to realize we have not had an increase in ten years. Costs have risen sharply in that time. It is not a raise in my own salary as the director I speak of, of course. I have sufficient from my position as minister of the church. It is the boys I am concerned about. The building wants some repairs.”

  “This would be an excellent opportunity to speak to Lord Dewar about taking Billie McAuley to see a specialist in London as well,” Holly suggested. “That leg of his—I am sure a good specialist could alleviate his pain, and perhaps even make it easier for him to walk. He is so bright, and so brave—never complaining. An orphan—his only chance for help is through the orphanage,”

  “I shall certainly speak to him about it, if I can manage an interview.”

  “He will surely return your call,” Holly said.

  Johnson looked surprised at this idea. “I don’t count on it, but I shall certainly go after him again. He is reasonable, not clutch-fisted, really; it is only that it is difficult to get hold of him. I have written to him twice in London, but his man of business wrote back that Dewar would speak to me when he came to the Abbey. I wonder how long he means to stay.”

  “I didn’t hear,” Holly answered. “He will not leave without attending to business. I expect that is why he is home—to get matters in hand here in the village.”

  Again Johnson looked at her with some surprise on his face, though he did not actually refute her statement. “There are several items wanting his attention, certainly.”

  “Yes, there is the school with old Mr. Parsons, well into his seventies, trying to teach, while Mr. Prendergast is graduated from Oxford with nothing better to do than clerk for Mr. Raymond.”

  “Your friend will be happy when Mr. Prendergast is appointed schoolmaster, eh Miss Proctor?” Johnson asked in a bantering way. Jane’s friend, Miss Peabody, was engaged to Mr. Prendergast, impatiently awaiting the day he could find a good position and marry her. Jane nodded and smiled her agreement.

  It then occurred to Johnson he had not made any congratulatory reference to Proctor’s recent knighthood. He had formally sent his delight in writing and speech, called Proctor Sir Egbert every time he met him, and satisfied even Lady Proctor by using her proper prefix several times when they met. For the next month or so, the matter must also be raised with all members of the family upon each meeting. “How are Sir Egbert and Lady Proctor?” he asked, to get it all rolled up in one shot.

  “They’re fine.”

  “‘While you, I know, are busy as a bee preparing yourself for the jaunt to the big city. You will set all the men’s heads awhirl. You’ll be the prettiest girl there. The belle of all the balls.”

  “I wish Holly could come with me,” Jane said.

  “She will be required to manage those brothers of yours at home, while your parents take you to make your bows at Court. They are fortunate to have her. Indeed we all appreciate Miss McCormack’s many excellent qualities,” he finished, pushing his gallantry about as far as it ever went.

  “You remind me of my duty, Mr. Johnson,” Holly said, to get away as neatly as she could. “I am to cut the boys’ hair before dinner.”

  “Remember to save me the first dance Friday evening!” he said, and lifted his hat again, before turning his steps toward the manse.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  Rex Homberly lived for riding, hunting, drinking, and falling in love. In the normal way, his preference followed the order given, but occasionally he fell in love with a female the pursuit of whom took precedence over all other pastimes. His annual drop into the abyss of love occurred the day he set his eyes on Miss Proctor in the village. It could not have happened at a worse time either, for the fall hunting season was opening, and he had brought three hunters with him to St. Alton’s Abbey.

  Foxworth and Dewar would not let him off, he was forced to participate, and enjoyed it very much too once he got into the field. It was a long run, with what Rex called ‘the slyest old Reynard ever let out of its kennel.’ He incurred no wrath from his fellow hunters for, while Rex could usually make a mess of most things, he was a dusting good rider. Brooks, banks, fence, woods, open meadows, or a neighbour’s garden—it was all one and the same to him. It was 'forrard,’ so long as the hounds had the scent.

  He cared for neither his new Bedford cords nor his hunting jacket. On the field, he thought of three things: his horse, the hounds, and Mr. Fox. With single-minded tenacity, he followed his own nose to Ellsworth Craig when over half the field went west to the woods. He was in on the kill, and had the great fortune to get a few drops of blood on his coat. These he treasured as though they were diamonds. No denying, as he pointed out to Foxey, it took the look of the amateur off his jacket to have it splattered up a bit. He smiled happily on the unsightly stains, and offered to run the tails of his jacket on Foxey’s, to share the glory, “seeing as how you didn’t know enough to stay with me. You might have known Altmore would lead you astray.”

  “I felt like landing him a facer,” Foxey said. “Here I thought he was following the hounds, but he was only shearing off to a farm to change mounts, for he managed to cripple his, the flat.”

  “Should have done it.”

  “I would have, but he’s such a gudgeon he fell right off his nag, and I never hit a man when he’s down.”

  “Good idea. Neither do I. Don’t know how big he might be when he gets up.”

  Afterdistinguishing himself on the first day, it was expected he would be as miserable as the rest of the party when the next morning showed them lead grey skies, with a virtual curtain of rain cascading down, accompanied by rumbles of thunder that augured a continuance of the weather for some hours. He had been known to urge going on with the hunt in such cases, but on this morning he settled quite happily into his beefsteak and ale, congratulating his hostess on a good country breakfast. Lady Dewar nodded jealously as she helped herself to a dish of Folkstone pudding. She would have preferred the steak and
ale, but Dr. John was adamant.

  “As the hunt is cancelled, this will be a good opportunity for us to select a work for our little dramatic presentation,” Dewar said, speaking across the table to Mr. Altmore, the friend he had invited along to ensure one agreeable companion.

  "That must depend on what folks in the neighbourhood will be available to perform for you,” he said. “Lady Dewar can tell us how many of the youngsters would be interested in taking part,”

  ‘“You don’t know Chubbie very well, do you?” she asked, bluntly. “It don’t matter whether they want to take part or no. He will make them. There are a dozen young chits will be happy to throw their caps at you bucks, and as to men—why there are all of yourselves, and the parson and Mr. Prendergast. You can use footmen to fill in the little bits of parts. Just see you don’t cast me as anything,” she warned her son. “I don’t act.”

  “And here I thought you were all set to take the male lead, Mama, as you are wearing my old jacket,” Dewar said, lifting a brow to admire her ensemble. “What do you think about Molière, Luke?” he went on, turning to Altmore.

  “Do you really think French is a good idea?”

  Rex was chewing with a look of fierce concentration on his pudgy face. He suddenly laid down his fork. “Thought it was all set we was to do My Horse, My Horse, My Kingdom for a Horse, Dew. Sent off to London for the outfit yesterday.”

  “Surely not Richard the Third—so heavy,” Altmore objected.

  “Miss Proctor would not like it,” Dewar agreed.

  Rex frowned to consider this difficulty, and began chewing his ale.

  “You will want to have Jane Proctor and her cousin,” Lady Dewar said. “But don’t go dangling after the chit,” she added to her son. “Since Bertie has been knighted, his fool of a wife is casting her eyes about for a title for the gel. She’s a taking little thing, but not suitable for you, Dewar.”