The Notorious Lord Havergal

by Joan Smith

  They had other important matters to fill their hours as well. It was the custom at Laurel Hall to entertain a small party to dinner before the assembly. Due to Mr. Beddoes’s death, the custom had lapsed last year, but this year Lettie was reinstituting it. To leave every servant free for the grand affair on Friday, she moved washing day up to Wednesday. On that Wednesday afternoon, Violet and Lettie sat in the gold saloon, fatigued at four o’clock from the exertions of preparing for the dinner party and checking up on the washing.

  The washing was nominally in Cook’s charge, who took all household matters under her capable hands. Mrs. Siddons (wife of the butler) ought, by rights, to be called a housekeeper, but as she ruled from the kitchen and refused to dress for the grander role, she maintained her more humble title of Cook. Up to her elbows in advance preparations for the dinner party, she told Lettie she would be serving cold ham and bread pudding for dinner. Lettie told her that was fine.

  Emboldened by success, Cook next informed her mistress that she must keep an eye on Bess with the laundry, and Miss Beddoes did as she was told. It was best not to vex this irreplaceable jewel, especially when her cooperation was required for the important dinner party. Lettie had made half a dozen trips downstairs to see Bess wasn’t letting the new washing dolly “eat” her sheets and tablecloths. This new cannibal contrivance possessed two sturdy wooden paddles, which Bess moved by an attached handle. If she was not careful, the laundry wedged its way under the paddles and was stirred into rags.

  Lettie had just returned to the saloon when there was a rattle of wheels on the driveway. “Mr. Norton!” Violet exclaimed, patting her brown curls in pleasure. Lettie arranged a lukewarm smile to greet him. Before Siddons could shuffle to the door, the knock came, loud and importunate. “He sounds strangely perturbed,” Violet said. “I hope nothing is amiss.”

  “Oh Lord, I hope his pigs haven’t got into the roadway again. They upset a dung cart last time.”

  Siddons was surprised at the vehemence of the knocker, too, and shuffled faster to open the door.

  Into the waiting silence came the sound of a young male voice, full of authority and self-consequence. “Lord Havergal,” the voice said. “I am here to see Mr. Beddoes. Is he in?”

  “He doesn’t live here,” Siddons said. He was perfectly familiar with Lord Havergal’s name but unaware of the identity of the current Mr. Beddoes.

  “What the devil are you talking about? I had a letter from him yesterday. I told him I was coming.”

  “But he’s at Oxford—a student.”

  “Ah, that explains the error. I wish to see his father.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Now listen, my good man,” the voice continued, rising in impatience now, but still good natured. “Dead men don’t write letters, do they? Quit joshing me, and tell Beddoes I am here.”

  There darted into Lettie’s head an image of the latest cartoon of Lord Havergal, and she felt very much inclined to swoon. Lord Havergal, and he wanted to see her! Her next futile thought was of escape, but that arrogant voice was adamant. It would find her if she ran and hid in a trunk in the attic. She rose on shaking knees and went to the door. “Pray show Lord Havergal in, Siddons,” she said, peering to see the owner of that arrogant voice.

  The breath caught in her lungs, and she found herself staring like any country bumpkin. The cartoons had not done him justice, but they had caught the essence of Lord Havergal. The jaw was not quite so ludicrously large and square, the shoulders not quite as broad as a barn door, but the overall effect was of an exceedingly well-built, handsome, elegant gentleman. And here was she, in her shabbiest gown, with her hair falling about her ears, haggard from running upstairs and downstairs to check the laundry. It was not losing his admiration that galled her, but that he should see her in such tawdry disarray. Had she had a choice, she would have been wearing her most daunting and matronly gown.

  The vision stepped forward, handing Siddons his curled beaver and shucking off his drab driving coat to reveal a jacket of blue Bath cloth that fit so well, it seemed like a second skin. Beneath it he wore a flowered waistcoat. A pair of dancing blue eyes met Lettie’s glance, and a spontaneous smile flashed out to devastate her. No mere mortal had such a smile. The man was either devil or angel. Havergal advanced, hand extended to grip hers in a firm shake.

  “There is some mistake obviously,” he said with a charming bow. “Is this not Laurel Hall?”

  “It is,” she said weakly, and pulled her hand away.

  He advanced toward the gold saloon door. “Your butler is addlepated. He must have got into the wine,” he said, but with no air of accusation. She let this calumny against her abstemious butler pass without a word. “I have come to see Mr. Beddoes,” he announced, and waited for her reply.

  “There is—that is—I—am Mr. Beddoes,” she said, and felt a pink flush suffuse her cheeks. On the sofa Violet emitted a squeak not unlike that of a cornered mouse.

  Into the silence came the slight squawk of a poorly oiled hinge as Siddons closed the front door. Havergal stared at her, speechless. His questioning glance suggested this was some kind of hoax or joke. His handsome features soon eased into a smile as he decided to jolly her along. She might have influence with old Beddoes, he thought. Who could she be? A lady, certainly, though not the sort of lady I am accustomed to. He raked her in quick scrutiny from head to toe and said, “One would never guess it to look at you, Mr. Beddoes.” He smiled and glanced at Violet. “And this would be your—brother?” he asked archly.

  It was at that moment that Violet fell in love with Lord Havergal. His blue eyes looked deeply into hers, seeming to share some joke. She did like a man with a sense of humor, which just goes to prove the old saw that opposites attract. She tittered coyly and looked at Lettie.

  “My companion, Miss FitzSimmons,” she said stiffly. “Pray, have a seat, Lord Havergal.” He went to the sofa and sat beside Violet, who later told Miss Beddoes that she felt a tremor in her heart at the proximity.

  Again those blue eyes directed a beam at Lettie, asking for some explanation. “You haven’t told me your name, ma’am,” he said.

  “I am Miss Beddoes.”

  “Ah, then my guardian is your father, I take it?”

  “He—he was. Papa passed away a year ago. I succeeded him in the will as testamentary guardian in the trust.”

  He blinked twice. “But you’re a lady!” he said, stunned.

  “Yes.”

  “This can’t be legal!” A bright gleam of hope flashed in his eyes. He suspected there was something havey-cavey afoot here. It was unusual for a lady to be guardian to a grown man—even illegal, or why try to hide it? Immediately it darted into his head that he could upset the trust and get his whole twenty-five thousand.

  “I assure you it is perfectly legal,” she said firmly. “The solicitors examined the matter thoroughly.” She spoke with the confidence of knowledge, hoping that the proud set of her head left no doubt about it.

  Havergal was much inclined to argue, but caution suggested keeping on good terms till he had a word with his own solicitor. “Well, it is very strange,” he said, frowning.

  “Yes, but not unheard of for mothers or aunts to be guardians of children.” He bristled. “Not that I mean to say you are a child!” she added hastily.

  He examined her face for signs of age. The lady was no spring lamb, but she didn’t look forty or anything like it. Her flesh was still firm, and her eyes were clear. “Not quite so—mature as yourself perhaps,” he said ingratiatingly, and was rewarded with a gimlet shot from a pair of angry gray eyes. Thirty-five, he decided, old enough to be tender about her years. “But perfectly competent, I’m sure,” he added.

  “Kind of you to say so. Your cousin Horace did not think me incompetent at least.”

  “Was it his idea for you to pretend you were a man?” he asked in confusion.

  “No indeed. I never pretended I was. I signed my letters L. A. Beddoes. It was yoursel
f who assumed I was a man.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and shook his head. He couldn’t believe he was apologizing. The witch had led him astray on purpose all these months.

  Miss Beddoes nodded her absolution. “Were you just in the neighborhood, Lord Havergal, or did you come on purpose to visit me?”

  “Did you not have my note?” he asked, surprised.

  “Not a word since your request for an advance. You did receive my reply?”

  “Yes, but I wrote you again that I would come in person.”

  “When did you write this?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Then I expect I shall receive it tomorrow morning. The post is not so fast as your carriage, it seems.”

  He disliked the condescension of that speech but held in his annoyance. “Another matter has come up—a business matter that I would like to discuss with you—though I daresay a lady wouldn’t appreciate the marvelous opportunity. It seems a shame to lose out on it when the money is just sitting there.”

  She leveled a cool look at him. “A pity Hamlet let you down, or you might have used the thousand pounds you lost on that race in Green Park.”

  Violet emitted another muted squeak, as though to disassociate herself from the charge. Havergal felt like a schoolboy in the schoolmaster’s office. He squared his shoulders and said, “This has nothing to do with gambling debts. It is business, pure and simple. I should think the very least you would do is listen to what I have to say.”

  “Does this business opportunity guarantee you more than five percent? Is it backed by the government of England?”

  “Of course not! Consols at five percent hardly constitute an opportunity. They are for little old ladies who—” She shot him a glare that reduced his confidence to cinders. He came to an embarrassed pause before stumbling on. “For people who are afraid to take a risk.”

  “People like guardians, who are not expected to risk their charge’s money. I must refuse—once again. Would you care for a glass of wine before leaving, Lord Havergal?” Lettie congratulated herself on her restraint. Little old ladies, indeed!

  His resolution firmed, and he said, “We haven’t got this matter settled yet.”

  “On the contrary, it is settled, milord. I will not advance you any money for a venture that might lose the whole.”

  “You haven’t even heard what I have to say! This is a marvelous opportunity. A new scientific technique that will revolutionize—”

  “If it is so marvelous as that, appeal to your father. He holds the majority of your funds, does he not?”

  “Papa is so old-fashioned, he doesn’t realize the world is changing.”

  “If your own father is against the investment, you cannot expect me to authorize it.”

  For sixty seconds he sat glaring at her in frustration. Violet took pity on him and said, “I shall ring Siddons for the wine.”

  While the butler served wine, Havergal assumed an air of concentration, trying to regroup his thoughts and come up with some tale to con this Turk. He sensed that Miss FitzSimmons was already in love with him and might prove an ally. He turned and smiled at her. “This glass of wine is excellent and very welcome after my long drive,” he said. “I hadn’t thought it would take me four hours to come from London.” His eyes darted to Miss Beddoes. If the woman had blood in her veins, and not ice water, she must invite him to dinner at least.

  “Four hours! It takes us eight, which is why we never go. You must have flown!” Violet said, vastly impressed and mindless of the fact that she had just painted the ladies of Laurel Hall as deep-dyed provincials. It was only confirmation of what their toilettes had already told him.

  “I drove my curricle. My grays make pretty good time,” he said nonchalantly.

  “Oh my. I have never been in a sporting carriage. They look very lively when one sees them coursing along the road.”

  “I must take you for a spin before I leave.”

  “Your horses must be fagged to death,” Violet said, disappointed to lose out on the trip.

  “They’ll be fine by morning. I shall put up at the inn in town tonight and return tomorrow morning. Perhaps you can suggest a good place to dine?”

  Violet directed a meaningful stare at Lettie, who stared back unmoved. She felt not an iota of pity for Havergal, but she did value the honor of having noble connections and made the expected offer. “Perhaps you would dine with us, Lord Havergal?” she asked coldly.

  “That’s very kind of you.” All I had to do was sit up and beg! he thought slyly. “I would be delighted, Miss Beddoes. My valet should be arriving soon with my evening clothes. He is following in my carriage—no room in my curricle for more than my groom.”

  She stared in consternation. What was all this about valets and carriages and grooms? Was he planning to make an extended stay? It was wash day, and they were only having ham and bread pudding. She was on pins and needles till the wine was drunk, and Havergal expressed an interest in taking a walk through the park to stretch his legs.

  “Could I induce you to accompany me, Miss Beddoes?” he asked, forcing a smile on his handsome face. He hoped that in some romantic setting, away from other eyes, he might try a little flirtation and soften her stiff demeanor. Ladies were becoming desperate by five and thirty. She wasn’t wearing a cap, so she hadn’t despaired of marrying some unfortunate soul.

  “I’m afraid I am busy, Lord Havergal.” She’d have to speak to Cook and the upstairs maid to see that the best guest suite was dusted. Havergal would have to change his clothes.

  Violet realized the upheaval facing her friend and watched with sad eyes as Havergal left the saloon alone. She would have liked to offer to accompany him.

  “Long threatening has come at last,” she said, and smiled fatuously. “I mean Havergal’s discovering you are a lady. Isn’t he handsome, Lettie? I never saw anyone so good-looking, just like a hero in a play or a novel.”

  “He’s a handsome enough scoundrel,” she admitted reluctantly, “which is not to say he is going to con me into giving him the money to bet on a pig race.”

  “You could have listened to what he had to say at least.”

  “If his father wouldn’t approve of the scheme, why should I?”

  Violet had nothing to say about that. "Imagine, Lettie. We are dining with a viscount. I might almost say ‘The Viscount,’ for I am sure he is the most talked-about man in London.”

  “Yes, and we will be serving this highly polished article bread pudding, unless I go and speak to Cook. You see to the bedchamber, and I’ll run down to the kitchen. I hope Cook will let us have a cake and get hold of some fowl—a goose or a couple of chickens—to eke out that ham.” She went belowstairs.

  Lettie took a peek through the window later as they rustled about their errands, and in the park, she saw Havergal “stretching his legs” on a rock with his head in his hands. He looked bored to flinders already. He’d rather sit alone staring at the ground than be in this house. How he must despise them—her. It did not seem this day could possibly get any worse, but she was mistaken.

  Cook came in and announced with ill-concealed glee, “The washing dolly chewed the lace of your best petticoat. Bess turns the wheel too hard. I told you so.” That would teach them to go ordering up fine dinners on short notice and at such a busy time.

  “I’d best go and have a look.”

  This was a mere annoyance to Lettie. A greater annoyance was soon added on top of it. While she was belowstairs, Siddons came pelting down with a large brown parcel in his hands and said, “Norton’s here. Another demmed suckling pig, and us with two in the larder already. He’s upstairs waiting for you with Lord Havergal, Miss Beddoes.”

  “We should set up a butcher shop,” Cook grumbled, and disposed of the brown package.

  Lettie could think of no friend she was more reluctant to introduce to Lord Havergal than Mr. Norton. What could those two possibly have in common? Lord Havergal would place her on a social plateau wit
h the pig farmer, and Norton would be prosing poor Lord Havergal’s ear off with talk of farrowing, breeding, and lard bellies.

  “Will Norton be staying to eat, too?” Cook demanded fiercely.

  “I shall let you know as soon as I find out.”

  She sent off for Violet and went upstairs reluctantly.

  Chapter Three

  “It is all a sham,” Norton’s unpolished tones informed Lord Havergal. Lettie could hear him in the hall, five yards away. It sounded like an accusation. For one frightening moment she thought Norton had strayed from his favorite subject, one might almost say his only subject, but she was mistaken. “I never knew a sow to eat her young,” he continued. “She might roll over on them. That will finish them when the porkers are newborn, still in the farrowing pen. No sir, it is your boars you have to keep a sharp eye on. They are very testy at farrowing time. And who are almost worse are your gilts.”

  “Ah yes, the gilts,” Havergal said in a voice of utter bewilderment.

  “I have two dozen of them. You must pop over to Norton Knoll—but my wits are gone begging. Norton Knoll is my hop farm. I raise hops as well as swine. Perhaps you saw my hop farm as you approached from Ashford? A great Norman heap? My pig farm, my swinery I call it—heh, heh—is further south.”

  She dashed quickly in to rescue Lord Havergal. Both gentlemen leapt to their feet. After a polite pretense at pleasure in seeing Norton, she said, “Miss FitzSimmons will be with us shortly.”

  While Havergal gave a graceful but casual bow, Norton bent from the waist with a jerk, like a clockwork figure. All Norton’s efforts at being a gentleman were similarly stiff and overdone. His brown hair was plastered with some substance that held it in perfectly immobile waves. His ruddy complexion was incapable of subduing. It glowed, as did his brown eyes. As to the rest of his face, he was not so much ugly as plain. His nose had no real shape, but just sat there as a buffer between eyes and lips. On those rare occasions when his lips were still, they were thin. For calling at Laurel Hall or going to the village, he dressed in the very height of provincial fashion, with tight-fitting jackets, extravagant cravats, and flowery waistcoats. His figure was substantial but not fat, despite the quantity of fresh pork that nourished it.