by Joan Smith
He said, “Ah, g’day, Miss Lettie. You are looking lovely, as usual.” Then in the blinking of an eye, he was back on his hobbyhorse and trying to get Havergal to join him. “Young Lord Havergal was just telling me he is keen on pigs.”
“How nice,” she said weakly.
“It is something all the world has in common, when you come down to it,” Norton continued. “We of the more fortunate class—” with an encompassing smile he included both listeners in this privileged few— ”like our gammon and ham and pork. The servants take kindly to a pig’s face or a boiled foot. Why, the Krauts even eat the tails. For my own house, Miss Millie figures them good for nothing but making a broth.”
“How is your sister, Mr. Norton?” Lettie interjected hastily, hoping to divert him. Norton lived with his older sister, Millicent. He had no other sister but still denied her the honor of being Miss Norton. She was Miss Millie to all the county, and under his aegis, Miss Beddoes and Miss FitzSimmons were being similarly lowered.
“In fine fettle. She was out straightening the pea sticks when I left,” he said, and returned at once to his subject. “I used to raise lard pigs. They are great, ungainly creatures. Now I am into fresh pork. The carcass is lighter than your lard pig, but not so long and lean as your bacon pig. A good fresh pork carcass is one hundred pounds deadweight.”
“Really!” Havergal exclaimed with simulated interest.
Violet joined them and was complimented on looking “lovely as usual,” before Norton took up his theme again. Havergal made the error of asking what breed he raised and was told in detail.
“Crossbreeding is the thing. I am part of the movement to establish the Berkshire breed. I find your Yorkshire boar makes a dandy sire to an Essex, Large Black, or Cornwall sow. The Cornwall has good mothering qualities. But as to racing pigs, I should think you’d want to stick to your bacon pig for that, Lord Havergal. They are lighter and livelier. Your boar would outrun your sow, of course.”
Havergal shot a guilty peep in Lettie’s direction. She saw that he had brought this lecture on himself and gave up feeling sorry for him. His guilt soon turned to laughter, and he said, “I see by your black frowns you have misunderstood the matter, Miss Beddoes. I am not thinking of racing the bacon boars myself, but raising them as a new breed to make money, as one raises Thoroughbreds.”
Norton was all ears. “Do you think it will catch on at all—in a big way, I mean? I am always looking out for a new wrinkle of this sort. I know of a dandy Chester White that is going up to auction. Their legs are a little longer than most, I think. Mate her with a highbred bacon boar—”
“A nick of the right bloodlines.” Havergal nodded, reverting, in his confusion, to horse-racing terminology. “If you will let me do myself the honor of calling on you, Mr. Norton, we shall discuss this further,” he added with an apologetic glance at his hostess. He noticed that this subject was displeasing to her.
“Heh, heh. You need pay no heed to Miss Lettie,” Norton assured him. “She always looks like a bear with a toothache, but it is just her way. Underneath it all, she is as kind a soul as you will meet.”
Lettie ignored the quizzing smiles Havergal was shooting in her direction and looked instead at the long case clock in the corner. It was nearing six o’clock, their customary dinner hour. Norton, to do him justice, was never slow to take a hint. He was working on his manners and his accent, and his kind nature was a help in the former.
“You are wishing me at Jericho, Miss Lettie,” he said bluntly. “I know when you begin slanting your eyes at the clock and drumming your fingers that you are ready for fork work. No doubt you are famished. You’ll want to run upstairs and change into your finery for Lord Havergal. I shall be off now. I told Miss Millie I might dine at the inn,” he added. This was his way of announcing he was not expected at home.
Lettie was in no mood to oblige him, but if she didn’t, there would be hurt feelings. Violet made the expected offer. “Lord Havergal’s luggage has not arrived, and we are all dining in our afternoon clothes, so you must join us,” she said. He agreed without so much as a murmur of demur.
“You talked me into it. Very kind I’m sure.”
“You may regret it,” Lettie warned him, though her real reason was to let Havergal know she usually set a better table. “We are serving potluck. This is wash day, and the servants have been unusually busy.”
“No need for excuses, lass. The company is the thing,” he said forgivingly, and added, “I can always fill up at home.”
When the expected call came from Siddons, Norton seized Lettie’s arm and hustled her off to the dining room at top speed. Things there were as fine as the prevailing conditions made possible. A bouquet of early blooms culled from the garden formed a centerpiece for the table. The best linen cloth was in place, and the china and silverware were unexceptionable.
“If we had known you were coming, we would have had a fish course,” Violet explained to the guests.
“Everything is very nice,” Havergal assured her. “It is I who should apologize, barging in unannounced.”
Norton scrutinized the sideboard more closely than a dinner guest should and pulled the chair to Lettie’s right hand for himself. Havergal pretended not to notice and sat on her left.
Norton did not speak when he was eating. It was a lingering trait of his less affluent days. He gobbled up his food as if he might not see more for a week. Violet decided the potatoes were overdone, and Havergal insisted they were just as he liked them. They took turns apologizing and explaining till Lettie was tired of it all.
“Let us agree dinner is a mess and speak of something else,” she said irritably.
Havergal murmured a quiet “Amen.” He waited to hear what subject she might raise, but as she cut into a bird as tough as white leather and began chewing determinedly, he saw that the enlivening of the conversation was up to him.
“Do you hunt, Miss Lettie?” he asked.
“No, I have never hunted.”
“Do you ride at all?”
“A little. My mount is getting old.”
“Lettie says she and Ruby are growing old together,” Violet told him. “When Ruby is past it, then Lettie means to quit riding altogether.”
Lettie gave her a sharp glare. Havergal caught it and bit back a smile. So Miss Lettie was tender about her age, as he suspected. “How old is Ruby, Miss Lettie?” he asked. He purposely used Norton’s way of addressing her, as it sounded more friendly.
“She is eighteen.”
“Then she will surely beat you to retirement.” He smiled. “It is generally held that a horse of twenty is the equivalent of a man of seventy. I cannot believe that a young lady like yourself, in the prime of life, will be ready for pasture in two years.”
Nor was she quite ready for condescending assurances of this sort. “I haven’t ordered up my Bath chair yet,” she said.
Norton glanced up from his eating and said, “Ho, Bath chair! That is a good one, Miss Lettie. You ought to see her pelting along the meadows, milord. Her shank’s mare can outpace a racehorse.”
“How long does a pig remain race-worthy, Lord Havergal?” Lettie snipped. “I am thinking, of course, of your Hamlet.”
“I’m afraid I can’t enlighten you, ma’am. The pig-racing business is new to me. Perhaps our eminent authority can inform us?” he said, turning to Norton.
Norton lifted his head from his plate long enough to say, “You ought to get ten years out of a healthy trotter.”
Somehow or other the talk turned to Tom. “Miss Beddoes’s brother, Tom, wants to take up politics when he comes down from university this spring,” Violet mentioned.
“Indeed?” Havergal asked. “What university is he attending?”
“Christ Church, Oxford,” Lettie replied.
Havergal, alert to her moods, noticed this was a subject dear to her heart. “Excellent! It is my own college. But you must not fear all the graduates are so worthless as I,” be added with one of h
is infamous smiles.
It was a smile no woman under ninety years old could be entirely immune to. “At least he isn’t reading pig racing,” she allowed with a little unsteadiness of the lips that might be interpreted as a stillborn smile.
“He will not return to Laurel Hall when he graduates, then?” Havergal said.
“No, he has expressed interest in a political career.”
“Will he stand for Parliament?”
“His plans are not firm yet, except that he means to go up to London and look for a position.”
“I will be happy to arrange introductions for him, if that would help.” He was rewarded with a definite smile. “Will you remain in Kent to look after the estate?” he asked.
“For the present,” she said vaguely.
There was some softening of attitudes over the rest of dinner. As long as Havergal didn’t mention money, he was safe, but he had come here to get his money, and the prickly topic could not be ignored forever. As he was staying in the vicinity for a day or two, however, there was no need to rush into it immediately.
“We shall leave you and Mr. Norton to your port,” Lettie announced when dinner was over. The bread pudding did not detain anyone but Mr. Norton for long. Cook had not seen fit to oblige her mistress with a cake.
“Horn-and-hoof management, that is the way to do it,” Norton said approvingly when the unappetizing dish was set before him. “No need to waste stale bread and crusts when a handful of raisins and a sprinkle of cinnamon make them entirely edible.” Lettie turned a deaf ear on his compliment.
“We’ll take our port in the saloon as usual,” Norton said, inferring he ran quite tame at Laurel Hall. “A man would be a fool to deny himself the pleasure of such lovely ladies’ company. Lord Havergal will second me on that, eh laddie?”
Lord Havergal’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. When they came back down he said, “Just as you wish,” and rose to leave.
They had no sooner entered the saloon than there was a gentle tap at the front door. As the usual evening caller, Norton, was already with them, Lettie could not think who it might be.
The soft, sibilant sounds of a gentleman’s voice were audible, but no words could be distinguished. Within seconds, Siddons appeared at the door and announced with great pomp, “His Grace, the Duke of Crymont.”
A duke? No such person lived within a day’s driving distance of Laurel Hall. An earl was the highest nobility in the parish, and old Lord Devere had never called on them in his life. Lettie was glad she hadn’t yet taken a seat, for she was uncertain whether a lady was expected to rise for a duke. Violet looked ready to faint, and Norton stood with his mouth hanging open in astonishment. All three looked to the doorway with the liveliest curiosity. Lettie had not expected a duke to be so small, but in all other details he fulfilled every expectation of ducal grandeur.
His Grace wore proper evening attire. He was a perfect model of noble elegance, from the gloss of his chestnut curls to the sheen of his patent-leather slippers, not omitting a black evening suit, immaculate cravat, and a ruby the size of a cherry inserted in the latter. He shimmered forward and took Lettie's hand, not to shake, but to raise to within an inch of his lips for a kiss.
“Madam,” he said in hushed tones. “I am honored.” He then lifted his little head, tossed it in Siddons’s direction, and reached out his hand to receive what Siddons was holding. It was a bouquet of roses. He took it and handed it to her.
“Why thank you, sir,” she said, blinking in confusion.
It soon came out that Havergal was the cause of this strange visit. “Crymont, allow me to present Miss Lettie Beddoes,” he said, and went on to include the others. “The duke is on his way home to Havenhurst from London and mentioned he might stop at Ashford.”
“I would have been here sooner, but I was held up by a rush of callers and did not arrive till six. I took dinner at the inn and came along as soon as possible.”
Lettie thought it strange that the duke should be calling on Havergal at Laurel Hall. Was he under the misapprehension that Havergal was staying here? Worse, did Havergal himself expect an offer of rack and manger? She gave Siddons the flowers and sent him off to put them in a vase.
The visit had one good effect. It turned Norton into a mute. He said not a word but just stared at every detail of the duke’s toilette. When he had learned who the duke was and that he was here to see Havergal, he ran off home to tell the news to Miss Millie, who would soon relay it to the whole town.
Violet remembered her manners and said, “Perhaps everyone would like to have tea now—or would you prefer port?”
“A cup of tea would be marvelous,” Crymont decided.
Tea was called for, and the four mismatched people took up seats to await its arrival. “So, Havergal, were you shocked to discover ‘old Beddoes’ is a lady?” Crymont asked with an arch look at his hostess. “I was told at the inn, madam, when I was seeking directions here, that you are Havergal’s guardian.”
“I was surprised,” Havergal admitted.
“He was shocked,” Lettie said to the duke.
“Why did you play such a stunt on the poor boy?” Crymont demanded, and she gave her explanation.
“Well, it is an odd thing,” Crymont said consideringly, “but by no means unique. My cousin Jethro had his bit of blunt left in the hands of his sister, for he was a wastrel. Not to say that Havergal is one!” he added swiftly.
“No indeed,” she agreed demurely.
Havergal felt his spirits sink. He had thought there might be a legal way out of this position, but his friend’s word convinced him otherwise.
The tea arrived, and Lettie poured for the guests.
“What sort of a town is Ashford?” Crymont asked. “Do they have assemblies and things?”
“Indeed we do,” Violet told him. “There will be a spring assembly on Friday evening.”
“Friday? That is only two days away. We must stick around for that, Havergal,” he said in a perfectly bored tone at odds with his speech. “Perhaps we can induce the ladies to accompany us?” he asked with as close as he ever came to a smile in Violet’s direction.
“I hadn’t planned to stay quite that—” Havergal began.
“We might as well,” Crymont said, and drew a weary sigh. “London is dull as ditch water this week, which is why I left. There is nothing new playing at any of the theaters. We’ve seen the offerings at both Drury Lane and Covent Garden. There is only Castlereagh’s ball and Mrs. Johnston’s rout, and of course Gully’s ridotto. Oh, and I believe Lady Eskott asked us to dinner, but Auntie won’t mind if we shab off.”
Lettie’s mind reeled to think of so many entertainments. What had Ashford to offer? It was pure chance that the spring assembly was coming up. Other than that, it would be dinner with the vicar and friends and perhaps a few calls from Mr. Norton. Almost certainly a barrage of calls from Norton with the spring assembly looming. Wouldn’t she love to appear at that assembly on Havergal’s arm!
“Oh my,” Violet said. “Ashford has nothing like that to offer.”
“One comes to the country to rusticate,” Crymont informed her wearily. “Is it a firm date for the assembly, ladies? Havergal?” He looked from one to the other. Havergal sat, undecided.
“We certainly plan to attend,” Violet said. “I hope you will remain and come with us.”
“That will be delightful,” Havergal said reluctantly. He looked far from delighted and sounded miserable.
“Then it’s settled,” Crymont said with quiet satisfaction. “And tomorrow evening you ladies must let Havergal and me take you to dinner at the Royal Oak. They do a splendid baron of beef.” His head turned toward Lettie. “You will have some suggestion where we can go for a drive in the afternoon, Miss Beddoes?” An inflection on the last words made it a question.
A holiday in the company of a duke and an exceedingly handsome viscount was too much temptation. Instead of the cool facade she had planned to present, she replied c
ivilly, “Canterbury is not very far away.”
“Ah, I should drop in on Uncle Clarence—the archbishop,” he added for their edification.
“Oh my,” Violet whispered. Her face wore the dazed look it wore when she was reading one of her marble-covered novels.
Crymont drank up his tea rather quickly and set down his cup. “This has been delightful, but I really must be running along. Havergal, I know, is putting up with you, but I have booked rooms at the Royal Oak. At what hour will it be convenient for me to call tomorrow, madam?”
Havergal writhed in embarrassment. “I am not putting up here,” he said crossly.
“Oh do,” Violet exclaimed. “We have had the bedchamber specially aired. There is no need for you to rush off.”
Before answering, he looked hopefully at Lettie. Unable to make up her mind whether to encourage this scheme, she just looked away. “If you’re sure it is no trouble....”
Violet smiled, and it was settled.
Lettie said to Crymont, “Will two-thirty tomorrow be convenient, Your Grace?” She never thought she would be using such words as “Your Grace.” Yet to tell the truth, the duke seemed less impressive than the viscount.
“Excellent.”
After bows and curtsies were exchanged, Crymont left. Havergal accompanied him to the front door, trying to give a casual look to this new fashion. The ladies were highly curious as to what they were saying. By changing her chair, Lettie could see the leave-taking, but not hear it.
Siddons appeared with His Grace’s many-collared driving cape and curled beaver. Crymont permitted him to help him on with his vestments, then left with a silent wink at his friend. There was a world of mischief in that wink, yet Lettie could not believe Havergal had actually arranged the visit. His expression was one of surprise when Crymont arrived. Havergal looked mystified at that moment, but he schooled his features to blandness before returning to the gold saloon.