Joan Smith
Page 22
It was during dinner, a solemn meal taken with only my silent aunt for company, that she gave over being sulky. The soup had come and gone, likewise the fish, fowl, meat, and vegetables. Dessert on that occasion was fresh strawberries, enough to put a smile on the sourest face.
“Delicious,” I complimented, looking to see if she could be coaxed into a word.
“Ingenious!” was her unlikely reply, given with such force and enthusiasm it could not possibly refer to berries.
“What is that you are talking about, Aunt Loo?”
“Hill, the rascal.”
“I thought you had forgiven him.”
“Forgiven him? I should go down on my knees and thank him. Tell me what you think of this notion, Gloria. I mean, Valerie. I am finished with Gloria. I am weary of her awful strength and forward behavior, if you want the truth. I finished her up today, and shall hire someone to write up the fair copy, for I have a much better idea for a novel. My villain will be a trusted family physician, privy to all the dreadful secrets of a wicked family, only of course the heroine will not be wicked like the others. She will have escaped The Curse of the St. Clairs. Maybe I ought to make it St. something else.”
“I would, if I were you.”
“They take an oath, you know, doctors, not to be telling about the countryside what they have learned in the sickroom—Hippo-something it is called, but little will Hill care for his oath. Of course I cannot call him Hill either, though it would serve him well if I did. I know a great deal about medicines from my dealings with Walter. I shan’t repeat the black drop, for I have already used that in Search for the Unknown, but he could be killing someone off by any of a dozen slow poisons Walter has spoken of. Lead poisoning or arsenic or deadly nightshade, only I don’t think it is one of the slow ones.”
I was happy to see her thoughts diverted in this harmless direction. “Who will your new heroine be?” I asked.
“Marie,” was her unhesitating answer. “She is by far the prettiest of my brother’s gels,” she went on, heedless that one of her brother’s girls sat under her nose. “She is nineteen—the very best age a girl can possibly be. They reach their peak at nineteen, with all the gaucheness and awkwardness of youth worn away, without yet beginning to fade. The ugliest female in the world is at least slightly attractive at nineteen, but Marie is a beauty. I wanted to have her be Gloria, but she had not the required strength. She will do excellently for my new heroine. No great feats will be required from her. Hill has a hold over her mama, you see, some secret from her past, and he is making the mama allow him to marry Marie, for she is so outstandingly beautiful. Not a great overgrown weed like Gloria. I am not entirely happy with Gloria. She seemed to get bolder and less ladylike as the novel progressed. I don’t know what can account for it.”
“I cannot imagine,” I answered ironically.
“She was too capable; that was her main fault,” she explained, in an effort to smooth my ruffled feathers.
“Have you selected a hero for Marie?”
“I think it is time for an army man,” she said, cocking her head to the side and trying to narrow her eyes. “St. Regis is always trying to send some colonel down to visit me. He will be too bold for the hero, but he will give me authentic background for military matters. He will be company too. I shall miss Walter.”
“We don’t know for sure that he won’t be back.”
“Ah, it will never be the same, Gloria. My confidence in him is gone. I even begin to wonder why he was always giving me laudanum. Do you think he was trying to befuddle my brain? He did say more than once that I should have a full-time medical man in the house. He hinted I need looking after, imagine!”
As we finished our strawberries, there was a caller admitted in the hallway. “Bring tea into the saloon,” Loo told the servant. “I think Walter has come with my painting.” She did not look particularly pleased about it.
It was not Hill, but St. Regis and Pierre, who awaited us. “I have bad news,” St. Regis told Lady Sinclair.
“If it has to do with that wretched Dr. Hill, it will come as no surprise to me,” was her answer.
“It has to do with him. He loaded up his traveling carriage with every valuable thing from his cottage and headed up north. We were watching him, in case of this stunt. He has been turned over to the constable, Lady Sinclair. You were overly kind to have given him another chance. He has proven beyond any doubt that his character is black. It will be prison for him.”
“Serves him right, the villain. Tell me exactly how you caught him, St. Regis. I like to get all the details accurate.”
St. Regis lifted his brow to me, demanding an explanation for her change of feeling with regard to Hill. There was a book on the sofa table. I lifted it and nodded toward my aunt, while making writing motions with my other hand.
He understood me at once. He smiled, settled back, and began composing a chapter for her. “It was very exciting. Worthy of a novel, but no one writes those really good, frightening ones nowadays. The shadows were just deepening, etching a tangled, intertwining pattern on the ground. There was fog settling on the floor of the spinney where we hid in wait for him.”
“We are waiting till he has all the good things piled in the carriage,” Pierre added.
“Let St. Regis write—tell—it, Peter,” Aunt Loo directed. “I shall just get a pencil and paper, if you will wait a minute. I want to set it down for—for my diary,” she explained hastily.
She scratched away, seeking details of how it felt, waiting in the fog, how the carriage team behaved when the pursuers’ shouts rang out, what actual words Hill uttered—all very factual, or at least very well invented by St. Regis.
“Much good funs,” Pierre concluded, when the last word had been jotted down.
“Before you go, I expect you will want to speak about those few heirlooms that I sold,” Loo said, with a wary eye to her caller. “When Hill’s funds are turned over to me, there ought to be enough for me to pay you for them, and without having to give him so much money, I shall have plenty to run Troy Fenners again.”
“The gatehouse needs some work,” St. Regis said. “The upstairs of it is going to rack and ruin. Now that the barns are in good shape ...”
“Why do you not let it to that widowed colonel, Auntie? His rent can look after its repair, and you mentioned this might be a good time for him to visit you.” She did not look averse.
St. Regis smiled serenely, but it was Pierre who spoke. “There will be enough to give me back my monies also too?”
“Yes, over a year or two,” she told him. “You are rich as a nabob, Peter. You are in no hurry, are you?”
“St. Regis is buying me the properties near Tanglewood. How much monies do I need?” he asked St. Regis.
“We’ll sort all the details out tomorrow. I see Lady Sinclair is tired now. We shall leave, and let her get to bed.”
“Yes, I am bushed,” she agreed, and arose to leave.
I had still not told her of my pending wedding, and wished to do so before she retired. “You never mean it! Why, Valerie, what do you see in him?”
Her reaction was so unexpected I hadn’t a word to say. “Hmph, serves him right is all I say,” she concluded. On that thoughtless remark, she strode into the scriptorium and closed the door.
“Hadrian,” I said when I returned to the saloon, “there is just one thing I am still unclear about. What did you take from my aunt’s carton of papers?”
“What do you think?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Letters from Welland’s mother to Sir Edward. Love letters that Sinc would not like to see when he eventually takes over here at Troy Fenners.”
“You’re going to give it to him?”
“Let him have the use of it, later on. He’s a good worker, but not actually my most favored relative. I can think of people I would rather have at our doorstep, in the dower house.”
“Sherries?” Pierre asked.
“A
re you not feeling tired, Peter?” St. Regis asked, in a meaningful voice.
“Not at all one bit. I am very much not tired.”
“You are very much insensitive to the tang of romance in the air, for a Frenchman.”
“I am English, me. We English do not have the flair for romance.”
“Speak for yourself,” St. Regis said, arising and taking him by the elbow. “There is another English custom you must learn, my friendly cousin.”
“Kissing of the bride?” he asked hopefully, with a look over his shoulder.
“No. Removing yourself from a room when a lady and gentleman wish for some privacy.”
“I am too much, you mean,” Pierre said.
“Definitely de trop.”
“If you are a good boy, Peter, I shall ask my sister to visit us at Tanglewood,” I bribed. It must be Elleri. Marie would be busy describing to Auntie the effect of various poisons on her body.
“She is beautiful, like you?” he asked.
“Much prettier, and smaller.”
“Me, I like the grand Valkyrie,” he told me, offering some last bit of resistance as St. Regis dragged him determinedly to the door. He was shoved out, the door closed firmly behind him, then Hadrian turned back to me, his brown eyes dancing.
“Me, I like the grand Valerie too,” he said, advancing toward me at a rapid pace.
Copyright © 1981 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Coventry [ISBN 0449501930]
Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.RegencyReads.com
Electronic sales: ebooks@regencyreads.com
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
Table of Contents
VALERIE
Joan Smith
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three