Hearts of Gold

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Hearts of Gold Page 17

by Janet Woods


  That night the silence was blissful as the two dogs settled down together in front of the crackling fire. Magnus opened the last entry in the journal.

  I had never thought I’d fall in love with a young girl who could be my granddaughter. Sarry would wed me if I asked her. Her eyes shine when she looks at me. It’s hero worship, of course. I was there when she needed someone, and she was there when I needed someone.

  Exactly what Sarette had said. They had been attuned to each other, Magnus thought.

  I cannot allow her to love me, then break her heart. It’s been many years since I was able to be a husband to any woman.

  Today, I was given a death sentence by a doctor. I lied to Sarry. I gave her hope, something to cling to. Go, I said. Improve yourself. I’ll see you at Fierce Eagles. I couldn’t tell her I was dying and watch her pity me. She would have stayed with me until the bitter end, cared for me, scolded me and wasted her tears on me. It would have broken her brave heart and mine, because she would have taken my pain and suffering upon her shoulders.

  I’m an old dog who must die alone so as not to hurt the one who loves me most. I hope the end will come quickly, and without too much suffering. Magnus, I looked for gold and found it in the most unexpected place . . . in my heart. Be gentle with my dear Sarry.

  A tear fell on the page and smudged the ink. Then another. Magnus couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried.

  Thirteen

  Life settled down for Sarette. Magnus came and went, and sometimes they passed on the stairs, Magnus looking dashing in his evening clothes as he went out to some function or another.

  She felt invisible, and lonely, and wished she had someone to talk to apart from the dogs. She’d explored the many rooms of the house. Then she remembered that Gerald had invited her to a ball, and she was to be a guest of his sister. She checked her invitation, discovered it was the coming weekend and went into a flurry of preparation before she realized that Gerald had not mentioned it since.

  She said to Branston, ‘Will you show me how to operate the telephone?’

  ‘You put the trumpet to your ear, and you talk into the body of the telephone. Everyone has a number, and you give that to the telephone operator, who puts you through to that person. Do you have the number of the person you wish to speak to?’

  ‘I don’t know any numbers. How can you talk to people if they’re somewhere else?’

  ‘I don’t know, Miss. It’s all to do with wires and electrical currents, and it depends on the person you wish to talk to. Not everyone has a telephone.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to Mr Gerald Grimble. He invited me to a ball, and told me I could stay with his sister the night before. The function is this coming weekend. I think he’s forgotten about it.’

  Dubiously, the butler said, ‘I think you’d better ask Mr Kern for permission, Miss. He might not like you telephoning his friends and acquaintances. Or he might want to do it for you.’

  She nodded. ‘Then I’ll telephone him.’

  ‘Mr Kern won’t be in his chambers yet. He has a court appearance shortly after he reaches Dorchester. I’ll telephone him later in the morning on your behalf, if you wish. About eleven thirty?’

  ‘How exciting. May I speak to him myself?’

  Branston smiled. ‘I’ll ask him if he’ll speak to you direct, Miss.’

  The morning went slowly. It was a dull day, but she took the dogs for a walk. Boots’s behaviour had improved considerably since Patch had arrived. Both dogs had begun to favour the presence of Magnus over her though, which was a little annoying. They looked funny together. Boots, whose legs and ears seemed to be growing rapidly, lolloped along, and the neat little terrier trotted powerfully, its belly not far off the ground and his eyes on the foliage along the bottom of the hedges. Patch was a relentless ratter. A quick dart and snap of his jaws and a hapless rodent going innocently about its business would give a surprised squeak as it was efficiently disposed of.

  After they returned she went through her gowns, trying to decide on which one to wear. When the clock struck the half hour she was already waiting for Branston outside the study, feeling jumpy with anticipation.

  The telephone grew out of the desk like a shining black daffodil. She watched as the butler took the ear trumpet from its rest and talked into the instrument, then Branston said, ‘Miss Maitland wishes to talk to you, sir.’ It was handed to her with instructions on how to end the call before he left the room.

  ‘Magnus, is that you?’ she said loudly.

  ‘You don’t have to shout, Sarry, just use your normal voice,’ he said against her ear.

  It was so close that she turned towards the sound. ‘Sorry, I’ve never talked on a telephone before. It sounds as you’re standing right next to me, but hidden inside a tin can. It’s very clever.’

  ‘Yes it is . . . what did you want to talk to me about that couldn’t have waited until I got home?’

  ‘A little while ago Gerald invited me to partner him at a ball, and said I should stay with his sister, Olivia. I’ve just remembered that the function is this coming weekend. He’s not mentioned it since, and I wondered if I should telephone him.’

  ‘On no account should you remind Gerald. He may have forgotten, and it would embarrass him. Also, Olivia would have contacted you with a personal invitation to stay in her home if she’d been able to cater for you.’

  Disappointment filled her. ‘Oh, I see. Thank you, Magnus.’

  He lowered his voice. ‘Are you very upset?’

  ‘I’ve never been to a ball. Gerald taught me to waltz when I lived with Mrs Lawrence, though. I enjoyed it.’

  ‘Gerald’s an excellent dancer. A pity he’s let you down. You’ll have to come with me instead. I’ll book an extra room for the night at the hotel, if one’s available. Will you be bored with my company as a substitute for Gerald’s.’

  Her spirits lifted. ‘I won’t be bored at all. Thank you, Magnus. You’re so kind. I’ve been feeling so . . . aimless lately.’

  ‘Aimless? Why didn’t you tell me? I’ll have to find you something to do, learn to play the piano, or paint pretty pictures, or start a beetle collection.’

  ‘I refuse to stick pins in poor little beetles.’ She laughed. ‘Actually, I’m totally lacking in artistic talent, and not used to a life of leisure. Perhaps I should find employment and earn myself some money, so I don’t feel so . . .’

  ‘Sorry for yourself? Most young women would like to be in your position.’

  ‘I know. I’m very grateful, and I’m not—’

  ‘Complaining? Of course you are. You only have to ask if you need money or entertainment. My uncle provided an allowance for you, after all. Do you have a ball gown?’

  ‘Yes, I—’

  ‘We’ll buy you a new one.’

  ‘I don’t need a new one. You’re not listening. I haven’t worn—’

  ‘We’ll buy one anyway. Something elegant and without silly little bobbing bustles at the back and fussy bows and frills. You have no fashion sense.’

  ‘Mrs Lawrence chose my clothes.’

  ‘Then she has no fashion sense either. Tomorrow I’ll take the day off and we’ll go into Dorchester. I know a woman there who used to dress royalty. In fact, she claims to have royal blood in her veins.’

  ‘Magnus, I—’

  ‘Magnus I, nothing.’

  ‘You won’t let me get a word in edgewise, will you?’

  ‘I haven’t got time to argue, we can do that tonight over dinner.’ He chuckled. ‘We haven’t had a decent set to for a long time, have we? Try and think of something controversial we can converse about.’

  ‘She gave an exasperated cry and stamped her foot on the thick carpet. I already have. His name is Magnus Kern. You’re constantly controversial.’

  He chuckled, as if he was pleased with her remark, and the line went dead. Smiling, she put the trumpet back in its cradle. He was impossible, overbearing, and exhilarating, and she felt so alive when
she had his attention. She was glad he was taking her to the ball instead of Gerald. Picking up the edge of her skirt she waltzed about the room, stopping dead when the door opened and Branston came in.

  He took a polishing cloth out of his apron pocket and fussily rubbed it over the telephone before giving a sneeze and admonishing her with, ‘Really, Miss, you’re making the dust fly about.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Branston. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  He smiled. ‘You’re a guest, Miss.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a trouble to anyone, and I’m perfectly capable of doing some housework.’

  ‘Was your telephone call to Mr Kern satisfactory, Miss?’ Which was a polite way of satisfying his curiosity, she supposed.

  ‘Mr Kern has offered to take me to the ball himself. I was practising my dancing when you came in.’

  He gave her one of his rare smiles. ‘So I noticed. You looked very graceful. Mr Kern is an excellent dancer, I believe.’

  ‘Oh dear . . . Can you dance, Mr Branston?’

  ‘I’m known to be light on my feet on the odd occasion.’

  ‘I feel this occasion to be decidedly odd, don’t you? You can help me practise if you’re of a mind.’

  Branston gazed around him, then managed a small, mischievous grin before holding out his arms and saying, ‘As long as you don’t tell anyone.’

  He was adroit at guiding her round the furniture as he swung her about the room. Sarette got into the spirit of the moment by singing, lah-lah-lah in lieu of music, and soon Branston joined in.

  The telephone shrilled loudly and they came to a sudden stop. Branston picked up the telephone, said breathlessly, ‘Mr Kern’s residence. Oh, it’s you, Mr Kern.’

  Sarette heard Magnus’s voice clearly. ‘You sound out of breath, Branston.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was on the stairs.’

  ‘You must have run fast then, for the telephone had hardly rung.’

  ‘I was referring to the library stairs, sir. I was dusting the top shelf.’

  ‘Good Lord, does the top shelf get dusted very often?’

  ‘Very rarely in fact, sir.’

  ‘I see. Miss Maitland told me she was bored. Think of something to keep her amused, will you? Find her a jigsaw puzzle, or dance for her.’

  ‘Yes, sir . . . I will. Which dance would you suggest?’

  ‘How the devil would I know? The request wasn’t to be taken literally, and you’re far from being as dense as you’re making out.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’ Branston hung the earpiece up, turned to her and raised an eyebrow. ‘Shall we try the waltz next, Miss?’

  Sarette giggled.

  Magnus had hardly finished speaking to Branston when he telephoned Gerald. ‘I believe you invited my ward to the ball, Gerald.’

  ‘Did I? Oh yes, so I did. I’d forgotten. Damn! I’ve just been manoeuvred into asking Jessica Fenwick, who is some sort of cousin. She’s a house guest of Olivia’s, and rather dreary.’ He groaned. ‘I can’t get out of it now. Look, can you give Sarette my apologies. Tell her I’m indisposed, or something similar. I’ll make up for it by taking her roller skating on the pier sometime. She’ll like that. Who are you bringing now Isabelle’s no longer available?’

  Uncharitably, Magnus doubted if Isabelle would ever be that. ‘I’d made up my mind not to attend. I’m not making excuses for you either. You should honour your commitments. The girl will be disappointed. Still, it will give me the edge on our wager when I tell her you forgot. I suppose I could bring her myself.’

  Gerald laughed. ‘In which case she’ll know that you escorted her out of duty.’

  ‘There’s that, of course.’

  ‘Look, Magnus. I’d cancel Jessica if I could. But Olivia’s house is stuffed to the gills, anyway, so there wouldn’t be room for Sarette. If you don’t want to tell Sarette I’m dying, which would at least get me some sympathy, tell her that family duty dictated this.’

  ‘Damn you, Gerald. I’ve been out and about too much these last few days, and wanted a quiet weekend at home.’

  ‘Then have one. There’s always next weekend. I’ll make it up to her then.’

  Gerald sounded slightly desperate, and Magnus knew he had him on the run. He smiled. ‘Yes . . . I think I might do that. I’m looking forward to the festive season though. Christmas at the Grimbles is always a pleasure, but it’s not somewhere a man could find the opportunity to pay court to a woman. Too crowded, and too many Grimble eyes watching what you get up to. How many of you are there now?’

  ‘I’ve lost count. Which reminds me. We had news from Edgar, yesterday. He’s to become a father. Pa’s pleased, of course. He now refers to Edgar as the founder member of the Australian branch of Grimble and Sons, and is enormously proud of him. Edgar has gone through with his plan to register his business as Son of Grimble though. Father is a bit put out about that. He said it’s undignified.’

  ‘It certainly has a dashing feel to it. Long may the Grimbles prosper.’ Magnus decided to let Gerald off the hook, and sighed. ‘Don’t worry, Gerald. I’ll make up some plausible excuse for you. Sarette believes everything I tell her.’

  ‘You should tell her what a liar you are then. By the way, rumour has it that Isabelle will be at the ball. She was discouraged by the damp in Venice and the expected event turned out to be a non-event. She left her count in Venice and has returned for the Christmas and New Year season. Shall I give her your . . . love?’

  ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t. Enjoy yourself at the ball. A pity that Sarette will be disappointed, but it can’t be helped. She’ll recover.’

  With that final turn of the screw he hung up and began to laugh. Perhaps it was Gerald who should remember what a plausible liar he could be – a family trait he’d inherited.

  Sarette had wondered what relationship Magnus had enjoyed with this French woman on the way to Dorchester. But Marie Renouf turned out to be wrinkled and old. Her crabbed hands were covered in rings and she wore a tiara in her hair. Her salon in High West Street was furnished in peeling gilt, damp-spotted mirrors and fading velvet.

  Magnus kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Madame Renouf. This is my ward, Sarette Maitland, and a friend of my late uncle, John Kern. She’s in desperate need of a ball gown.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I had heard that the son of my old . . . friend of many years ago had died,’ and she rolled her rrrrs like a cat purring. ‘So, you thought of me for theess . . . theess –’ eyes like brown berries darted from Sarette’s waist to her breasts and she shrugged and almost spat out the words – ‘theess precocious child?’

  Precocious? What on earth did she mean by calling her that? Sarette was about to ask her when Magnus gave a chuckle. ‘You misunderstand, Madame. Miss Maitland was my uncle’s ward. Now she’s become my responsibility.’ His tone of voice was rather dry and unflattering.

  ‘You don’t have to make me sound like a burden. Nobody asked my opinion of whether or not I agreed to your guardianship.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What is what?’

  Those dark eyes of his were at their most quelling. ‘Your opinion?’

  She allowed herself to be quelled. After all, she couldn’t kick up a fuss in a public dressmaking salon, even one so exclusive and specialist that it didn’t seem to have any clients except her. She grinned at him. ‘I surrender myself to your responsibility under protest.’

  He laughed. ‘I can survive a protest or two.’

  Madame was gazing one to the another, a thin smile on her face. ‘I have two gowns in Miss Maitland’s size.’ She clapped her hands and a girl came through.

  Madame said something to her in French, then told Sarette, ‘Go with her . . . Mr Kern, you would like a glass of wine while we wait, oui!’

  ‘Oui, Madame.’

  The assistant quickly undressed her, then settled a pastel green brocade gown patterned with gold and silver thread over her petticoat. Instead of a bustle the gown was fuller at the back and draped
over a small horsehair pad, so it gave an illusion of a short, graceful train to the skirt. The girl arranged the puff sleeves, and adjusted the delicate cream lace over the square-cut bodice. Her bun received a cursory glance, a toss of the head and a scornful snort. The assistant tied a green velvet ribbon around it.

  Sarette watched Magnus’s eyes narrow when she came out from behind the curtain. Then his smile came. ‘It’s perfect for you.’

  Not quite. It seemed that there was a delicate net cape in cream, embroidered, and decorated with crystals. ‘And accessories, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Magnus.

  There was a beaded net and flower arrangement for the hair, plus a small bag.

  The second gown was a two piece, made of delicate pink taffeta, with a beaded open bodice over a sheer printed chiffon blouse collared with lace. Again there were accessories.

  Magnus said nothing as his scrutiny went from her neck down to her toes.

  ‘Which gown pleases you most?’ she said, torn between the two of them, and trying not to blush, because she was well aware of the impression they’d created.

  His eyes came up to hers and he surprised her by saying, ‘The gowns merely compliment the woman inside them. It’s you who pleases me the most.’

  Her face warmed with a vengeance and she spread a little ivory fan and hid behind it, looking at him over the top.

  His mouth twitched into a grin. ‘Stop flirting, Sarette. I refuse to be used for target practice by a chit of a girl who’s hardly out of the nursery.’

  ‘I’m not. I wouldn’t dare flirt with you. You deliberately made me blush, and I’m trying to hide it.’

  ‘Am I that much the ogre, then?’

  ‘Sometimes . . . often, I think that you don’t like me.’

  ‘Sometimes, but not often, I think I’m beginning to like you too much for my own good.’ He turned to the Frenchwoman. ‘The gowns are exquisite, and you are a genius, Marie. We’ll take them both. And something appropriate to wear under them.’

  Madame Renouf’s smile was simpering. ‘But of course. It will be my pleasure to be of service to you, Mr Kern. A lady who wishes to please a gentleman should always dress from the skin out, so she can tantalize him as he unwraps her silks, satins and lace to reveal what perfection she has to offer underneath.’

 

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