Country Flirt (20 page)

An incipient smile lit his eyes. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Help!” she whispered, and buried her face comfortably in the crook of his shoulder, waiting to hear a declaration of his intentions.

A soft ripple of laughter echoed above her. “Don’t worry; help is on the way. We’ll all need a hand if Howard remembers anything of tonight.”

Sam looked at him, surprised and disappointed that his thoughts had returned to Howard at this juncture. “He can’t hold it against you that I jilted him.”

“You haven’t formally jilted him yet—but I have knocked him unconscious. I rather think Howard will include me in his ill humor. Unless ...”

“You’re still currying to the nabob!” she exclaimed.

He smiled a soft smile. “Be a little patient, Sam. We haven’t heard the epilogue yet. Why employ a blunt instrument when a scalpel might sever the bond more cleanly, and with much less loss of blood? I’ll drop by the Willows tomorrow to pick up Howard’s ring.”

Samantha tossed her head angrily. “Very well.”

“There is still Mama to be conciliated. She’s in the boughs over losing Clifford. You can see what a deal of ill will would be let loose if we should complicate matters by doing something rash. As you pointed out, we want to do the thing with the minimum of fuss and bother.”

Sam examined his enigmatic face and found she had very little idea what he was talking about. What was quite clear was that he had no intention of offering for her. The auspicious moment had come and gone. The upshot of it all seemed to be that she was to break with Howard, but not to gain a replacement fiancé. Monteith had managed to get exactly what he wanted.

She rose briskly and straightened her skirt. “I shall expect you in the morning to pick up Howard’s ring,” she said.

“You may be very sure I shan’t forget that happy errand.”

With a look of triumph, he put his hand on her elbow and led her back inside. Sam remembered she had the ring in her reticule, but said nothing about it.

Chapter 16

In the morning parlor at the Willows, sunlight gleamed on the silver coffeepot and glinted in snow-white china. Beyond the window and through the leaves of the mulberry tree, the top of High Street was visible and already busy. The ladies had slept in late after the f
ê
te champ
ê
tre. The party was considered a great success by most of Lambrook. Mrs. Bright smiled to see Mr. Beazely approach the Armstrong house bearing a bouquet of posies.

She drew a contented sigh and set down her coffee cup. “Good things come in threes,” she said. “Here are you rid of Lord Howard and expecting an offer from Monteith.”

“I am not expecting an offer, Mama!”

“I made sure when you went into the garden with Monteith last night...”

“I didn’t go to receive an offer. Nothing of the sort happened.”

In her happiness, Mrs. Bright found a reason for the delay. “He could hardly offer till you rid yourself of Howard. I shall get busy and write up that note right after breakfast. That is the first good thing. Secondly, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Clifford offers for me after you are shot off. And thirdly, Mr. Beazely wouldn’t be calling at ten o’clock in the morning if he were not becoming serious about Mrs. Armstrong. Mark my words, Sam, she’ll nab him. At last we shall know what class of society she belongs in. He will be an excellent match, so well to grass and very respectable. No doubt she is feeling emanations this very minute. He’ll bring the fortune-telling to a halt.”

Samantha let her mother babble on, as it saved her having to talk herself. She was in no mood for polite chitchat.

At Lambrook Hall, Lady Monteith presided over a much grander table in a much grander room. None of the grandeur gave her any pleasure that day. Her thoughts were gloomy as she sat at breakfast with her son. In fact, she was hardly thinking at all, but only trying unsuccessfully to contain her seething emotions.

“I hope you are not hinting that you mean to marry Samantha Bright yourself!” she declared, eyes flashing. “Have some pride, Monteith. To go hat in hand to those wretched women, after what they have done to us!”

In a good mood, Monteith replied mildly. “The damage has been largely undone, Mama. Sam is giving Howard his cong
é
. This little illness will slow down his search for a replacement. With luck, the building of Shalimar will consume his energy for the next months. You said last night you wished to repair the rent friendship with Nora—”

“That was last night. And furthermore, your uncle doesn’t remember a thing about that disgraceful interlude in your study. He speaks quite as foolishly as ever about Samantha. Don’t think to announce an engagement between Sam and yourself, when the whole town thinks she is engaged to Howard—including Howard. I’m surprised he isn’t on his way to the Willows already, ill though he is. Really, he looks a total wreck today. One trembles to think what dissipations he has been indulging in in London. He tells me lemon water will cure him, but I am sending off for Dr. Pratt if he shows no improvement by noon.”

Monteith drew out his watch and glanced at it impatiently. “I had planned to leave immediately and speak to Mrs. Bright. She will be sending Howard a letter terminating that foolish misalliance, and Sam will be returning the ring.”

“Not when the poor man is ill, Monteith. You must show a little consideration. Only think if his dyspepsia were to carry him off,” she said half hopefully. “I wonder if he has made a will. One dislikes to ask ...”

Through the rose tints of his euphoria, Monteith recognized that it would be cruel to kick a fellow when he was down. “Let’s send for the doctor immediately,” he suggested.

A footman was sent off, and within half an hour Dr. Pratt was being led up the stairs with his gold-knobbed cane in one hand and his black bag in the other. It was another thirty minutes before he returned belowstairs. Such a lengthy visit gave rise to awful hopes and fears. Lady Monteith had soared in fancy from the dizzying heights of being sole inheritor of the nabob’s wealth to being left out in the cold entirely. She was frazzled to a thread by the time the visit was over.

Dr. Pratt wore a serious face when he went to join her and Monteith for consultation. “I don’t like the looks of this,” he said, shaking his head. “His temperature is over a hundred, and his pulse very weak and rapid.”

“Surely a little too much brandy couldn’t have caused that!” Lady Monteith said.

Monteith felt a dreadful premonition that a crack on the head might be the cause, but was soon reassured.

“No, a lot too much, over a long period of time. Liver, complicated with a fever, I’ve come across before in gentlemen returned from India. Something they pick up there,” he said, rubbing his jaw in confusion. “It flares up from time to time.”

Lady Monteith leaned forward in her chair and spoke in a hollow voice. “Is it likely to prove fatal?” she asked.

“It shortens the life, but it don’t seem to carry them off in one blow. It recurs, getting worse over the years. Cutting down on the brandy and wine would help stave it off. His constitution should be built up—plenty of rest, no late nights. I fancy his late-night revels do half the mischief. And don’t let him eat those spiced dishes the nabobs like so well.”

“Try if you can stop him!” Monteith said.

“I put the fear of God into him,” Dr. Pratt replied. “He’ll eat pap and gruel and pork jelly for the next week, and like it. His liver is giving him such a hard time, I shouldn’t think he’ll cut up too stiff on you. He has a great desire to live, you see. That is better than a tonic. I daresay it is his engagement that causes it. At least, he speaks a deal about Miss Bright.”

Lady Monteith bared her teeth in a parody of a smile. Life was too cruel. The one good thing that had come out of the f
ê
te champ
ê
tre, the rupture of Howard’s engagement, was back to haunt her. On the other hand, it kept Monteith from offering for Sam. How odd that she used to wish the girl was her daughter-in-law,

“I’ve written up some instructions,” Dr. Pratt said, drawing out a sheet of paper. “But the most important things are plenty of rest and quiet, and no brandy or wine. Mild foods only. I’ll be back tomorrow to see how the old gentleman goes on. You’ll call me if he takes a turn for the worse. And now I’m off to change George Plummer’s bandage. He nearly cut his foot off with an axe, clumsy fellow.”

When the doctor was gone, Monteith sat staring into space, planning how to arrange his immediate future. Naturally, he couldn’t propose to Sam immediately, but he could drop a hint.

“Well, that settles it,” his mother said. “You must explain the situation to the Brights. Nora will not expect you to offer for Sam now.”

“It’s not Nora I’m worried about.”

“You might worry about your mother, for once. Financial interests aside, think how you would look, beating up an old man—your own uncle—then stealing his bride while he is sick in his bed, possibly dying.”

“Neither the ‘beating,’ which was exactly one blow, nor the fever are my fault.”

“Next you will say offering for Sam is not your fault, either. Hah, I know whose fault it is. The sly minx. You were properly taken in. She never had any intention of marrying that old gaffer. She only accepted to nudge you into offering.”

“She never accepted at all.”

“But she took the ring fast enough!”

“There’s no point arguing, Mama. I’ll go to the Blights’ now and explain the situation here.”

“Give my regards to Mr. Sutton,” his mother said tartly.

* * * *

After Monteith left, she took a pot of tea and a novel upstairs and read to Howard for an hour. He found it strangely peaceful, lying in bed, looking out at the pale blue sky of England, dappled with the tips of tall trees. So different from India. There it was blazing blue and scorching sun or the demmed monsoons, when the air was as heavy and gray as the sky.

“It’s peaceful to be home, Irene.” He smiled wanly. “Many a sultry night as I lay on my
charpoy,
I dreamed of such peace. But when I got home, there was so much I wanted to crowd into what is left of my life that I went into a sort of frenzy. Dashing off here and there—to London. I fear I overdid it this visit. Next time I shall stay away from the Green Room.”

“So that’s what you were up to, naughty boy,” she scolded, but leniently. Of course an older woman understood a man’s needs. Especially Irene—she had learned about men the hard way, from his brother Ernest.

“You have danced your jig, sir; now you must pay the piper. But we shall try to make your recuperation as pleasant as possible.”

“I’d like to see Sam. I fear she isn’t happy with the ring I gave her. I daresay it was the star ruby she had in her eye. I only gave her the smaller ruby set with diamonds.”

“What were you keeping the star ruby for?”

“I thought it a trifle gaudy for a young girl. I planned to give it to you in thanks for your hospitality.”

A beatific smile curved Irene’s lips. She held the teacup for Howard to sip. Her voice was a dovelike coo of pleasure. “You are thoughtful! I never expected anything of the sort.”

“I always had the greatest respect and admiration for Ernest’s bride. If your memory is as long as mine, you will recall who was dangling after her first.”

Irene did, indeed, recall. She recalled as well the abrupt manner of turning him off once Ernest began showing his interest. “My parents were at me night and day, Howard. You know how ambitious they always were,”

“I understand, Irene. I daresay I’d have done the same thing in your boots. I was a callow, penniless youth at the time, with my fortune to be made, and Ernie was already in command of the hill. And now we’re old, you and I. A young bride will give me the illusion of youth for the few years I have left. She is monstrous pretty, young Sammie.”

“Lovely.” Lady Monteith smiled through her rage. “I only hope she doesn’t wear you out.”

When the visit was over, she went to her room and attacked her face with the rouge pot. Or was it the hair that made him think her old? Silver wings were forming around the temples. She would have her dresser buy a bottle of henna dye. And perhaps a rearrangement of her coiffure . . .

* * * *

Samantha could see at a glance that Monteith was troubled when he came to call. “How is Howard?” she asked, when he was seated in the saloon.

“He’s taken a turn for the worse,” he said, and outlined the situation. “Mama feels—and I’m afraid I agree with her—that this isn’t the optimum time for you to turn him off.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting I go on being engaged to him!” she exclaimed in horror.

“You needn’t worry about any recrudescence of his passion. He’s flat on his back—weak as a newborn kitten. It will be just for a few days. As soon as he’s feeling stouter, you can jilt him.”

Sam looked at her mother. Mrs. Bright pinched her lips and considered for a moment. “Monteith is right, Sam. You can’t tell him when the doctor says the engagement is all that is keeping up his spirits. You must be patient for a few days.”

A second thinking of the matter led Sam to agree. “You’re right, of course. What difference does a few days make after all? And as he is ill, I shan’t have to call on him.”

“Not today, in any case,” Monteith decided.

* * * *

By the next day, Howard felt well enough to sit up and eat a bowl of gruel for breakfast. It was fed to him by a much-rejuvenated Lady Monteith. Her hair, arranged in a youthful bundle of curls atop her head, gleamed like new copper. Her cheeks were as pink as peonies, and on her finger sat a heavy star ruby, given in a fit of gratitude the night before when she had read him three boring chapters of Scott’s
Waverley.

“More
Waverley,
Howard?” she asked archly when the tray had been removed.

“Let us just sit and talk, if you can spare me a few minutes, my dear.”

“You know my time is entirely at your disposal.”

Howard took her fingers and squeezed them. “I have been a great thundering nuisance to you, Irene. And now this to top it off—an invalid on your hands. You will be wishing me at Jericho.”