The Hermit's Daughter (2 page)

He stayed for his usual interminable visit, and it was not for some time that the desired conversation took place. Mrs. Hermitage, who always liked smooth waters, brushed Sally’s inquiries off. But when Melanie decided to retire early, Sally returned to the attack.

“I cannot like this, Mama. If Monstuart doesn’t come soon, Derwent will tire of waiting and shab off on us.”

“I must own, Sal, I am not at all eager for his arrival. So unpleasant.”

“Yes, he sounds a wretch, but he must be dealt with, and the sooner the better. What is the maximum dowry you can see your way clear to giving Mellie?”

Mrs. Hermitage fanned herself with a magazine and said vaguely, “I cannot hope to match Lady Mary DeBeirs’s thirty thousand pounds.”

“I didn’t suppose you could. We are not nabobs, after all, but how much? I think ten thousand would suffice.”

Mrs. Hermitage’s stout frame gave a little leap. “Ten thousand! Oh, my dear Sal, it is impossible.”

Sally looked taken aback. “It was the sum Papa used to mention, but we have fallen on leaner times. How much—”

“Not nearly ten thousand, I fear,”
her mother said evasively.

“Well, what? Seven thousand, five—
tell
me, Mama.”

“I might manage to squeeze out a thousand,”
her mama said uncertainly.

“A thousand? You joke. Surely you joke. A thousand pounds is nothing. To a man like Derwent it would be an insult.”

“Well, it is no joke to me, my dear. I am not at all sure I can afford it.”

Sally stared in rising consternation. “What happened to all our money? We were used to be well off. Why, we still are. Look at this house, this saloon, with everything of the first stare. Our clothing alone must cost us ... Mama, how poor are we?”
Sally asked, horrified as her mother’s working face presaged very bad news indeed.

“We have nearly fifteen thousand left,”
she replied, getting the whole over with in one awful declaration.

“Nearly
fifteen thousand! You mean we are living on seven fifty a year? It is impossible. We spend that on our backs.”

“I know, my dear. Everything is shockingly dear, and that is why it will be so difficult to give Mellie any dot.”

“But what of all our capital? You cannot mean we have been dipping into that!”

“How else should we live? Of course we are. I am not a magician.”

Sally sat dazed, unable to assimilate the situation. “What of the property Papa had in Devon?”

“It brought three thousand, and that was all spent up immediately after his death, when it was sold. The funeral, you recall, and all the crape we had to buy, and the remove to Brighton ...”

“Were there not other landed assets? No stocks or bonds, nothing?”

“We have our bits of jewelry.”

Sally’s ivory complexion faded to white. “We are paupers, and here we have been living like kings! How did you come to do such a shatter-brained thing? We should have been living in a rented apartment and saving every penny we could.”

Mrs. Hermitage looked and saw the reincarnation of her husband staring at her from those wrathful green eyes. She answered cajolingly. “But my dear, had we done that, Mellie would never have been presented to Derwent. Depend upon it. It is of the utmost importance to keep up a good front when you are in the suds.”

“Oh, Mama, that is nonsense and you know it! We could have gone to live with any of our relatives. Uncle Calvin asked us, and Aunt Stepney.”

Mrs. Hermitage shivered gently in revulsion. “Uncle Calvin lives in Wales, Sal. One does not live in Wales. And Aunt Stepney is a nip-cheese. You would have met no one, and we would have been underfoot, poor relations.”

“Richer relations than we are now.”

“Yes, love, but not nearly so well off—in other ways than money, I mean.”

Sally sat silent, reeling from the shock of these revelations. She alone of the family had some of the Hermit’s sagacity and quick-wittedness and was soon worrying about the real problem. Not Melanie’s dowry and not Lord Derwent, but how they should proceed on seven hundred and fifty pounds per annum.

“We must move to smaller quarters and be rid of  some of these servants and carriages. Fortunately we have enough clothing to last years.”

“I knew you would say that. That is exactly why I didn’t like to tell you.”

“Yes, because you knew you were wrong to squander our life savings, Mama.”

“We shall retrench after we get Melanie bounced off. You and I might be comfortable in smaller quarters, for no one of any importance will bother with you—us! But with Lord Monstuart coming, we must keep up a good appearance.”

“He is not coming to inspect our home, Mama, but to see how heavily you are willing to come down to nab Derwent for Mellie. I think we might as well consider Derwent lost and—”

“Oh, Sal! How unfeeling—you know Mellie’s dear heart is set on him.”

“Yes, and his on her, for the next day or two. But when Monstuart arrives, he will scotch the plan.”

“He shan’t!”
Mrs. Hermitage said with unusual vehemence. “If necessary we can do as Derwent says and live on our capital till he comes into his own.”

“He had no notion how poor we are when he said that. He wouldn’t take our life savings, yours and mine as well as Mellie’s. I would have a very poor notion of him if he did.”

“He would repay every sou; he said so.”

“Yes, repay it to his wife-—to himself, in other words. He was speaking of
Melanie’s
dowry. He didn’t know the true situation. When he learns it, he’ll renege.”

Mrs. Hermitage heaved a sigh of vexation but refused to be utterly despondent. “We have not met Monstuart yet. Let us wait and see what sort of gentleman he is. He might be very biddable. There is no saying.”

“He is as cunning as may be. He cannot be a sentimental man or he would have come at once when he received Derwent’s message. I even wonder about his morals. This Lady Dennison is obviously someone’s wife.”

“She might be a widow—or his fiancée.”

“Yes, if her husband left her well to grass. I wonder he doesn’t angle for Lady Mary himself.”

“Why, he would be too old for her. Derwent is twenty-three, and Monstuart is his uncle. He will be forty or fifty,”

“And a rake into the bargain. A hardheaded man who considers marriage a business transaction, and love a game to be played on the side.”

“I don’t know where you get such ideas, Sally. I’m sure you are sophisticated beyond your years. It is exactly the sort of speech that put all the men off at Bath.”

“I had that much sophistication before ever I left London. I do have eyes in my head, you know, and saw very well what was going on among your friends.”

Mrs. Hermitage’s fine eyes flashed blue fire. “If you are referring to Samantha Barnow, I will have you know she and your papa were just friends.”

“Yes, Mama, as Lord Monstuart and Lady Dennison are just friends. I am not seven years old; you don’t have to hide from me that Papa was a shocking flirt. Well, you had a few beaux calling in the afternoon yourself when Papa was at work. I seem to remember a Sir Darrow somebody or other dropping in with suspicious regularity, but never mind. I am neither judge nor jury. Perhaps there is some sense in what you say. Monstuart will be calling eventually, I trust, and till he leaves we shan’t bother trying to cut back. But as soon as he’s gone, whether the match with Derwent comes off
or not, we must curtail our spending and hang on to what we can of that paltry fifteen thousand pounds.”

“Certainly we must, my dear. And I have just had a delightful notion. If Monstuart is fifty or so, as we think, I might make a few eyes at him and see if my fading charms have still sufficient strength to woo him.”

“As they woo Mr. Heppleworth, eh, Mama?”
Sally smiled.

Mrs. Hermitage was forty, and a very stylish, well-preserved forty that might pass for a few years less. What white hair she had was well concealed by her blond curls. Time’s ravages to her complexion were hidden by a judicious use of the rouge pot. It was often discussed
en famille
that Mr. Heppleworth was infatuated with her. Mama had an inkling it was Sally he came to see, using herself as an excuse. A balding gentleman of forty-five would not like to make a complete cake of himself in front of his friends.

Sally fell silent, considering if her mother might be induced to have Heppleworth. He was a country gentleman, but a well-greased one, and would solve their money problems very tidily. She was a clever girl, but from considering Mr. Heppleworth an old man, she had never thought of his friendliness to her in any light other than avuncular. Many of her father’s old friends had flirted with her in the same gallant fashion.

“We shall see,”
Mrs. Hermitage said. “If Monstuart doesn’t care for me, you can roll your eyes at him, Sal.”

Miss Hermitage had already decided Monstuart was a rake and a libertine. She had no intention of encouraging his advances. “I’m not that eager for Mellie’s marriage.”

“How about your own? You cannot be happy to see little Mellie beating you to the altar. And Monstuart is very wealthy, Derwent says.”

Sally considered the matter a moment. “Well, as you say, if he proves biddable ...”

The Hermitages were not long in doubt as to what sort of a gentleman Lord Monstuart was. He landed in on them the next morning at an inconvenient ten-thirty, when they were not accustomed to receiving Derwent till eleven. When Monstuart arrived with his nephew, it was only Miss Hermitage who was up and ready to receive a caller. Mama was adding the coup de grace to Mellie’s blond crown in the shape of a blue bow, to match her eyes. It chanced that Sally was just sweeping down the curved staircase as the butler admitted the callers.

She surmised on the instant who the tall, severe-faced gentleman with Derwent must be, and was happy she had put on a fashionable gown of green sarcenet that set off her dark hair and ivory complexion to great advantage, for Lord Monstuart was obviously from the tip of the ton. He wore his dark hair in the Brutus style, with a dark blue coat of superfine that bespoke the tailoring of Weston. His meticulously tied cravat was done in the Oriental style. A curled beaver, a malacca walking stick, and York tan gloves were being handed to Rinkin as she came down.

Sally was aware of a close scrutiny from a pair of cold gray eyes, accompanied by a surprised lift of two slashes of black eyebrows. An aquiline nose and a square jaw lent distinction to a face that was interesting rather than handsome. Too young for Mama to wind ‘round her finger, she thought, and too wicked for me. She was almost frightened by his forbidding aspect, but familiarity with society allowed her to make the pair welcome with none of the discomposure she was feeling.

She asked Rinkin to inform Mama the gentlemen had arrived, and ushered them into the Rose Saloon. It was a room much admired in Ashford. The Hermit had not stinted in his furnishings, and Mama had not skimped in having the walls painted an ivory white, with gilt trim on the decorative medallions. It was a feminine room, with a rose-patterned carpet, rose velvet hangings at the windows, a fine white marble Adams fireplace, and many expensive bibelots gracing delicate tables and wall brackets.

Monstuart’s slate eyes flickered over it, showing no approval nor again any approval when they settled once more on Miss Hermitage. Still, that he did not show disapproval was felt to be a wonder to the young lady. There was some superciliousness in those brows, still raised at a questioning angle, and the lips, which refused to raise a fraction at the ends when introductions were made. Sally took a chair and set herself to the task of amusing the guests till her family came down.

She essayed a few comments to Lord Monstuart,  who replied monosyllabically, with still that surprised look on his saturnine face. She soon found herself put off by his manner and turned to Der-went. “Mellie will be down presently,”
she assured him.

“There is no hurry, Miss Hermitage,”
Monstuart said. “We are happy for the opportunity to have a few words alone with you.”

She blinked her eyes at such a strange statement, but it was Derwent who made sense of it. “It ain’t Miss Hermitage I’m—that is, it’s Mellie you’ve come to see.”

Monstuart’s steely eyes froze a moment on Sally, till she felt her bones were turning to ice. It was an extraordinarily peculiar look, partly of surprise, but there was an assessing quality to it, too, as though he had slid her under a microscope for minute examination.

“Ah, forgive me. I was told I was to meet a beautiful young lady, and as I have done so, I fell into the error of thinking you were Derwent’s intended,”
he explained. Sally felt no pleasure at the compliment.

“Told you she was a blonde,”
Derwent reminded him.

“So you did. I ought to have known it in any case,
n’est-ce pas?”
His eyes returned to Sally. “My nephew has an unswerving propensity in that direction.”

She noticed the startled expression was gone from his face. The eyebrows had settled down to a more normal angle, but the new arrangement of features was not more pleasing. He had assumed a sardonic smile. Now what is so amusing? Sally found herself wondering. He had been amazed that Derwent had chosen
her—
that’s what it was! She was naturally not flattered with this interpretation. That she would never in a million years have chosen Derwent was not considered. It was an insult for the uncle to think he would not have chosen her.

Monstuart was further surprised to see a flash of anger from the feline emerald eyes regarding him. He looked closely, wondering at the reason for it, but before he had time to consider it, the other ladies were in and being introduced. As soon as he saw Melanie, he knew it was she and no other Derwent would have chosen. A vastly beautiful blond doll, with a soft shy smile and pretty manners.

He was relieved that the whole family turned out in such high style and lived amid such opulence. To have let Derwent off the leash had been a foolish thing to do. Naturally he would be fancying himself in love, and it was kind of Fate to have cast such a respectable young lady in his path. Lady Mary’s plain appearance didn’t stand a chance against this porcelain doll.