The Hermit's Daughter (4 page)

He must go back and try to smooth the many ruffled feathers he had raised in that velvet roost. He wished to keep Derwent away from them, however, and so gave no indication of his plan. He took the boy out in the country that afternoon to try to talk some sense into him. The silence that greeted his every word was not the silent acquiescence usually encountered. There was a sullen set about Derwent’s lips that promised trouble. And really he couldn’t do a demmed thing about it but give him a good Bear Garden jaw, which he did.

The boy did not openly oppose him, so the objections to the match were only raised, condemned as intolerable, and then the talk turned to what Monstuart considered more cheerful subjects, such as Lady Mary DeBeirs. “We’ll stay here a day or two with the Colchesters, then take a run up to Chêne Baie,”
He said bracingly. Chêne Baie was the abode of the DeBeirses. There was Norman blood in the family, and French names aplenty. Unfortunately there wasn’t an iota of beauty or charm in a cartload of them. Derwent sat sulky and silent throughout the trip.

In the evening, Monstuart excused himself on the pretext of visiting other relatives in the neighborhood. Derwent saw an excellent chance to nip back to Mellie and assure her he had not been discouraged from marrying her. He felt quite manly at his prospective future, flying in the face of Monty’s authority, taking on the care of a penniless wife and her family.

To fool Derwent, Monstuart turned his team west upon leaving the Colchesters, planning to approach the Hermitage residence circuitously. Deceived, for he never suspected a trick, Derwent set out by the more direct route as soon as his uncle was down the road, and got there before him.

There was considerable elevation in the spirits of the Hermitage ladies when Lord Derwent was shown into their Rose Saloon that evening. Hopes had not been high that he would dare to oppose his imperious uncle. The four were in the sort of mood generated by a successful bucking of authority, made merrier by the element of romance that pervaded the room, Derwent stated firmly that he would take care of them all, “absolutely,”
and Mrs. Hermitage said as firmly that she would help. With fifteen thousand pounds to tide them over till Derwent’s fifteen thousand a year became his, the situation did not appear at all desperate.

There perhaps lingered at the back of their minds the dread that Lord Monstuart might have something to say in the matter, but such an unpleasant contingency was not spoken of. The talk was all of a remove to Gravenhurst, Derwent’s estate in Dorchester, at his disposal in spite of his uncle.

Sally heard it and frowned. “I thought you planned to go to London!”
she exclaimed. That had always been the plan before Monstuart’s arrival.

“Monty will be there,”
Derwent said.

Sally stared at his cowardice. It angered her that Monstuart should have anything to say in leading their lives. “What of it? Are you afraid of him? You must present Melanie to society, Derwent. Why, it would look as though you were ashamed of her if you whisked her off to Gravenhurst.”
Melanie, who did not share her sister’s love of high society, looked an accusing question at her hero.

“You’re right, Sally, absolutely,”
Derwent said at once. “We shall go to London for the Season first.”
Really, the boy was criminally easy to lead.

* * * *

With such interesting goings-on to distract them, the ladies didn’t hear the front knocker. When Lord Monstuart was shown into the Rose Saloon, he was faced with the highly unpleasant sight of his cocker of a nephew being fawned upon by three laughing ladies, making him feel, no doubt, like a monarch. Monstuart assumed this was the way they had beguiled the boy, by dancing attendance on him, feeding him wine and compliments. His brow lowered, his nostrils quivered, and an angry liverish hue suffused his face. It was thus that he appeared to the four when his presence was noted. A pall of silence immediately fell over the noisy room, as if the schoolmaster had come into the class and caught his students out in some ribaldry.

“Uncle!”
Derwent exclaimed, jumping to his feet with a guilty start.

“Ladies, Derwent,”
Monstuart said in a thin voice as he nodded his head and stepped in. His impulse was to take his nephew by the scruff of the neck and drag him by main force from the room and the neighborhood, but he quickly squashed the impulse.

“You said you were going to call on the Gibbards!”
Derwent said. His pink face told them all that he had sneaked off behind his uncle’s back, and he had been bragging about how he had not knuckled under to Monstuart.

“They were not at home,”
Monstuart replied in glacial accents.

“What in the deuce made you come
here?”
Derwent asked.

Sally, sizing up the situation, rose and in three smooth strides was at Monstuart’s side, a brilliant glitter in her eyes, and on her lips a small smile of triumph. She curtsied and said primly, “We are honored that we should be second choice for your visit, milord. Do come in. You will think us uncivil, but you must not think we are unhappy to see Derwent’s uncle. Pray, be seated.”

“Thank you,”
he replied, and followed her to a chair at the edge of the erstwhile happy group, throwing a measured look to his nephew. Derwent flinched visibly and fell silent.

The new arrival was punctiliously offered a glass of wine and a biscuit by Miss Hermitage. He accepted both with a coolly polite “thank you.”
After this effort at civility, an appalling silence fell over the group.

Monstuart, after finishing his biscuit, broke the silence. “You didn’t mention you were coming here this evening, Derwent. I am happy you’re here, however. No doubt you have come, like me, to take your leave of the ladies.”

Derwent looked to Melanie and smiled a smile as  reassuring as he dared to make under his uncle’s awful stare. He answered not a word.

It was Miss Hermitage who was pushed into speech by an appealing glance from her allies. “It is not Lord Derwent’s intention to leave us quite so soon, milord. We have some considerable matters to discuss.”

“Indeed?”
Monstuart had come to conciliate and was not to be goaded to more savagery by this taunting beauty. He turned deliberately to Mrs. Hermitage. “I was not aware, when we spoke this morning, ma’am, that your late husband was the Hermit, if I may use his nickname.”

“Certainly you may. Everyone called him that,”
the widow said, happy to see no immediate ruffling of the waters. “Because of the name, you know, and not because of any unsocial qualities. Quite the contrary, Herbie was very sociable. We used to know everyone in London.”

“You must miss the pleasures of the city.”

“We did at first, but we are settling down to country life. Well, town life, which seems like the deep country to us.”

“Pity.”
But if, as he assumed, this retirement was for the purpose of saving money, it must be inefficacious. Everywhere around him, in both decor and dress, there were signs of lavish spending. The family were either fools or schemers; he set himself to the task of discovering which.

“You have managed to create quite an urban nook here in the country,”
Monstuart said, glancing at the painted walls, the fine pictures and velvet draperies.

“It wasn’t easy—or cheap,”
Mrs. Hermitage replied. “The walls were a hideous mustard color when we hired the places. Made us all look bran-faced.”

His dark eyes flickered over the ladies’
glowing complexions and he replied, “That must have taken some doing.”

“I daresay the dirty windows helped. We have fixed the place up a little, for we were not accustomed to living in squalor. It was very dear,”
she repined while her elder daughter shot her a quelling frown.

Sally saw that her mother was about to enter on one of her diatribes on the dearness of everything. This had been one of her pet themes since Papa’s death. She sincerely wished her mother had gone on to tell her just how ill they could afford all the dear acquisitions.

“Everything is expensive nowadays,”
he said leadingly.

“Expensive? It’s shocking! Why, to have that very chair you are sitting in covered cost me five guineas, and Melanie worked the embroidered covering with her own fingers.”

“Melanie is an excellent needlewoman,”
Derwent tossed in, happy for any detail that enhanced her value.

Monstuart’s unenthusiastic “Very nice”
could hardly be construed as a compliment, especially as his body covered her handiwork completely and he made no motion of rising to admire it.

The group chatted on for a while, long enough for the marquess to ascertain that the mother was a fool. He acquitted her of conniving to entrap Derwent, but not of being a ninny, and certainly not of promising to be a very poor connection for his nephew. Already he had observed that it was Miss Hermitage who was looked to for guidance by the group. Her character was still to be determined.

At length, Mrs. Hermitage took up her embroidery and settled down to work. Her eyes roamed often to Derwent and Mellie in the corner. “I need a better light,”
she said, and moved to a chair closer to the lovers, who whispered uneasily between themselves, with many a cautious look toward the enemy interloper.

Monstuart turned his conversation to Miss Hermitage. She regarded him with a smug little smile of satisfaction that he was eager to remove from her face. “And are you quite happy to be away from London, ma’am?”
he asked politely.

“The peace and quiet of Ashford just suit me.”

“You, too, are an excellent needlewoman, I trust?”
He glanced at her idle fingers as he spoke.

“No, I read a good deal, and I enjoy riding.”

“Another shockingly expensive pastime.”

“Its expense need not concern you.”

“The expenses of the whole family concern me, when it is your intention to dump them in Derwent’s lap.”

A mischievous smile lurked at the corner of Sally’s lips. “You are conceding defeat so soon?”
she taunted him.

“The word
intention
does not necessarily denote execution, Miss Hermitage. I was merely commenting on your style of life.”
Monstuart hastened to change the topic when he saw he was slipping into bad manners. It was his hope to indicate that he was still very much against the match, without repeating his former insults. “I think you were unwise to leave London,”
he said.

“Your opinion must stand for a good deal with us, of course,”
she answered ironically, “but we are happy here.”

“Slim pickings. I seem to recall the Hermit was said to possess the next Season’s Incomparable, at the time of his death. You would have done better to remain in London, when you were at a marriageable age,”
he added. No emphasis stressed the word “marriageable,”
but the past tense revealed his subtle meaning. “You planned to return when your sister married, no doubt?”

It was the age insult that lent a quick flash of anger to her eyes, but it was the innuendo that she spoke of. “We didn’t plan to live with Derwent! Of course, as things stand now, that may be necessary.”

“As things stand now that I am here, it is unlikely in the extreme,”
he countered.

Sally’s eyes lifted to observe him from beneath her long lashes. “If you refuse to forward him any of his own money, he must batten himself on us till he reaches his maturity,”
she retaliated, stressing repetition of his own ill-chosen words.

Monstuart swallowed it in silence, but his temper was rising. “I find it strange you did not choose to live with relatives, as money is so severe a problem with you.”

“There is no accounting for taste,”
she answered demurely.

His eyes roved around the richly appointed saloon. “There is no taste for accounting in this household,”
he retorted.

A little laugh escaped from Miss Hermitage, and he smiled involuntarily in response. “Touché, milord. I did not look for wit in Derwent’s guardian.”

“So I gather. You judge me by the one specimen of my family to which you have been exposed. Derwent is my sister’s son, and the female line of my family, like most,”
he added with a challenging glance, “is not bright.”

Sally felt her blood rise to the challenge. “I am said to favor Papa. He was not considered a dull gentleman.”

Monstuart had already begun to confirm who was the brains in the family. “There is some resemblance,”
he admitted.

“Did you know him?”
she asked, startled. “I don’t recall seeing you about the house.”

“I was never at your father’s house, but he was occasionally at mine. He handled a business matter for me some years ago.”

“What matter was that?”
she asked with sharp interest. Papa’s cases were generally in the nature of
causes célèbres.
She had no recollection of reading Lord Monstuart’s name in the journals.

“The details escape me,”
he answered evasively. “It was some years ago. We occasionally met afterward for a game of cards or chess.”

“Papa was a great chess player.”

“Do you play?”

“Very little.”

“The country offers so few entertainments. I wonder if you might be induced to give me a game,”
he suggested. He looked toward the lovers in the corner, and the mama, and stifled a yawn behind his fingers.

It was Monstuart’s intention to remain as long as Derwent, and Miss Hermitage had already guessed as much. She rose to get the board and assemble the pieces. Watching her glide across the room, he found her as admirable a sight from the rear as from any other angle.

Sally began to set up the chessboard, but she had not played in several years and was unsure where to place the various pieces. Holding a carved ivory queen, she let her fingers hover above the squares, catching her lower lip between her teeth. He studied the white hands with the delicate pink nails, then the little rounded white teeth, and said not a word as she put every piece save the pawns in the wrong squares. When the job was done, he rapidly shuffled them around to the conventional positions, without a word.

“I haven’t played in an age,”
she admitted.

“I assumed as much,”
he replied, but didn’t offer to call off the game. She would have preferred conversation, during which she hoped to score him off for calling them ladybirds.