The Hermit's Daughter (8 page)

“We drove toward Dover,”
he said. “It was very nice, with all the spring flowers and sunshine and whatnot. I picked Mellie a bouquet.”

“Every flower of which will be pressed before her head hits the pillow this evening,”
Monstuart prophesied with an air of ennui.

Sally knew they were already being flattened between the pages of stout volumes, for she had been asked to help find books for the job. “What a novel idea. I shall suggest it to my sister,”
she replied with a determined smile.

“It was only daisies and buttercups,”
Derwent said idly.

“And bluebells,”
Sally added, then looked quickly away as she received a knowing shot from the other gentleman.

“I wonder what ladies do with all the bushels of flowers they press annually,”
Monstuart asked of no one in particular. “A distressing number of them find their way behind frames. Do you press flowers and make arrangements, Miss Hermitage?”

“No, I am not at all artistic.”

“Neither are most of the ladies who stick a bunch of dry and discolored weeds into a frame. For some reason the fact that they did it themselves is considered sufficient justification for hanging the results on the wall to offend the aesthetic sensitivities of their guests. I think there ought to be a law against it. The anti-dried flower framing law, it would be called. Why don’t you suggest it in your maiden speech in the House, Derwent? You will earn the undying gratitude of every man in the kingdom.”

“He is only funning,”
Derwent told Sally. “Monty is a Whig. He has an odd sense of humor.”

Sally cast an understanding smile at the lover, who hardly knew what to say. They both found themselves staring at the bunch of dried May flowers arranged by his unartistic beloved not a month ago and now decorating the wall. Aware of a stretching silence, Sally said, “You are not sentimental, Monstuart.”

“Thank you, ma’am,”
he inserted quickly.

She ignored him and continued talking to Derwent, who was astonished to receive so much friendly condescension from Sally. “To persons of sensibility, the fact that the work was done by a loved one, in memory of a shared experience, constitutes the point of it.”

“Absolutely.”

Monstuart, determined to spoil her disquisition,  said, “I’m glad to hear there’s
some
point. One trembles to think of the results if they took into their heads to frame every shared book and box of bonbons and tearstained handkerchief that speaks of their love.”

“They could hardly frame a consumed box of candy, in any case,”
Sally snapped. Her color rose and her eyes sparkled in vexation.

“They don’t usually consume the box,”
he pointed out. “Unless they happen to be goats, of course.”

The supporters of sentiment exchanged a commiserating smile. “I make sure Melanie will make a lovely arrangement from the daisies and buttercups,”
Sally said.

“And bluebells,”
Monstuart added. “You should break down and buy the lady a bouquet of roses if she is a lover of flowers, Derwent.”

“Buying is not at all the same thing,”
Sally pointed out. “It is the gathering of the blooms together that makes up the memory. A quiet stroll through sun-dappled fields ...”

Derwent was amazed to hear such good sense from her. “You have hit it dead on, Miss Hermitage.”

“It has been my experience that ladies are very well satisfied with a dozen or two of roses from a mildew-dappled florist.”
Monstuart insisted.

“There are ladies and there are ladies,”
Sally said ever so gently. Her speaking eyes held a touch of innuendo.

“Very true.”
Monstuart nodded. “Some of them are even sensible enough to prefer a less perishable gift than a flower. And what is so imperishable as a diamond?”

“But we are discussing
ladies,
milord,”
Sally reminded him, still gentle.

“I was beginning to think it was geese or some other bird-witted creatures we were talking about.”

As the phrase “bird-witted creatures”
was uttered, Miss Melanie and her mama entered the saloon on cue and welcomed their guests.

“Is Heppleworth not here yet?”
Mrs. Hermitage asked. “I made sure when I saw the hats and canes in the hall he was here. He always will land in on the dot, like a farmer.”

Monstuart gave her a quizzing smile. “My apologies for being on time, ma’am.”
It was laughed away with the assurance that Mrs. Hermitage was sorry she was late. “Next time I shall follow London punctuality. I see you and your daughters have not quite broken city habits yet.”

Alert to a trap, Sally declared that she adored the country and wouldn’t leave it for anything.

“Why, Sal, what a plumper!”
her mother exclaimed. “I’m sure if you’ve bemoaned missing the Season once, you’ve done it seven times a week.”

“Even on Sunday, eh?”
Monstuart asked archly.

Having no reply to save her face, Miss Hermitage was obliged not to hear the question, nor to realize Monstuart went on looking at her, waiting for an answer. “I wonder what can be keeping Mr. Heppleworth,”
she said.

“Very likely the gout, or it could be an upset stomach, or a stop at the chemist shop,”
her mother suggested. Monstuart watched Sally closely, ready to smile if she glanced his way, but she was busy pressing an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt with her fingers.

When Heppleworth arrived a few moments later, it proved to be no medical errand but a social one that had delayed him. He had stopped at the sweet shop to purchase two large, gaudy boxes of bonbons, one for Mrs. Hermitage and one for Sally. “Sweets for the sweet,”
he said, presenting them with a flourish and wishing at the moment of truth that he had either gone whole hog and got one for Melanie, too, or had the courage to limit his gifts to Sally. The arrival of Monstuart on the scene had caused him to step up his desultory courting.

“How nice!”
Mrs. Hermitage said. “My, two whole pounds—this is a surprise. You shouldn’t have, Mr. Heppleworth.”

“Thank you,”
Sally said quietly. She wished the box were not quite so large, the satin covering not quite so red, the quantity of lace paper and bows not so great. It was the sort of gift shopkeepers presented to their lovers and it did not escape her eyes that Monstuart was biting his lips in amusement. She felt less inclined to favor Mr. Heppleworth with her company after this gift. When Monstuart got a step ahead of him to the sofa beside her, she was half-glad.

“It will look spectacular in a frame,”
he told her in a quiet aside, glancing at the box. “I suggest a very plain one, to counter the extravagance of the lid. Really, your lack of artistry will never be noticed.”

It required a deal of self-command to take this in humor, but Sally managed it. “A lovely thought, is it not?”
she asked.

“What, sweets for the sweet? Lovely, perhaps, highly original, of course, but inappropriate for Miss Hermitage.”

“I think you are not being nice, milord,”
she said through thin lips.

“It
is
costing you more than it’s worth to go on being nice in the face of such wanton provocation as
this,”
he told her, again eyeing the vulgar box. “You’ll need a dose of that paregoric draft. May I ask what accounts for this unaccustomed fit of propriety?”

“I hope I am not accustomed to behaving with anything but propriety!”

A brief, puzzled frown flitted over Monstuart’s swarthy face. Then he turned his attention to Heppleworth. Was it even remotely conceivable that Sally was putting on this show of niceness for the old slice’s benefit? Surely he was mistaken.

The Crosbys soon arrived, and dinner was called. Mrs. Hermitage set an elegant table, with two courses and two removes. With the increase to the party of the Crosbys, a conversable couple of good breeding and broad interests, the meal was a success. After dinner, Mrs. Crosby kept Melanie entertained by asking her questions about Derwent till the gentlemen joined them.

At this point, someone suggested a round of whist, and while the table was being set up there was some discussion as to who would partner Mrs. Hermitage against the Crosbys. Derwent was, of course, excused, which left Monstuart and Heppleworth. It was patently obvious that both wished to cry off and have Miss Hermitage to himself. She had only to engage one in conversation and the other would fall victim to the table. She was loath to be stuck with Heppleworth for an hour or two, yet wouldn’t satisfy Monstuart to choose him. Heppleworth, with more nerve and less manners, carried the day.

“I can’t settle down to cards so soon after a heavy meal,”
he decreed. “My stomach is always upset till I have my gargle of tea. I must sit quietly and digest my food.”

With a bland countenance and a burning temper, Monstuart begged permission to be allowed to be the fourth player. Heppleworth aided the heavy meal’s digestion by topping it off with a quarter of a pound of gooey bonbons. Miss Hermitage realized she should be relieved that she was spared Monstuart’s company. She had been on tiptoes to light into him all evening, and now she was safe. He would be at cards for an hour at least, probably more.

During the whole time, he never once glanced at her. He looked occasionally toward his nephew and Melanie, but Sally felt she might as well not have been there for all the attention he paid to her.

It seemed hours before the tea tray was brought in. If she could have drawn her sister and Derwent into the conversation, it would have relieved the tedium, but repeated hints and two direct requests brought no results. She was stuck to entertain Mr. Heppleworth by herself and eat at least a few of his bonbons, for he kept shoving the box at her.

Worst of all, it was becoming perfectly clear that she was the object of his affection. Subtle hints were dropped as to the pleasure of being “alone with her at last, suitably chaperoned, of course.”
“In the not too far distant future, I hope we may, with all
propriety,
dispense with a chaperon entirely.”
At length, Sally could endure it no longer.

She did the unthinkable. She barged in on the duo by the fireside and made them talk to her, or at least listen. Heppleworth hobbled over, too, but he was quiet. She felt as welcome as rain at a picnic, but she stayed with them till the tea was brought in. Sally usurped her mother’s prerogative and hastened to the table to pour. There was only one chair at the table, so Heppleworth could not join her.

Mrs. Crosby, a lady of some sophistication, had seen enough of Sally’s problem that she took a seat beside Mr. Heppleworth and charmed him into a discussion of all his recent ills. When all the cups were filled, Sally took hers to the farthest side of the room from her aged pursuer.

Monstuart immediately rose and joined her. “My turn,”
he said with a teasing smile. “To hound and harass you,”
he explained when she gave him a dazed look. “But I promise not to force a single bonbon down your throat. They’re ghastly. The square ones have chunks of bitter orange peel in them.”

“I know. I had four,”
she said, and was too weary to wonder whether she was being indiscreet.

“One would have been sufficient to show your good will in the matter. You don’t want to
encourage
him.”
He waited expectantly for some denial of this ridiculous charge.

Sally sat with her spine stiff and her expression schooled to primness. “Why should I not? He is very eligible. Mr. Heppleworth owns Tintagel Farm, a vast enterprise. He raises milchers.”

”That would explain his bovine manner, but it does not explain your complacence to his courting.”

Why should she “explain”
anything to this interloper? “Did you enjoy your card game?”
she asked.

“No.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“I think not. You’re delighted that I, too, have been miserable for the past sixty minutes. Don’t let politeness stand in the way of our enjoying at least the dog end of this awful evening.”

The temptation to give vent to some of her pent-up vexation was strong, but with a final effort, Sally resisted. “I’m sorry you have had a flat time.”

Monstuart’s brows drew together in perplexity. “Are you not feeling well, Miss Hermitage?”

“I feel fine.”

“You aren’t behaving like yourself. I lay the blame in Heppleworth’s dish—er, box.”

“Why do you disparage him?”
she said rather loudly. “And please lower your voice, or Mr. Heppleworth will hear you.”

“You are the one who raised her voice. And in any case, would it be a calamity if he caught a glimpse of the
real you?”

She tossed her head boldly. “Of course not. He is sufficiently smitten to withstand my manner.”

A few more efforts at flirtation were roundly snubbed. Monstuart was not accustomed to playing second fiddle to anyone, and to find himself second to an aging invalid with neither conversation nor looks put his back up. He decided to play his trump. “I shall be leaving the neighborhood tomorrow,”
he said. That should jar her out of her smugness.

A look of alarm leaped into her eyes. “Do you take Derwent with you?”

That was her only interest in him, his control over Derwent. “Good idea. I’m glad you thought of it.”

“But you said you would reconsider!”

“So I shall—at Beauwood.”

Monstuart rose and left, taking Derwent with him. As soon as the other guests left—and it was quite late before Heppleworth was finally ejected—Sally told the family the startling news.

“Derwent is coming to call tomorrow. Monstuart was only trying to frighten you,”
Melanie said. “Let him return to his mistress’s houseparty. I wish he would
stay
there.”

“I wish we knew Lady Dennison’s feeling about all this,”
Mrs. Hermitage said worriedly. “She could be some kin to Lady Mary DeBeirs, for all we know. Oh, dear, now what shall we do?”

“Let us go to bed,”
Sally suggested,

“But what has put Monstuart out of sorts?”
the mother persisted. “Did you say anything to him, Sally? I thought you looked strangely morose all evening. You didn’t offend him. I hope?”

“I didn’t say a word that could possibly offend anyone,”
Sally exclaimed. “Pray don’t lay it in
my
dish. Monstuart was looking for an excuse to forbid the match, and since he couldn’t find one, he’s going to forbid it anyway. I don’t know why he stayed so long, beast of a man.”