The Merry Month of May (18 page)

“I see you got your rig repaired,” Betsy remarked, with a gimlet shot from her brown eyes, before turning all her attention to Mr. Moore and ignoring her host entirely.

The half-hour drive to the chosen stretch of beach was accomplished without incident. The sky paled from blue to white as they progressed, but there was a globe of dull orange behind the misty clouds that was taken as a harbinger of continuing fair weather. The coast fell gently from grassy slopes to a stretch of shingled beach, and beyond the beach the gray-green water rippled off to the horizon. A breeze that oldsters would call nasty, younger adults slightly chilly, and children ignore, blew constantly from the sea.

While the servants took charge of making a fire for tea and arranging refreshments, the younger members of the party went immediately to the water. Ere long, Mary and Richard, like Peter’s boys, had their shoes off and were wading in the foam. Even Lord Peter found it not beneath his dignity to pull off his boots and socks and join them. The more sedate members of the party contented themselves with strolling in a group away from the water, but close enough to gather shells and smooth pebbles.

“I expect your ocean is more impressive in Canada,” Sir Swithin remarked languidly to Miss Harvey. He was rather bored and hoped to enliven the visit with some ill manners.

“It’s the same old water, isn’t it?” she answered. “Mind you, our rivers make yours look like creeks. The St. Lawrence—now there is a river. You can scarcely see across it. After crossing the Atlantic, and having to cross it again when I go home, I don’t much care to spend a day just looking at it.”

“Have you made plans to return home?” Sir Swithin asked. Every ear in the group stretched to hear her answer.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” she demanded. “I may surprise the lot of you and stay.”

“But what of the tall timbers? You are their inheritor, I think?”

“They can be chopped down by a steward, and the money sent to me. Or Papa could sell the whole estate and join me here.” She slid a sly eye toward Moore. “I’m not all that eager to leave England.”

Mr. Moore smiled uneasily at Haldiman. “Actually, I would rather like to see America and Canada,” he said.

“Oh ho! You see what he is hinting at,” she laughed. “I have painted too attractive a picture of Retford for you, Kevin. But you have made London sound very enticing to me.”

She drew ahead with Moore, giving the remainder of the party a perfect view of their flirtation. She leapt at every wave that came near her, using it as an excuse to flaunt her ankles and clutch on to Moore’s arm for assistance. She shrieked at every breeze that lifted her skirt or moved her bonnet and generally behaved like the hoyden she was.

Sara’s eyes turned from Miss Harvey to Haldiman, still unable to credit any attachment on his side. Yet there was no denying he was keenly interested in her antics. The clenching of his jaw looked wonderfully like jealousy. After a long walk, Sir Swithin announced that he had communed enough with raw nature and was ready to commune with her more refined daughter, the grape. Sara went with him to a trestle table above the beach, where some optimistic soul had felt an umbrella might be required against the sun.

In the privacy of its shade, Sara said, “You have observed the soi-disant lovers, Sir Swithin. Have you reached a verdict yet?”

“The case is as plain as the nose on your face, my dear, but not so pretty. The Sauvage is employing all her Indian manners plus the handsome mannequin, Moore, to incite Lord Peter to a pitch of jealous passion that will culminate in an offer of marriage.”

“It seems to me it is Haldiman who is jealous.”

“That would be because you have not bothered toobserve Lord Peter. His body is with his sons in thesurf, but his eyes and heart are with the Sauvage.A man’s knuckles do not turn white from pleasureat seeing his sons wade in water to their knees andyelp like hyenas. It is only fear and hatred thatwhiten the knuckles. He fears losing her, and, onesurmises, hates Moore for being so handsome andavailable.”

“Then why is Haldiman in such a snit?”

“I fancy he has some misapprehension Moore will run off with Peter’s heiress, landing the disgrace of not protecting her in his dish. You will observe as well that half his glares are for us,” he added, glancing beachward.

Looking where he indicated, Sara noticed that Haldiman was regarding them. He said something to Peter and left, to walk swiftly to the table. Sara immediately assumed an expression of total indifference and gazed past him, down to the beach.

“I could do with some of that wine,” he said, pouring himself a glass.

“You will like it, I think. It is champagne from my cellar,” Idle said. “And now if you will bear Sara company, Haldiman, I shall gather a few choice specimens of seashells for my collection. Pray do not ask what I plan to do with them. I confess my only plan is to throw them into a box with the others I have collected over the years. Seashells and smooth pebbles always defeat. One feels there is an artwork waiting to be contrived from them, but in the end they go into the box to gather dust.”

Haldiman sat down and looked uncertainly at Sara’s averted profile. His eyes lingered a moment on the sweep of lashes, the straight nose, slightly tilted at the end, and the clean line of throat. “We got a nice day for our outing,” he said.

“Yes, lovely. The boys are certainly enjoying it.”

“They’ll sleep like tops tonight.”

She turned her face halfway toward him. “Do they have trouble sleeping?” she asked dutifully. They both felt they ought to be speaking of something more interesting than the sleeping habits of Peter’s boys, but found the transition difficult to make.

“A little, at first. They’re settling in now.”

“I expect they miss their home.”

“This is their home now. Peter doesn’t speak of returning.”

“I see.”

Mary and Deverel joined them for a glass of wine, and private conversation was at an end. Sara’s only consolation was that Haldiman looked frustrated at their arrival. He looked as though he wished to say something, but he didn’t say it. Before long the others left the beach, and it was time for food. Platters of fowl and meat and bread and pickles were laid on the table, with fruit, cheese, and a hamper of sweets waiting to replace them.

“Look at the tiny little chickens!” Betsy laughed, holding aloft a squab. “It would fit in the egg of one of our turkeys at home.”

“That is not a chicken. It’s a pigeon,” Mary told her.

Betsy dropped it as if it were a worm. “Aaagh. You mean we are
eating
dirty old pigeons?”

“They are considered a delicacy,” Mr. Deverel told her. “Why do you think people have dovecotes?”

“I thought they were ornaments, like gazebos. Lud! I expect you eat crows and robins as well. Pass me an orange, Mary. I like to know what I am eating.”

“This pigeon tastes good, Aunt Betsy,” Rufus assured her.

“Put it down, child. You’ll get worms, or worse.”

“Here, have an eel pie instead,” Mr. Deverel said, to roast her.

“Oh no! You are making me positively ill, Richard. You are teasing me. How horrid you are. I cannot imagine what you see in this quiz, Mary. Get me an orange at once, Kevin. I will not eat eels or pigeons.”

By such simple and vulgar ruses as this, Miss Harvey managed to dominate the luncheon and make it unpleasant for everyone else, except Beau and Rufus, who thought her a regular jokesmith, and laughed uproariously.

“You disappoint me, Miss Harvey,” Idle said sadly, for he resented anyone stealing attention from him. “Our colonial daughters, like Shakespeare’s ambition, should be made of sterner stuff.”

“Oh, Shakespeare, I have no opinion of him. If a man cannot say what he means without a pageful of
prithee’
s and antique words, he should put down his quill.”

“He has, actually,” Mr. Deverel pointed out.

“How horrid this boy is. You must teach him some manners, Mary. He is making sport of me, calling me an ignoramus. As if I did not know Shakespeare is dead. Mama got a set of his books for a wedding gift, and they were already unreadable then. We have had all his books at Retford Hall forever.”

“Forever is so short, in Canada,” Idle smiled. “When we speak of ‘forever’ in England, Miss Harvey, we usually refer to the Middle Ages, or earlier.”

Betsy glinted a malicious smile at him. “I have often noted the age of English culture. Especially your graybeard jokes.”

Despite her delicate palate, Miss Harvey made a good meal and enjoyed herself immensely. When she was finished, she suggested they go home.

“There are hours of daylight yet,” Peter pointed out.

“What else is there to do? We have walked along the water. We have eaten. No one thought to hire a boat, it seems, and the water is too frigid to swim. We will have time for a canter if we leave now. Let us go home. Besides, Kevin has to pack. He is leaving this evening.”

“Tonight!” Haldiman exclaimed in alarm. “You didn’t mention this, Moore.”

“I had a letter from a friend who is on his way to London. I am meeting him in the village—if you will be kind enough to see I get there. My carriage lost a wheel,” he added lamely, as he knew his imaginary carriage was long overdue for repairs.

“Oh, certainly. At what time ...”

“I am meeting my friend at the inn at eight-thirty. I shall have to leave immediately after dinner, which is why I must go to the Hall now and pack.”

Miss Harvey was not the only one feeling the tedium of the outing. With the cheerful word that Mr. Moore wished to prepare to leave, the others agreed to return home at once. The only change in the arrangement within the carriages was that Betsy and Moore went in Deverel’s rig. Sara noted this with curiosity. She could not think it indicated any lessening of Haldiman’s interest in Betsy. He would not have asked
her to go with Deverel. It was obviously her own idea.

And Mr. Moore was leaving. What did that indicate? It was assumed he only hung around in hopes of attaching Betsy. Had she rejected him then ... as a forerunner to accepting Haldiman? She mentioned this to Idle.

“It has nothing to do with anything,” he decided, after a moment’s musing. “Moore is taking advantage of a free trip to London.
C’est tout.
I daresay his welcome at the Hall is wearing thin. His sort leave before they are quite shown the door, in hope of being asked again. One cannot help feeling sorry for them. We who have money are too swift to point the finger of scorn at our less endowed brethren. Having delivered that requisite platitude, however, I shall add that perennial guests like Moore ought to make more effort to be amusing. Were I in his position, I would attach myself to the hostess like a barnacle and make myself indispensable to her comfort.”

“Lady Haldiman would not make for easy attaching though,” Sara said, and drew a deep sigh.

The fresh sea air had made her sleepy, and when Deverel arrived after dinner, she went to her room. She lay on her bed, thinking. How odd that little Mary should have found a husband before she did. Richard had proved, on closer acquaintance, to be unexceptionable. His good sense was already having a beneficial influence on Mary. She no longer quoted Miss Harvey as her arbiter in social matters.

* * * *

At the Hall Miss Harvey also announced she was “fagged to death after all that fresh air,” and would have a lie-down. Her announcement came not five minutes after Mr. Moore’s departure. She had accompanied him to the door and had a few private words with him before he left. No one thought anything of it.

“It is pretty early,” Peter pointed out. With Moore bounced off, he hoped to rush his own suit with Betsy forward.

“I plan to come down again,” she said. “I shall just read for a bit and return for a nightcap, about ten.” Her eyes batted an invitation at Peter. “Will you still be up?”

“I never retire that early,” he assured her.

Lady Haldiman made an early night of it, too. It was only Haldiman and Peter who sat below, chatting idly as they scanned the journals. The former had taken the habit of waiting up for Deverel, to learn what was said at Whitehern. Mostly he wanted to know if Sir Swithin had been there. Peter kept an eye on the longcase clock, counting the minutes till ten. Ten o’clock came and went, with no sign of Betsy. At ten-thirty, he became restive.

“She said ten o’clock,” he mentioned to his brother.

“No doubt she nodded off.”

“But she ain’t in bed. She would not undress when she planned to come back down. Perhaps I should have her woman just take a look in.”

“You can speak to her in the morning,” Haldiman replied.

“Yes.” Peter tapped his fingers nervously on his knees a moment. “But I think I shall just have her woman take a look in,” he decided, and rang for the butler to deliver the message.

Deverel returned and had a glass of wine, over which he was discreetly quizzed. “Any other company at Whitehern?” Haldiman asked blandly.

“Not for most of the evening. Idle—what a quiz the man is—arrived late, about nine-thirty, with a poem he wanted to read Miss Wood. She came downstairs to meet him, though she had said earlier she had the megrims. She did look drawn, but Swithin was still there, prosing her ear off
,
when I left.”

“I don’t know what Mrs. Wood is about, letting that popinjay run tame.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the butler. They knew by his bulging eyes he had great news, and when he spoke, he spoke in an ominous voice. “I’m afraid it is impossible to speak to Miss Harvey, Lord Peter.”

“Good God! She’s not taken ill!” Peter exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

“She’s not here at all. She’s gone, bag and baggage,” the butler announced.

“Gone!” Peter looked wildly from butler to brother. “What do you mean, gone!”

“Gone, and her woman with her.”

“Impossible. Deverel—was she at Whitehern?”

“Lord, no. What would she be doing there in the middle of the night?”

“Did she say anything to you in the carriage on the way home?”

Deverel tugged his ear. “It’s odd, now you mention it. She kept telling Mary how much she had enjoyed her company, and how she’d never forget her. I remember Mary laughing and saying that she sounded as though they would never meet again. But that’s all. She did not say word one about actually leaving.”