The Merry Month of May (2 page)

In the orchard Sara wandered beneath the trees. The blossoms were mostly on the ground now, perfuming the air with the cloying sweetness of flowers in decay. The fallen petals gave the illusion of walking through snow. She and Peter had walked here the day before their wedding. How tumultuously excited she had been, wondering if
she dare tell him. And in the end, she hadn’t, of course.

How did you tell a man, on the very eve of your nuptials, that you didn’t want to marry him? Had Peter sensed it? Is that why he had left? No, he hadn’t suspected anything. He wasn’t a sensitive man. “Oh, Polly! She is only a servant. That doesn’t mean anything,” he had told her in a huffy way, and she had been too shy and uncertain to cancel the wedding. Why had she ever accepted an offer from him? Of course, he was damnably handsome, with the Haldiman dark good looks. Much more handsome than his older brother. And he was a nobleman. Everyone had been so amazed at her fortune, Mama and especially Papa.

Heady with the success of having captured a handsome nobleman, she had really accepted him because her father had been so thrilled at the offer. And within two years, Papa was dead. If she had accepted to please him, his pleasure would have been short-lived, but she would have been stuck with Peter for the rest of her life.

A shiver of relief trembled up her spine. She felt horrid, having everyone think she was grieving when Peter disappeared. Eventually they assumed he had drowned. Her primary emotion had been relief, then sorrow for Peter’s death, then guilt. When had the guilt crept in? Wishing she had the courage to break off with him hadn’t killed him. That was irrational. And really, what was the point in telling anyone the truth after Peter was gone? It was easier on everyone, including herself, to just let the world go on thinking she was heartbroken.

Peter would have made a wretched husband. He used his good looks and good birth to attract women. Even after they were betrothed, he had been unfaithful—and with Polly, a servant in his own house. He never would have offered for her if she had fallen under his spell as quickly and easily as the others. Why had he offered? Sheer stubbornness, insisting on having what he thought he couldn’t. There had been a physical attraction, of course, but not real love. Even at eighteen, she had sensed that something was missing.

Thinking of that wretched spring always brought a melancholy expression to Sara’s face. The experience had left her with a deep-seated lack of confidence in her judgment. Her near brush with marriage didn’t encourage her to try it again. She felt she was well off as she was. At twenty-four she wasn’t likely to receive any proposals, and it was a relief. Next year she would put on her caps and people would stop telling her it was time to forget Peter and look about for a different match.

Lord Haldiman sat in his oak-lined study, a glass of port at his elbow, as he gazed with unseeing eyes at a painting of his ancestral home, formally known as the Vynery, but called Haldiman Hall by the locals. The painting, executed upon the house’s completion in the late sixteen hundreds, differed dramatically from the present structure. He rather regretted that the row of statues along the roofline and the central dome had been lost in a fire shortly after construction. The roofline now was flat, stretching for hundreds of yards, punctuated only by chimneys. Austere gray stone lent more formality than charm to the place.

But Lord Haldiman noticed none of this. His mind was far away, six years away. Mama had forgotten it was the anniversary of Peter’s disappearance. Lord Haldiman didn’t use the word “death” in his private thoughts, though it was the word used in public. He wouldn’t remind her. Why drag up all that wretched business again?

He drained his glass and refilled it, then set it aside. Six years, and not a word. What the devil had Peter done? Where had he gone? No one was forcing him to marry Miss Wood. It had been his own idea.

If he were alive, they would have heard from him before now. He would have been pestering the lawyers for his money. It had been almost a relief when Peter disappeared. A wastrel, a rake, and a born troublemaker. He would have made a sorry groom for Miss Wood, but Peter seemed genuinely in love with her. The family hoped a good woman might settle him down, and, of course, old Mr. Wood had pushed the marriage forward.

The longcase clock in the hall chimed ten bells, rousing Lord Haldiman from his reverie. He must see if Mama had fallen asleep on the sofa again and have her woman put her to bed. There was a knock on the front door as he passed into the hall, and the butler walked carefully over the polished marble from his cubbyhole to answer it.

“Who the devil can be calling at this hour?” Haldiman scowled. His face, rather a handsome one, took on a harsh appearance when he was displeased. His black brows drew together and his lips thinned as the severe, aristocratic geometry of his face stiffened in impatience. “Tell them to come back tomorrow, unless it’s my game warden. I told Bushkin to notify me immediately if he caught the poachers.”

The butler nodded and threw the door open as Haldiman disappeared into the gold saloon. The muffled, low voices at the front door were ignored. Careless of the surrounding grandeur, Lord Haldiman looked at his mother, sprawled out on the sofa with her mouth open. Poor Mama. She had never been a beauty, but with age she had gone deaf, and her deafness seemed to have made her vague. Her cap, riding askew, was crushed in
a
mat of gray hair. A brilliant blue shawl vied with the purple of her gown. And with those colors she wore garnets! Mama, who used to be the best-dressed woman in the countryside! She looked like a vagrant, straggled by accident into all this elegance.

“I’m hungry!” a young voice bellowed in the hallway. Haldiman was curious enough to go in search of the speaker.

Before he reached the doorway, not one but two young boys in short coats bowled forward and began tearing around the room like a pair of colts. One was six inches shorter than the other. Neither was old enough to be in school. Haldiman blinked in surprise. He had no doubt they were some relatives. They had the unmistakable air of the Haldimans, with their black hair and dark eyes. Cousin Gloria? She had two youngsters ...

He prepared a civil face and went into the hallway, ready to “welcome” the tardy intruders. As soon as he clamped an eye on the lady, he knew it wasn’t Cousin Gloria. This one was a commoner, a petite blonde, with a round face and bold brown eyes. She seemed to be doing an inventory of the hallway. Her sharp eyes traveled from the marble floor to the embossed ceiling, stopping to evaluate every picture and statue in between.

While she gazed, Haldiman took in her rumpled traveling suit. It was of decent material, but poorly cut and of a garish red shade. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her servants should use the back door. But very likely she was the nursery maid, accompanying the boys. He looked over her shoulder, hoping for a glimpse of her employer. The man, a tall, well-formed one, was in shadows. As Haldiman waited, the man stepped into the light.

“Hallo, Rufus,” he said warily.

Haldiman felt a singing in his ears. His head spun, and for a moment he felt he had fainted.
It was Peter!
He just stared, waiting for the hazy face to focus into some other form, to assume the aspect of Cousin George Deverel, or some other relative. The outlines firmed into the unmistakable features of Peter. A little older, of course. The boyish bloom was off him. His complexion was ruddy and his cheeks fuller, but it was Peter.

“Good God! Where did you come from?” Haldiman exclaimed, in a whisper of disbelief.

“America, actually.” Peter stepped forward and shook Haldiman’s hand. “I should have written first. Daresay this is a bit of a shock for you, Rufus.”

The boys had careened back into the hall. The elder shouted, “Papa. Papa, I want to see the knights in armor. I want to ride the ponies. When can we eat?”

Haldiman stared in horror at the boys, and at the woman in the red suit, then back at his brother. A myriad of ghastly possibilities assailed him, including illegitimate children and blackmail. Peter smiled uneasily. “Heh, heh. You didn’t know I was a father, eh? You’re an uncle twice over, old man.”

“Are you married?” Haldiman demanded harshly.

The young lady exclaimed, “Well, upon my word!” in high dudgeon.

Haldiman shook himself to attention. “Sorry. This is Lady Peter, I collect?”

“Oh no!” Peter said.

Again Haldiman felt that strange sound in his ears. He feared what new calamity he was about to hear.

“This is Betsy Harvey, my wife’s sister,” Peter explained.

“Ever so happy to meet you,” Miss Harvey said, offering her gloved hand. “You have a lovely place here, Lord Haldiman.” She was quite miffed when Haldiman ignored her compliment, though he shook her hand.

“Where is Lady Peter?” he asked his brother.

“Fiona died, Rufus,” Peter said in a low voice. “Died of a miscarriage a year ago. I—I decided to bring my lads home and rear them as proper Englishmen.”

“Not to say that Canadians aren’t perfect gentlemen,” Miss Harvey interjected hastily.

“When can we eat?” one of the boys demanded in a loud voice.

“Hush, Rufus,” his father said.

Haldiman, untouched at the honor of having his nephew named after him, looked a question at Miss Harvey. “You and Miss Harvey are engaged?” he asked. Why else would he have brought her with him from America? Miss Harvey gave a bold smile at this assumption.

“Not at all. Miss Harvey has never been to England. It seemed too good an opportunity for her to miss,” Peter explained.

“I traveled with my woman,” Miss Harvey threw in. “They trotted her upstairs to unpack for me. There was nothing improper in it if
that’s
what you’re thinking. I may not have blue blood, but the Harveys are as good as anyone. Tell him, Peter.”

“Oh, excellent family,” Peter said. “Vast tracts of timber in upper Canada. Fiona and Betsy are—were heiresses.”

Betsy smiled and nodded her head as if to say, “So there, Mr. High and Mighty.” Her actual words were, “I have an uncle, a judge, and a cousin, a governor.”

“If you don’t give me some food, I will eat the flowers,” young Rufus announced. The smaller boy sat down and began to cry.

Haldiman beckoned the wide-eyed butler and had the boys taken to the kitchen. “I expect you are hungry as well,” he said to Miss Harvey.

“I could nibble something,” she answered eagerly. “We haven’t had a bite since five. I told Peter to stop over at Ringwood and continue on in the morning, but no, he listens to no one but himself. He must be home tonight. Not that his pockets are to let,” she added swiftly. “Betsy left him very well to grass. Her fortune would amount to twenty-five thousand in your money.”

Haldiman blinked in astonishment at this forthright recital. “I’ll ask the butler to bring some mutton as soon as he returns. Meanwhile you will want to see Mama, Peter.”

“Yes, I’ll go right up.”

“She’s in the saloon. I had best prepare her.”

Lady Haldiman’s failing ears had picked up a slight commotion in the hall and she came straggling out, rearranging her skirts and pulling her cap up. “Who is calling at such an ungodly hour? Has there been an accident?” She looked at Peter, shook her head, looked at Haldiman, a strangled sound caught in her throat, and she swooned away in a dead faint.

Miss Harvey shrugged her shoulders and asked, “What ails the old malkin? That must be your nanny, eh Peter?”

“She is my mother.”

“Lud, you never mean it!”

There was a scurry of carrying Lady Haldiman to a sofa, calling for wine and a feather to be burned, and fanning her. Miss Harvey elbowed the gentlemen aside and said, “Let me take care of her. I’ve often seen the old ladies at home cave in. Their first sight of an Indian usually does it. I must loosen her gown.”

After a moment Lady Haldiman opened her eyes again, and seemed perfectly restored to health and sanity. “Good God, Peter! What a turn you gave me. I thought it was you. So you have decided to come home, eh? Where is our tea, Rufus? You know Peter likes his tea. And this is your lady, I suppose?”

“No, Mama. This is Miss Harvey, my wife’s sister.”

“Missed her? You never mean she’s left without saying good day to me.”

“Mama is hard of hearing,” Peter explained to Miss Harvey, and turned back to his mother. “My wife is dead, Mama,” he said, loud and clear.

“Ah, she is the wise one. We should all be in our beds. I shall see her in the morning. Then who is this pretty young thing?” she asked, turning to Miss Harvey.

After two or three repetitions, Lady Haldiman had grasped the details. Tea arrived and while the new arrivals ate, Lady Haldiman and her elder son sipped tea and exchanged uncertain, troubled glances.

“I am the proud father of two boys, Mama,” Peter said.

“No, no, we shan’t bother with toys tonight,” she agreed, frowning. “I am not at all sure your toys are still here, Peter. I gave a lot of old things to the church sale. How long have you been married?”

“Five years.”

“And no children, eh? A pity. You will have to marry and try again.”

“I have two sons.”

“Two months? You have all your life. There is no rush. I daresay you will offer for Sara again.”

Peter flushed a deep pink and looked at Miss Harvey. That young lady’s eyes flashed and she demanded, “And who, pray, might Sara be?

“A neighbor,” Haldiman replied dampingly.

She looked coyly at Peter. “I believe you had a flirt before leaving home,” she teased. “Not a word of that did you mention to Fiona, you sly dog.”

“There is no need to buy one,” Lady Haldiman told her. “We have half a dozen dogs around the place.”

Miss Harvey rolled her eyes ceilingward in amusement.

The uneasy conversation continued for half an hour. When Miss Harvey was replete and Lady Haldiman thoroughly awake, the ladies retired to bed.

“Shall I take my old room?” Peter asked.

“You and I have a few things to discuss before you retire,” Rufus told him. “In my study, if you please.”