The Merry Month of May (6 page)

“Then I hope he makes her one very soon.”

“So do not I!”

Before more could be said, Peter took the ill-advised idea of joining them. “What do you think of this pair, eh Sara?” he asked, in a voice that invited praise.

“Very handsome, Peter.”

“Haldiman through and through.”

No one noticed Miss Harvey tripping forward, but she was not likely to stay in her seat when the only two gentlemen in the room had wandered off. “Fie, taking all the credit yourself, Peter!” she charged merrily. “They have the Harvey eyes, just like Fiona’s. Look at those long lashes. We Harveys all have them, not that I mean to puff myself off, I’m sure. Here Beau, come to Aunt Betsy. Sit on my knee.”

She wrested an unwilling Beau away from the sewing basket and held him, wiggling, on her knee. “What a sweet view you have from here, Miss Wood” was her next sally, as she peered through the curtains of a side window, whose view was impeded by a mulberry tree. “Quite like Retford. That is my papa’s estate, in upper Canada. Ten thousand acres in hard wood. Only we have no mulberry tree, and of course, our view is not hampered by a cow shed. An odd place for one,” she added, craning her neck toward the rear where the corner of the barn could be seen. Beau continued his wriggling, and she said, “Quit squirming, little monkey.”

“An odd name, Retford,” Sara remarked.

“It’s English. My mama’s family is from Derbyshire, which is why I was so eager to come to England.”

“You are going to visit your relatives, are you?” Haldiman asked with interest.

“Oh no. We have lost all track of them. My relatives now are the Haldiman family,” she pointed out. “Beau, stop yanking at my skirt.”

“I want to get down.”

“Go then,” she said, setting him on the floor with a jar. “Dear little tyke,” she added. “I am quite a mama to my nephews. When Fiona died, they stayed with me for six months, didn’t they, Peter?”

“Yes, Betsy was very kind to them.”

“Truth to tell,” Miss Harvey confided, “half the reason I am here is to be with those lads. I hope you have not taken the notion I came because of Peter.” Her laughing eye, however, seldom settled on her beloved nephews.

Haldiman spoke dispassionately, but his words held a sting. “I think a lady errs to attach herself too strongly to anyone’s children but her own. You will feel a wrench when they acquire a new mother.”

Betsy’s eyes flew to Peter, thence to Miss Wood, with a sharp, inquiring look. Rufus tugged at her skirt. “What is it now, you little mischief?” she asked sharply.

“When are we going to eat? Papa said we would have plum cake.”

“Well, I declare. There isn’t a jot of manners in your boys, Peter. Begging for something to eat, like common paupers. In Canada,” she explained to Sara, “callers are always given a bite. I daresay that is why he asks.”

With a memory of the plum cake and macaroons in the kitchen, Sara said, “I’m sure Cook has some cake,” and was happy for an excuse to escape.

Betsy gave a satisfied little sniff. “That put the bug in her ear. Fancy not serving anything but coffee, and you a lord, Haldiman.”

When her roving eye caught Haldiman with his lips open in astonishment, he rapidly invented a smile. “You will have our manners sharpened up in no time, Miss Harvey.”

“Well, for starters,” she said, pleased with the compliment, “we need not go on with Miss Harvey and Lord Haldiman forever. We are connections after all. You can call me Betsy, Rufus.”

Haldiman nodded politely. “I will be charmed to, Betsy.”

Betsy tossed her curls at Peter. “Your brother is not so toplofty as you warned me,” she chided. She turned her attention again to Haldiman. “Why, to hear him tell it, you are a regular ogre. I half expected to be beaten when we landed in last night. And by the by, Rufus, that was an excellent mount your groom gave me. A sweet goer, headstrong and fast, just as I like. In Canada, you know, we have real distances to cover, not like this poky little scrap of an island.”

“I have heard North America is larger,” Haldiman replied, with impassive good humor. Her every solecism was welcome, as showing Peter how ineligible the lady was.

“Heard? Don’t you own a map? You could practically slide England into Retford and leave room for Scotland besides.”

“I see you are feeling confined on this tight little island already, Betsy. Such a spirit as yours requires the broader spaces of Canada.”

“I doubt if I could stick it here for long, but while I am here, I mean to see what there is to see. It sets a lady a little apart to have traveled.”

“There is little enough to see in the provinces. You ought to go to London,” Haldiman suggested.

“Just what I’ve been telling Peter. We shall all get up a party to go very soon.” Her darting eyes espied a motion at the doorway. “They are serving something to eat at last. Miss Wood heeded my little hint.”

Betsy was the first one at the table. Haldiman lifted a repressive brow at his brother and said, “We shall cancel that dinner party for tonight. I hope Mama has not mentioned it.”

But when the brothers joined the others for coffee and cake, they learned their mother had already extended the invitation, and Mrs. Wood had accepted on behalf of her family. Sara was horrified to realize her afternoon’s torment was to be repeated in front of an even larger audience.

“Just a small party to welcome Peter home,” Lady Haldiman was explaining. “I sent a note off to Reverend Kane. He don’t answer, but he always turns up. Odd manners. Sir Swithin Idle is at home. He will come, and of course his mama.”

“Sir Swithin is going to paint Sara’s picture,” Mary mentioned.

“Yes, pretty as a picture to be sure,” Lady Haldiman agreed. “And an amusing rattle besides. He calls me Perdita, for Prinny was once after me for his flirt.”

“That must have been years ago,” Miss Harvey said.

“I don’t know,” Lady Haldiman murmured, shaking her head vaguely. “Where do the years go? Past reclaiming. A lovely cake, Pamela,” she added, turning her attention to Mrs. Wood.

Sara nibbled silently at her cake. How could she get out of this dinner party? Claiming a sick headache would not be inappropriate. Indeed, she felt the incipient stab of pain at her temples to even consider it. Watching her, Haldiman remembered his promise to make the visit short and soon herded the family together to leave.

As he left, he said aside to Sara, “The dinner party was Mama’s idea. Are you very displeased?”

“It sounds delightful,” she answered through thin lips.

“The first week will be the hardest, Sara. You’ll see.” He studied her tense, pale face a moment. She looked very different from the young Sara he had tried to comfort after Peter’s disappearance. That girl had been nearly speechless. The new, older Sara had developed a more forthright manner that interested him. “Idle has chosen a bad moment to capture you on canvas. I didn’t realize he ran tame here at Whitehern. Idle is a bit of a lad with the ladies, you know.”

Sara gazed at him with a steady, scornful eye, and replied, “We aging spinsters, you know, cannot afford to be choosy.”

“You don’t mean—is
that
why you are so adamant about not having Peter?” His voice was high with disbelief. It angered Sara that he should find it impossible another man found her attractive. “You and Swithin are courting?”

She was about to deny this ridiculous charge, till it occurred to her a new beau would be a wonderful shield against the old. “Now you are putting words in my mouth, Haldiman!” she replied, but in a coquettish way that encouraged the notion and also lent an unaccustomed touch of flirtation to her manner.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Eventually, no doubt, but meanwhile Swithin and I look forward to seeing you this evening.”

Haldiman just shook his head in wonder.

Miss Harvey, observing their private tête-à-tête, found it every bit as annoying as having Peter moon after Miss Wood. It had not escaped her notice that Lord Haldiman, an earl and owner of a much more impressive estate than the Poplars, was a bachelor. He seemed so fond of her.

“I say, Rufus, get a hand on Beau, will you?” she called. “He’s chasing after that ugly old spotted mutt. He’ll come home with fleas if we’re not careful.”

Haldiman gave a quick glance at Sara. “Folks are less formal in the colonies. She asked me to call her Betsy,” he explained.

“My dog does not have fleas!” Sara said, and slammed the door.

The sun was beginning to lower when Sir Swithin arrived with his sketch pad and patent pens to begin Sara’s portrait. He wore an absurd violet smock to protect his superfine jacket and sprigged waistcoat, and looked a fool. The crowning touch was a satin beret sliding rakishly off the side of his head. “I always feel costume is so important to set the mood, don’t you?” he asked, in a rhetorical spirit.

“Have you heard, Sir Swithin? Lord Peter is back!” Mary exclaimed.

“I have heard,” he frowned. “It always distresses me when real life plagiarizes fiction. One feels the sky should have opened and poured down thunderbolts to accompany his coming. Mrs. Radcliffe would have done no less. I daresay such an alarming event as his return takes precedence over my toilette.”

Sara was eager to quit the other subject and said, “Very stylish, Swithin. You’ve left it late to begin the picture.”

“By design, my dear. The sun’s morning rays are not for maturity. They seek out every little trace of Mr. Crow’s claw, just there at the corner of the eye. Not that I mean to infer you are in anything but a perfect state of preservation, barring those few infinitesimally small lines. I shall omit them from the portrait.”

Mary took up her position at his elbow. “Have you sent out the invitations to our ball yet?” she asked eagerly.

“Sent them out? Dear child, I have not even begun to design them. An Idle ball must have a theme, with invitations to match. My audience expect no less of me. Hand-drawn invitations, you know. I do not agree with the anonymity of an engraver’s stamp. Sit over there, beneath the lilacs, Sara. I want the shadows on your brow to suggest an air of mystery and brooding. Perhaps if you would just lift your hand to shade your eyes, as if you were looking out to sea.”

“Out to the cow barn, you mean,” she corrected.

“Let us not be too literal, my pet. It will be the rolling ocean’s swell when I finish with it. Marvelous news that Lord Peter has returned. I wish I had caught you before that happy event. I fear your smiles will quite upset the harmony of my composition.”

“What smiles?” Mary demanded, and gave a vivid account of the afternoon’s meeting.

“The colonial sounds vastly amusing” was his only comment. “I adore genuine vulgarity.”

“Sara says she won’t have Lord Peter,” Mary said. “I think he’s very handsome.”

“How will you escape him, Sara?” Idle asked, standing back and making a frame of his finger to set the bounds of his painting.

“By saying no, if he has the poor taste to offer. No one can expect me to accept. It is illogical to assume I would want him now.”

“Never put your faith in logic, in affairs of the heart. That invariably leads to mischief. Did not Eve seduce Adam by means of logic?”

“I thought you would help me, Idle,” Sara replied warily. “If he believed I had another gentleman in my eye, he might desist.”

“Lovely. I’m flattered to death. I always adore romantic intrigues. You could not have chosen your man more felicitously, for I am a marvelous actor. It will be quite a commedia dell’arte, complete with improvisation. What pitch of passion are you and I to have reached?”

“Only a very low pitch,” Sara replied.

He cast a conning smile on her. “Acting without passion is like hearing Mozart hummed. The greater refinements are lacking. Restraint was never my long suit, especially in the gentle art of love.”

“I have enough restraint for both of us.”

“And I enough passion.”

“How long must I hold my hand up to my eyes.”

“I shall begin my sketch immediately.”

He was silent while he worked and insisted that Sara, too, be still, which left the burden of talk to Mary. She pestered Idle with suggestions for his ball. After half an hour, he was pleased with his preliminary sketch.

“I shall transfer this to canvas this evening and return tomorrow to recapture more permanently, if I can, the wonderful spontaneity of this quick sketch. It’s charming, don’t you think?”

The ladies admired it, prodded by the artist to praise his clever touches here and there. “You will notice I omitted that rather pedestrian gown and brooch you are wearing, Sara. I will want your throat and shoulders exposed for the final work. Nothing salacious, ça
va sans dire,
but a touch of opalescent flesh to emphasize your womanhood. And the tresses flowing, caressed by a sympathetic zephyr whispering of tragedy at sea. Such a tragedy that Peter has returned.”

Sara cast a withering stare at him. “So that’s what you are up to! Portraying me as a heartbroken tragedienne.”

“Your history has always intrigued me,” he admitted. “Reality is inevitably a letdown, is it not?” He did not wait for an answer, but said, “What will you wear this evening? If you are to be my flirt, you must look your prettiest, my pet. Something just a trifle daring, if you possess such a garment?”

“I shan’t disgrace you,” Sara promised. She was beginning to think the evening might not be so dismal as she had feared. At the back of her mind it was not just Peter she wished to put in his place. She would enjoy to show Haldiman a lesson as well.

Idle put his sketch pad under his arm. “It will lend credence to our little melodrama if we arrive
ensemble,
will it not? I shall call for you, and we shall follow your mama and Mary to the Hall. Sevenish?” he asked.

“We have to be there by seven,” Mary told him.

“My dear child, I never arrive on time. It makes one appear too easy. Let the company simmer awhile, wondering if I am to come at all. I shall be
here
around seven, we shall enjoy a glass of wine and depart for the Hall before seven-thirty. Perdita is such a glutton she will begin dinner without us if we tarry longer. And now, adieu.” He bowed, and minced across the meadow, clutching his sketch pad.