The Savage Miss Saxon (19 page)

If the servants were grateful for the temporary lull in social activity caused by the weather, their gratitude was offset by the heavy burdens Mrs. Anselm placed on them. It seemed that the woman had taken it into her head to completely rearrange the furnishings at Linton Hall—calling them too austere and masculine to be borne by a person of her sensibilities.

While stopping short of actually ripping down draperies and ordering new furniture (although she spoke quite openly of the merits of creating an Egyptian room in the current solar and using elephant feet as table bases in the morning room), she had the servants racing to and from the attics morn ’til night hunting out knickknacks and falderals that she placed on any bare surface to “give the place some personality.”

Now that the rain had stopped, she told Poole she planned to do some thinking regarding the grounds surrounding Linton Hall—an idea Poole heartily endorsed, believing it would at least keep the meddling woman out from underfoot in his butler’s pantry.

While Rupert sulked, Helene simpered, Mrs. Anselm schemed, and the boys shuffled about aimlessly, Linton himself was busy in his library-office, searching out old documents and tracing his family back to the infamous Linton ancestor whose signature appeared on Alexandra’s condemning parchment scroll.

He had already made a copy of the scroll and sent it off to his solicitors in London, but he found he could not let the matter rest there and had begun his own private investigation into the validity of the thing. So far his search had uncovered no similar parchment in his own family archives, but that did not mean one did not exist.

Deep in his own pursuits, he did not notice or refused to lend credence to Mrs. Anselm’s meddling in the domestic affairs of Linton Hall. Poole and his servants put this down to their master’s being caught up in the throes of True Love and excused him.

They were more than a little perplexed, however, that the Anselms were still in residence and making no preparations for leaving, even now that the weather had cleared. Surely that encroaching old woman could not really believe their master would break his engagement to Miss Saxon and take up with Helene Anselm again. It wouldn’t be proper, for one thing, and besides, the master had compromised the poor girl, hadn’t he?

And that’s just what Sir Alexander was telling that same encroaching old woman within five minutes of taking up his glass of gin and depositing himself inelegantly beside her, dangerously straining the construction of the small loveseat they now shared. “Don’t want this bruited about, Matilda,” he said baldly, “but Linton
did
compromise m’granddaughter, you know. So if you’re hanging about here thinkin’ he’ll come up to scratch with your die-away daughter over there, you’re sadly mistaken. Don’t wish to hurt you, Matilda, but there it is. Best pack your bags and move on to greener pastures. The chit ain’t exactly in her first youth anymore, is she?”

Mrs. Anselm raised one pudgy hand to her small diamond necklace and leaned toward Sir Alexander. “You mean to tell me the gel’s pregnant, Alex?” she whispered, her expression more lascivious than aghast.

Sir Alexander jumped back on his seat as if he had been suddenly poked in the posterior with a loose cushion spring. “Matilda!” he ejaculated, feigning shock. “You have a filthy mind, you know that?”

Watching this interchange from across the room, Nicholas thought it might be safer to remove Alexandra from the saloon for a little while and let the two old adversaries spar without the subjects of their duel as witnesses. Before Alix could protest, he slipped a hand neatly under her arm and guided her into the hallway. “Since we still have some time before Poole calls us in to dinner, I thought you might like a small tour of your future home—only to impress my house guests, I assure you.” At Alexandra’s nod of consent (the conversation between her grandfather and Mrs. Anselm had not gone undetected by her, and much as she would like to think she was above such feelings, she was still experiencing some embarrassment over what she had heard and did not quite trust her own voice), Nicholas led her toward the center staircase leading up to the second floor and the family apartments.

“I believe there are several interesting rooms on this floor—filled with paintings and other works of art my ancestors have collected over the years—but there is one type of room I am convinced you will find most intriguing. We have several such rooms, you understand, but I shall only direct you to one of them.”

“If you’re talking about the Linton family bedchambers, I assure you I have no great desire to step foot in any of them ever again,” Alexandra told him, finding her voice once more. “But recall, Nicholas, it was a Linton bedchamber that got me into this muddle in the first place.”

The Earl allowed himself a small smile of reminiscence before telling her, “Although I admit the thought of luring you into my personal bedchamber on the ruse of giving you a tour of my household does hold a certain charm, the room I had in mind is a water closet.”

“What!” Alexandra fairly shouted, stopping dead in her tracks.

“You heard me,” he replied silkily. “Let me see now. It was around about 1775 when that dear man Mr. Alexander Cummings developed the first water closet, although Linton Hall waited for Joseph Brahmah to improve on Mr. Cummings’s idea and our household sports the Brahmah closet, actually.”

Alexandra put her hands on her hips and faced Linton. “What would make you think I would be interested in seeing a stupid water closet?” Her belligerent stance openly dared him to answer her.

Linton shrugged his shoulders in feigned innocence. “Nostalgia?” he offered. “After all, living at Saxon Hall all this time, you may have developed an attachment of sorts for articles you have not seen lately.”

“Funny, Nicholas,” Alix told him tightly. “Very funny. Now wipe that asinine smile off your face before I push you headfirst down the stairs.”

A look of dejection came over Nicholas’s face before he seemed to brighten with inspiration. “Perhaps you would rather have a tour of the grounds before it gets too dark,” he ventured eagerly. “There’s a lovely Ruin m’grandmother had built in the east garden.”

“She did what?” Alix was forced by curiosity to inquire, while all the while nursing a deep foreboding that once again Nicholas was enjoying himself at her expense.

“I said m’grandmother had a Ruin built—a Gothic Ruin. They were all the rage a while back, you know.”

Alexandra looked perplexed. “Why would anyone want to build a Ruin? I don’t understand.”

Linton shook his head and agreed with her. “Truth to tell, I can’t understand the reasoning behind it myself. Why, I’ve heard it said some people even
live
in ruins—imagine that!”

Alix opened her mouth, realized that whatever she said would lead her only more deeply down the path Mannering had so neatly set her upon, and closed it again. Live in a ruin, indeed! How insufferable he was to keep pointing out the shortcomings of Saxon Hall. Well, if he thought such strategy would lead her to see marriage to him as some sort of salvation, he had another thought or two coming! Turning on her heel, she tramped back downstairs to the saloon, her head held high. How dare he think she was so soft as to allow creature comforts to override her resolve!

Just as she was about to enter the saloon another thought struck her and she whirled about to face her tormentor, nearly causing him to cannon into her, so abrupt was her aboutface. “Besides,” she said, taking him totally unawares, “if the scroll proves legal I won’t need to leg-shackle myself to you just to gain your sumptuous Brahmah closets—they’ll be mine by right. You’d best be good to me, Linton. Stay on my right side and I may allow you to take up residence at Saxon Hall until you can find a decent job someplace to earn your keep. I regret to say I do not know the name of the person who invented the garderobe, but as you would only spend your time cursing the poor soul as you endure those cold winter mornings, I cannot say I am sorry.”

Linton bowed deeply in front of Alix. “
Touché
, my love,” he told her handsomely. “But I suggest we wait until your conquest is official before we let the others in on our little secret, if you don’t mind. Jeremy, remember—I’d hate to upset the boy without reason.”

This mild rebuff bringing a rush of color to invade Alexandra’s cheeks, observors of the little scene came to their own conclusions as to what was passing between the engaged couple—causing delighted smiles to come to the faces of some of them and deep scowls to register on others.

Poole entered then, summoning them all to a dinner that Mrs. Anselm had planned personally. The dinner table was arranged in the strictly formal manner—with Linton at the head, Mrs. Anselm and Sir Alexander on either side of him, and all the younger members of the party seated below the salt. Helene, naturally, had been placed by her mother at the foot of the table, where she sat looking totally out of place in her assigned role of hostess.

“How’s old puff-guts taking it?” Billy whispered out of the corner of his mouth to Alix, who was seated beside the young man. “Is he still cutting up stiff over our ruckus?”

Struggling to keep the smile off her face, Alexandra assured the nervous Billy, “Square-toes has become most mellow on the subject of the thief chasing—ever since Nicholas promised to include him on the next expedition, that is.”

At Alix’s statement Jeremy choked on his wine and had to be roughly thumped on the back by Cuffy, who articulated for his gasping, coughing friend. “Square-toes, Alix? Never say you’re still deep in Billy’s book of cant? Must be,” he went on, answering his own question, “else how would you know puff-guts meant a fat man—your grandfather, of course. That would mean you’ve gotten to the P’s—and the S’s as well. Still, much as I abhor Billy’s use of cant—it can become so wearing at times—I do believe my favorite description for a fat man is to say he’s got a ‘glorious corporation.’ ”

By now Jeremy had regained his powers of speech. “Hang the slang and cant, Cuffy. Wasn’t that what made me choke on my wine? Didn’t y’hear Alix say her grandfather was to become one of an expedition out to catch the highwaymen—an expedition, if my ears are to be believed, to be headed up by none other than my brother himself!”

“You ain’t tippin’ us no gammon, Alix?” Billy asked, eyeing her askance.

Alix assured them all that she was telling the truth—adding that, although she regretted to tell them this, they were not included in the search party. This did not depress them half as much as she had feared, and their exchanged glances and almost audible sighs of relief gave her the uneasy feeling that they had already begun planning an expedition of their own.

Once or twice during the interminable meal made up of course after course (more, Jeremy quipped, like a Carlton House fete than a simple country dinner), Rupert tried to ingratiate himself back into Alexandra’s good graces—obviously on orders from his mother. But these attempts were so neatly blocked by Alix that he soon gave up the fight, and since the three boys had long ago established that they wished nothing to do with the fellow, he was left very much to himself most of the time.

Helene was likewise a very quiet member of the dinner party. It was not that anyone bore her any ill feeling; it was just that after their initial tries at conversation had been answered only by negative shakes of her pretty head, no one felt sufficiently interested in her to try again.

At the other end of the table it was an entirely different matter. Nicholas was kept busy mediating between Mrs. Anselm and “old puff-guts,” hoping to keep the two of them from coming to blows over the
Ragôut à la Françoise
. It seemed that they could not find a single area of agreement, be it politics, society at large, or even, so thought Nicholas, the proper size for peas.

As the meal at last came to a close, Poole and his helpers placed small colored glass bowls full of water before each person at the table. While the rest of the party daintily dipped their fingers in the scented water before wiping their hands dry on their napkins, Sir Alexander—in the manner of his forefathers—lifted the bowl to his mouth, sucked up a great quantity of the fluid, gargled noisily, and then returned the fluid to the bowl.

After repeating this procedure several times—the whole while being goggled at by Mrs. Anselm as if he had run entirely mad—he dipped his napkin in the bowl and proceeded to thoroughly wash his hands and face, ending his ablutions by drying himself with a corner of the fine linen tablecloth.

All this proved to be too much for the three boys, who had been watching the entire performance with avid interest. After exchanging winks among themselves, they—on the pretext of trying to make their guest feel at home—imitated Sir Alexander’s actions down to the last gargle and wipe.

The ladies then retired from the table—Alexandra reluctantly, as she dreaded sitting alone in the saloon with the female Anselms, and the two Anselms hurriedly, both holding their hankies delicately to their mouths. They left behind a disgusted Rupert, three giggling young scamps, one old man (whose face shone rosy red with cleanliness) totally at sea, and one absolutely delighted Lord Linton, who had not been so amused in a very long time.

After drinking their port, the men rejoined the ladies and Alexandra sought out the boys like a lost soul in search of her saviors. “Thank goodness you have come to rescue me,” she told them as they sat together in one corner of the saloon, in Nicholas’s mind, as close as inkleweavers.

“What’s amiss, Alix?” Jeremy questioned facetiously. “Never say Mrs. Anselm’s been grilling you?”

“Grilling me?” Alix countered in disgust. “That dratted woman’s just lucky I don’t give her a good drubbing. Do you know she has yet to open her mouth without insulting me one way or the other?”

“Somehow I don’t see the old gorgon getting the best of you, Alix,” Nicholas drawled smoothly, coming up from behind her and nearly scaring her out of her wits. Still standing behind her, he motioned for the boys to shift themselves off, which they did. They soon became deeply involved in matching one feather against another with Sir Alexander as they laid bets on the fuzz descending from Mrs. Anselm’s moulting boa wrap with the intensity of seasoned gamesters, the first feather to hit the floor being declared the winner.