by Wilma Counts
He shook his head at his own blind stupidity. He knew exactly how old the Mayfield sisters were. Win had described both young women at the time of his falling for the elder one. Yet Quint had allowed his mother’s current portrait to take precedence over what his brother had given him over the years and he had half expected a scatterbrained schoolroom miss instead of the quite lovely woman who had all but stolen his breath away. He’d had to struggle to remember that he was annoyed with her.
Chapter 5
Harriet slept much later than usual.
“Why did you not wake me earlier?” she asked in a bit of a panic when Collins delivered her morning chocolate after nine o’clock.
“I did look in as usual, and again later, but you were sleeping soundly, and as ye’d not given me any order otherwise…” The maid’s voice trailed off.
“I’m sorry, Collins. I did not mean to snap at you. His lordship will think me a real slugabed, and I did so want to introduce him to his nieces and nephews this morning.”
“Lady Margaret is seeing to that. She sent word up to the nursery earlier and told me special to tell you that you needn’t trouble yourself further with the children.”
“I’ll just bet she did,” Harriet muttered under her breath, already annoyed at the way this day was starting—had started.
A short time later, having performed her usual morning ablutions, she sat attired in layers of undergarments and a bright red silk dressing gown as Collins managed at last to confine her hair into two thick coils to form a natural, gleaming dark crown. The side tendrils were curled to form a soft frame for her face.
“Sometimes I feel like just cutting it off—as in those statues of Greek goddesses,” Harriet said.
“Oh, no, ma’am,” Collins protested. “Your hair is your crowning glory, as they say.” Collins—Caroline Collins—had been an ambitious upstairs maid with in Lord Hawthorne’s household when Harriet returned from school to make her come out and suddenly needed a lady’s maid. Longevity in her position had given her a certain entitlement to opinion, and Harriet felt totally at ease with her.
“They who spout such nonsense do not wash it, wait for it to dry, or deal with the snarls, do they?”
“Well, there is that.” Collins chuckled softly. “Which dress, my lady?”
“I’d love to break out in that delicious apple green muslin I had made up in London, or maybe the pink silk, but Lady Margaret would surely have a serious case of the vapors, so I will settle for that gray with the silver embroidery.”
Collins bit back her smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
Harriet had chosen the gray in part because she wanted to wear something that would display the children’s gift to her to advantage. She knew it would please them to see her wear the brooch. The dress was fashioned in simple lines of a soft fabric of a cotton and wool blend that draped nicely. The medium gray dye formed a subtle backdrop for a pattern of silver embroidery that ran halfway up each sleeve and was repeated twice in a larger pattern on front panels of the skirt. The bodice, plain with a square neckline, would show the jewelry nicely.
She took one last look in the cheval glass, drew in a deep breath, and muttered to herself, “Well, into the lion’s den.”
* * * *
Quint had hardly digested the awful news of Win’s death when it hit him that he was responsible for those seven young lives his brother had left behind. Having led literally hundreds of men into battle in the last several years, the idea of being in charge did not dismay him. But these were children for God’s sake! What did he know about children? How on earth did one cope with little people? Up close, that is? On a daily basis? He had spent many an hour during his convalescence musing on the dilemma, especially since arriving at the Hall. He had even searched the well-stocked library of Sedwick Hall, but found no tomes of the sort he thought might help him.
It occurred to him that his mother might have been a marvelous source of information, but when he dwelt on his own childhood memories for any length of time, he was reluctant to ask her the sorts of questions to which he wanted answers. Besides that, he hardly knew how to articulate the questions themselves!
Thus it was that on the morning after the return of the London travelers to Sedwick Hall, a rather befuddled Quint—Colonel Lord Quinton Burnes, late of his majesty’s Army in the Peninsula—sat on a green couch in the morning room nervously awaiting his charges, pretending to read a newspaper. The butler had supplied him with this reading material, informing him that Miss Mayfield had given it to him last night, thus it was likely to be more up to date than anything that could be obtained locally.
Quint had announced earlier at the breakfast table his intent to drop into the nursery later to make himself known to his young relatives, but his mother protested vigorously. “Oh, no, dear. We shall have them brought down to us in the morning room. The nursery is always somewhat messy and chaotic, particularly in the morning.”
“I’m told Miss Mayfield often takes her breakfast in the nursery. Perhaps she has chosen to do so today.”
Lady Margaret sniffed. “That one, my son, thrives on chaos, often of her own making. Though she seems to have chosen to sleep in this morning—or so the maids say.”
“She did have a rather trying day yesterday,” he said.
“As I said—chaos of her own making.” She rose to give the bell pull a tug. When a footman answered, she ordered him to “have Nurse Tavenner see that the children are all properly attired and presentable within the hour.”
Now Quint stood politely as his mother swept into the morning room and with a long-suffering sigh said, “I have just come from the nursery. I declare those children are more spoiled and fractious than ever. I did tell her it was a terrible mistake to take them to London.”
“Have they had their breakfast at least?” he asked as he glanced at the small gold mantel clock on the white marble fireplace. This was one of his favorite rooms since coming home and seeing how Win’s wife had redecorated it in white and gold and green. The room faced east and caught the morning sun through long windows that were additions Quint quite liked. He remembered the room as being dark with a great deal of pink and maroon and navy blue.
“Oh, yes, they have eaten,” the countess said, taking a seat in a gold upholstered chair. “However, they were not properly dressed. The twins’ shirts were not fastened correctly. Elinor was refusing to wear the dress Nurse laid out for her and Sarah had donned a bright blue frock all by herself. I instructed Tavenner to change it and the child objected strenuously. Threw a regular tantrum, she did. She has only six years! And thinks to decide what garment she will wear on any given day? She is supposed to be in mourning! Now I ask you—I should think a day or so on bread and water would cure that sort of behavior!”
Quint ignored this rant, so his mother went on.
“I must say, I think I was blessed in having only boys. Little girls are just very difficult to deal with.”
Quint did not dare respond to this. He could not remember a single occasion as a child when his mother had ever noticed what he was wearing. Or when she had noticed much of anything else about him. He doubted if she knew which subjects or sports he excelled in at school, or in which ones he needed help. He could not recall ever talking about such things with her.
A few minutes later a knock at the door signaled the arrival of the Earl of Sedwick and his siblings. Quint called “Come,” and stood to receive them.
Phillip entered and held the door for the others, who lined up next to him: the twin boys, the girl Quint assumed to be the six-year-old rebel, then Maria, holding the hands of the two youngest girls. A maid slipped in behind them and set two wrapped packages on the floor behind the children, then left, closing the door quietly as she did so. The children all stood straight and tall, little soldiers standing inspection, and casting apprehensive glances at their grandmother. The boys were all
dressed in short gray pants, white shirts, and black jackets; the girls in gray ankle-length dresses with stiff white collars.
Phillip executed a very correct bow to his uncle. “Sir, allow me to present my brothers and sisters.”
Quint acknowledged his bow with a nod. “Please do.”
As Phillip recited their names, each child stepped forward and bowed or curtsied as protocol dictated. The twins glanced at each other as though sharing a secret and Sarah grinned impishly, revealing missing teeth.
Quint smiled at them, trying—unsuccessfully, he was sure—to put them at ease. “I am pleased to renew my acquaintance with you, Phillip, and with you, Maria, whom I remember well from my last leave, though I must admit you have both grown much since then. Richard and Robert were but toddlers then, and Sarah was just a babe. Elinor and Matilda are entirely new to me, but I look forward to getting to know all of you better.”
“Give that a week,” one of the twins said, almost under his breath, and the other one jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow, but Quint was already turning back to his seat on the gold couch and chose to ignore that byplay.
His mother, however, did not. “You children behave yourselves,” she admonished. “You have been taught proper manners, I know, however much they have been allowed to lapse in recent weeks. Now sit down and try to engage in intelligent conversation. Phillip, you sit on the couch next to your Uncle Quinton; the twins can sit on those chairs nearby. Maria, you and the little girls sit on that gold settee, and Sarah, you sit on this footstool by me so I can keep a close watch on you.”
“Yes, Grandmother,” several voices repeated at once and Quint noticed with amusement Sarah’s grimace, but the child dutifully sat on the stool at her grandmother’s knee. A moment of silence followed, during which Quint wondered what the children might think would constitute intelligent conversation. Before he could take pity on them and ask some prosaic adult question, Phillip, who had remained standing, went over to lift the packages the maid had left near the door. He handed one to his grandmother and the other to his uncle.
“Grandmother, Uncle Quint. We have brought gifts for you from London. We hope you like them.”
“How very thoughtful,” the dowager murmured, accepting the flat rectangular package.
“Aunt Harriet took us shopping. Just like grown-ups do,” Sarah announced.
“Goodness. All of you?” their grandmother asked.
“Just us older ones,” Maria explained. “Elinor and Matilda stayed in the nursery at Hawthorne House.”
“Surely you five were not turned loose on the streets of London with no other adult than your Aunt Harriet to accompany you,” the dowager said in a shocked tone and with a raised eyebrow directed at her son.
“’Course not,” one of the twins answered with a disparaging snort. “Uncle Charles and Aunt ’Lizabeth went with us too. They helped us choose the presents.”
“The Montieths,” his mother explained to Quint, without lowering her eyebrow in the slightest. “Mayfield relatives.”
“Open the presents,” the same twin said impatiently.
“You first, Mother,” Quint said.
She unwrapped the gift slowly and carefully. Quint could see that the younger children, especially, were eager to see her pleased at their gift, but even he could not read her reaction. When she opened the box, she removed a beautiful paisley shawl in a blend of muted colors of the rainbow with a wide silver fringe. She held it up for all to see, then carefully folded it up and put it back in the box and set the box aside. “I thank you very much, children. It is a lovely gift.”
“It would look very well with the black gown you have on, Grandmother,” Maria offered tentatively.
“Oh, my darling girl,” her grandmother said in a shocked tone. “I am in mourning. As you should be as well. I could not possibly wear something so garish while I am still in mourning. I would not be so disrespectful to my son, your father.”
Seeing the stricken look on Maria’s face, Quint wanted to slap anyone who would so reject the good will of a child. He wanted to slap his own mother? His mother? He was grateful for that same twin’s “Open yours, Uncle Quint.”
His box was larger than his mother’s and more cubical in shape. He made quick work of removing the wrapping and extracting the treasure within. “A hat? Hmm. And something else. Gloves.” He withdrew a stylish beaver hat and a pair of white gloves.
“It is what civilian men are wearing these days, Uncle Quint,” Phillip assured him, taking a seat on the couch with Quint. “Father and I wore the same size hats and he said you and he did as well, so it should fit, but if it does not, there is tool there that will help to size it properly.”
Quint put the hat on, pushing the brim up slightly on the sides. “It feels fine. How do I look?” He preened a bit, trying to take some of the sting out of his mother’s rather cold reception of her own gift. “Will I be able to blend in with the rest of England’s finest on the streets of London?”
“Oh, yes. You look ever so handsome,” Maria said, rallying from the set-down her grandmother had given her.
Just then the door opened and Harriet came in.
“Oh, dear. I missed the fun,” she said, seeing Quint in the beaver hat.
He quickly removed it, saying, “It is truly a fine gift, but as gentlemen do not wear headgear indoors, I shall have to manufacture an excuse to wear this very, very soon. And the gloves are quite elegant too.”
Harriet laughed and waved the male members of the group back into the seats from which they had risen when she entered the room. She herself sat in an upholstered chair matching the one the dowager occupied. “You would not believe the serious negotiations that went into the selection of that hat and that shawl.”
“They are quite lovely gifts,” the dowager said, “though somewhat inappropriate in my case.”
“I am so sorry you feel that way,” Harriet said. “Elizabeth and I both thought it very appropriate for half mourning, and my grandmother, Lady Hawthorne, quite agreed. Surely you cannot be faulted for going into half mourning at this late date.”
Aha! Score one for Miss Mayfield, Quint thought, for he remembered very well his brother’s telling him that in her day Lady Hawthorne had been known as one of the leading arbiters of London society.
His mother sniffed and shifted the subject slightly. “I cannot condone having the young Earl of Sedwick and his even younger brothers and sisters exposed to riffraff of the streets of London on a shopping expedition.”
“Come now, Mother,” Quint said. “They seem to have been well supervised. Have to learn the ways of the world sometime.”
Suddenly four-year-old Elinor called in a little squeal, “Oh, look! Auntie Harry is wearing our pin. Our flower pin. Look!” She jumped from the settee where she sat next to Maria and dashed over to point at the brooch Harriet had pinned beneath her left shoulder.
All eyes turned to Harriet, who Quint thought looked disturbingly attractive this morning and possibly more formidable as an adversary than he had thought before. Her hair was so tightly confined in some sort of braided style that it was hard to remember the wild freedom it had represented the night before. He had not been wrong about that clear complexion or those eyes, though. They were definitely gray today—possibly reflective of the trim gray dress she wore. He noted the simple lines of the dress with a square neckline that showed the barest hint of cleavage. Somewhat reluctantly he brought his attention back to the scene unfolding before him.
“Do you ’member which flower is which?” Elinor was asking her aunt in a skeptical tone.
“Of course I do, you little imp,” Harriet said. She reached down and lifted the little girl onto her lap without regard for wrinkling her dress. Elinor giggled as Harriet removed the brooch and held it in position near her own and the child’s waists. “Elly, you point to the flower, and I shall tell you
for whom it stands.”
“Aw right, but if you get one wrong I get a extra biscuit at tea.”
“We shall discuss that later.”
As the child pointed to each jeweled flower, Harriet named the stone for the benefit of the grandmother and uncle and the name of the child for which it stood. “The blue lapis is Phillip. The gold topaz is Maria. The amethyst is Matilda. The garnet is Sarah. The aquamarines are Richard and Robert. And the pink crystal is—Oh, dear. I forget who that pink crystal stands for. Cousin Rebecca, maybe?”
Elinor looked up at Harriet, exasperated, her little fist on her waist. “Auntie Harry! You know very well the pink crystal is me! Pink crystal is Elly!”
“Ah, yes. Of course. How could I have forgot that?”
Elly shook her head. “You didn’t forget. You was jus’ teasin’ me.”
Harriet hugged her close and kissed her on the cheek. “Yes, I was. Now go and show this lovely brooch to your grandmother and to your uncle so they can know how lucky I am to have such a nice gift.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As the pin made its way around the room, Maria related the story of its creation and Quint found himself reflecting on the difference between the ways these two women had made the children feel about their gifts. When the brooch was back in place on Miss Mayfield’s gray dress, and Elly had returned to her seat with Maria and Matilda, Quint asked the group, “So—what was the most memorable aspect of your trip? The best thing you did or saw?”
