by Dorothy Mack
“Well, ma’am,” he said when the pause had lasted overlong, “what next?”
As he spoke, he was trying to heave himself into a sitting position by using his elbows. Miss Seymour was at his side on the instant, assisting him and placing pillows to support his position more comfortably.
He thanked her briefly, adding with a strong sense of ill-usage, “I cannot imagine why I should be so unfit. I’m as weak as a cat.”
“You have been very ill with a fever for days, and of course you have lost a lot of blood,” she explained in matter-of-fact tones. “The wound bled very freely before we got you here, and Dr. Jamison cupped you on the following day.”
“You let that leech drain my blood?” Outrage was easily distinguishable on his features, and Miss Seymour sought a change of subject to avoid an argument.
“Are you acquainted with a man called Sir Hugh Lanscomb, Mr. Massingham?” she inquired hastily. “He is waiting below stairs, if you feel able to receive him.”
He seemed to be struggling to readjust his thinking to encompass this new factor, saying at last, “I knew a Colonel Lanscomb once, but that was a long time ago.”
“Well, he knew a Major Andrew Massingham in the Peninsula. Shall I send him up?”
“Yes, of course.”
Miss Seymour was aware of his eyes boring into her back as she left the room at a pace she kept decorous with an effort of will. It would not do to show weakness before the enemy. Rather breathtaking, the speed with which her patient had reverted to his former position of adversary in her thinking.
In the public room she found Sir Hugh making himself agreeable to Drucilla, who, on seeing her hostess, exclaimed with delight that the newcomer was an old friend of her fiancé’s.
“Yes,” said Miss Seymour, smiling at them both. “If you are Colonel Lanscomb, he does indeed remember you and will be delighted to receive you.”
“My father was still living in those days,” Sir Hugh replied by way of explanation before making his excuses to Drucilla as he prepared to accept Miss Seymour’s escort to the sickroom.
Vicky opened the door after a tap to announce their arrival, then stood back to allow Sir Hugh to enter.
“I would not have credited it on any report other than the evidence of my own eyes,” this gentleman jeered as he headed for the big bed with outstretched hand. “Major Drew Massingham, the scourge of Napoleon’s forces, flattened by a common highwayman.”
Vicky backed quickly out of the room so that she only half-heard her patient’s ribald answer before the door closed. She was still smiling as she started down the stairs, but the intrusive memory of her recent acrimonious meeting with the man for whom she had concentrated all her energies for the past three days wiped the smile from her lips well before the bottom stair was beneath her foot. She chided herself for having experienced the slightest surprise or chagrin at her reception by Major Massingham once he was restored to the full possession of his senses. The situation was now exactly as it would have been had not the accident and a spell of nursing intervened. But for her interference, he would be married to his heiress by now and would not have a hole in his leg. Naturally, she was not his favourite person at the moment. With a resolute shrug, she banished the irritating Mr. Massingham from her thoughts and went into the coffee room to sit with Drucilla until supper.
CHAPTER 7
Two events of interest occurred at the Green Feather the following morning. Dr. Jamison, on his regular visit, was so greatly pleased with his patient’s progress that he agreed to his transfer to Meadowlands on the next day. He sent word to Sir Hugh, who replied that his travelling coach would be available for transport at any hour designated by Mr. Massingham and the doctor. On hearing this news from Sir Hugh’s groom, Miss Seymour felt free to make arrangements with her own staff for her return to the Oaks as soon as her patient had removed from the inn.
The other occurrence was the delivery by the same groom of a note addressed to Miss Seymour, containing a politely worded invitation to the two ladies staying at the inn to take tea that afternoon at Meadowlands. Miss Seymour read this epistle, which was signed Harriet Lanscomb, with a little surprise but every inclination to accept. An outing of any sort would be a treat for poor Drucilla, who had borne the discomforts of the last few days without complaint. Until yesterday the child had not even been allowed to share in the nursing of her former fiancé, which task, though most worrisome in the beginning, at least had the benefit of keeping one from dwelling on the tedium of a sojourn in a tiny inn with few amenities.
For her part, Vicky would be happy to extend her personal thanks to Sir Hugh’s mother (for so the lady identified herself) for her extension of hospitality to Mr. Massingham. She had to admit also to harbouring some curiosity as to Sir Hugh’s background. It must be thought a trifle unusual that such a personable gentleman could have reached the age of four-or five-and-thirty without being married. The women of the area must be a very unenterprising lot, she thought with a gleam of mischief. She also admitted to herself that she was more than passingly desirous of seeking an opportunity to find out something about Mr. Massingham from Sir Hugh, who, before his departure the previous evening, had merely confirmed the acquaintance with a civil expression of pleasure on coming downstairs after a short visit with the invalid. Just how to phrase a query that essentially asks a man whether a friend might be a fortune hunter was a ticklish problem that would have to wait upon the opportunity. Miss Seymour dispatched by the waiting groom an acceptance of the invitation couched in civil terms that did not reveal her eagerness to pursue the acquaintance. She then divulged to Drucilla the treat in store for them and was gratified by the young girl’s obvious pleasure. Drucilla headed upstairs to examine her limited wardrobe for a suitable costume in which to take tea with Lady Lanscomb, but before Vicky could do the same, Sukey entered the public room. The youngster dipped a clumsy curtsy and announced in carefully rehearsed phrases that Mr. Massingham presented his compliments to Miss Seymour and desired an audience with her at her earliest convenience.
Correctly interpreting this request as an imperious summons, Vicky smoothed out the incipient frown that appeared whenever she thought of Mr. Massingham and presented herself at the door to the sickroom. Her knock produced a command to enter, delivered with an impatience that travelled through the wooden portal. She wiped all expression from her face and approached the bed under his critical stare, noting in passing that several books and a bowl of fruit had been delivered from the Oaks to add to the patient’s comfort. He was freshly shaved, and there was some healthy colour in his cheeks today.
“Good morning, Mr. Massingham. You are looking much improved.”
The man on the bed made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “What is this nonsense about our being cousins, ma’am? The doctor has been singing the praises of ‘your cousin, the nurse,’ and the landlord’s daughter referred to you as my cousin when she removed my breakfast tray.”
“Whatever happened to ‘good morning’? Illness has not improved your manners, Mr. Massingham.” Vicky’s silky tones sent a surge of dark red up under his cheekbones, and his lips compressed briefly.
“Good morning, ma’am. Thank you for your concern. I am feeling much better today. I trust you are enjoying your customary good health?”
Vicky ignored the sardonic inflection and replied suitably. Mr. Massingham drew an impatient breath and repeated his original question.
“The explanation is simple, sir. The assumed kinship was an expedient measure to discourage the scandal broth that Mrs. Tolliver scented on our arrival. You were going to require constant nursing, and I was the only person available at the time. It has served its purpose; you may now repudiate the connection, though I beg you will wait until you are quit of this place.”
“And my angel? That fool girl made some giggling reference to my ‘angel.’ Is that you too, ma’am?”
“I’m afraid so, but that is entirely your own fault!” The coolness she h
ad maintained throughout the first explanation deserted her under a sustained regard from hostile dark eyes. Black brows escalated, inviting further comment, and Miss Seymour rushed on. “You became delirious within hours of the operation. You mistook me for an angel and refused to let anyone else minister to you. We feared that in your agitation you might do yourself some permanent injury, so you were allowed to have your own way, even though it meant I got very little sleep.”
Several fleeting expressions — astonishment, disbelief, disgust — chased across Mr. Massingham’s arrogant features. Sympathy for his nurse or regret for the trouble he had caused were conspicuous by their total absence.
“Well, I must accept your account of the matter, ma’am, since evidently there were abundant witnesses to my … my aberration.” He ignored the resentful stiffening of the slim figure facing him and went on in disgusted tones, “Marvellous the tricks one’s mind can play on one, mistaking you for my good angel when all the time you have been playing just the opposite role in my life!”
“I beg your pardon!” she exclaimed in scathing accents, drawing herself up to her full height. “Allow me to tell you, Mr. Massingham, that I do not choose to play any role in your life! I shall be quite content to have our acquaintance, such as it is, cease this very minute!”
“Hah! It’s a bit late for that, ma’am! What do you call abducting my fiancée, if it’s not playing my bad angel?”
“I did no such thing, and well you know it! Drucilla came with me most willingly. She was desperate to escape from your clutches. If a charge of abduction is to be levelled by anyone, it will be by her uncle against you, sir!”
He dismissed this diatribe with a wave of one hand. “Gammon! No matter what she told you, the chit came away with me of her own free will. And if it had not been for your interference, ma’am, your officious meddling, none of this would have happened!” gesturing to his bandaged leg. “Do you realise, Miss Seymour, that had you started out one hour earlier or one hour later on your journey, I’d be a happily married man by now? You’re worse than a bad angel, you’re Nemesis!”
Vicky curled her lip scornfully and gave him look for look, her own golden-brown brows elevated. “Happily married? Wealthily, I grant you, but happily?”
“With a little piece of perfection like Drucilla for my bride, how could I be other than the happiest of men?” He assumed an air of bland surprise that was oddly incompatible with his saturnine features and brought a considering look to the light brown eyes studying him dispassionately.
“Perhaps,” she conceded dryly, “you could be happy with a bride who stands in absolute dread of your foul temper and dictatorial ways — and who is young enough to be your daughter into the bargain.”
Surprisingly, he laughed out at that. “Oh, come now, ma’am. I am only two-and-thirty. I cannot permit you to think me so precocious as to have been fathering children at the tender age of fifteen. No, no, I must decline the compliment.”
Miss Seymour ground her even white teeth and snapped, “Considering the unelevating tone of your conversation, Mr. Massingham, it is small wonder that a day cooped up in a travelling carriage with you should have caused Drucilla to have second thoughts about going through with a marriage that never meant more to her than an escape from difficult home conditions.”
“Second thoughts she may have had, ma’am, but they were no more than the irritation of the nerves most brides experience before their weddings. Saving your interference, she would have speedily overcome them.”
“You seem exceptionally well-versed on pre-wedding jitters, Mr. Massingham. One might wonder if this was not your first experience at eloping with an heiress.”
“Don’t hide your teeth out of any consideration for my feelings, I beg of you. Say what you mean.”
“Very well.” Miss Seymour immediately availed herself of this indulgence. “Since an honourable man would have presented himself to Drucilla’s guardian to request permission to pay his addresses, I strongly suspect that you are a fortune hunter. Therefore, it must be a source of satisfaction to me that I have succeeded in providing the poor child with an opportunity to extricate herself from what would have been a disastrous mistake.”
“I suggest that your self-congratulations may be a bit premature.” There was a hint of a white line about Mr. Massingham’s compressed lips and more than a hint of venom in his voice. “It is not my intention to defend myself, since your tenuous relationship with my fiancée entitles you to no explanations, but I’ll give you fair warning that I have every intention of proceeding with the marriage as soon as I am on my feet again.”
Vicky shrugged this aside. “Naturally I have no real authority over Drucilla. If she were so misguided as to deceive herself that yours could be a happy union, there would be nothing I could do to stop her. That would be up to her uncle.” Before her antagonist could reply to this implied threat, she brought the subject to a close. “Come, sir, enough of this useless dagger drawing. You would do better to restore your strength by following Dr. Jamison’s orders for your convalescence. I daresay you will be very happy to leave this place. At least you will have more comfortable surroundings in the home of your friend.”
For a moment Vicky’s aloof expression had warmed to a slight smile, but there was no answering softening of Mr. Massingham’s countenance as he made a curt acknowledgment of her sentiments. Nothing about her former patient’s demeanour induced a disposition to linger in his company, and she took herself off to her room to dispatch a message to the Oaks containing instructions for her staff.
At three that afternoon, Sir Hugh’s carriage arrived to transport the ladies to his home. Each had taken pains with her appearance in honour of the occasion, and the results were delightful. Drucilla was attired in a frothy white muslin sprigged with tiny red flowers that made the most of her petite figure. Red ribbons at the high waist and puffed sleeves fluttered when she moved and matched the cherry-coloured hat that so became her dark curls and sparkling eyes. The day was too warm for a pelisse, so she had draped over her arms a red shawl lent to her by her hostess.
After some thought, Vicky had chosen a stiff cotton in the exact shade of the amber lights in her eyes. The style was deceptively simple, made high to the throat with long tight sleeves, but the delicate lace that trimmed the bodice and sleeves was exquisite. Drucilla went into raptures after her first glimpse of her friend when she came back to the room for fresh gloves. Lily was just handing her mistress a hat.
“You look positively beautiful, Vicky. That unusual colour makes your hair seem an even brighter gold by contrast. How I wish I could wear mine in a smooth coil like yours,” she said wistfully, “but it will curl so, there is no doing anything with it at all.”
Vicky laughed. “Most of the females I know would give their eyeteeth for hair that curled naturally like yours. Think of all the hours you don’t spend wrapping it in curl papers!”
“You don’t have to curl yours either to get that smooth gleaming look. You must have simply yards of hair!”
“My father would not allow me to cut it,” Vicky explained with an almost imperceptible quiver of her lips. “The style is not at all fashionable, though, my dear, just a means of keeping it out of the way so I can get a hat on, and if I should desire to dress it for a party, it takes hours to arrange. One of these days I am going to chop it all off.” Vicky was setting a narrow-brimmed hat of brown straw at a daring angle atop her shining hair as she spoke.
Drucilla gasped. “Never! It would be a crime — a sacrilege — even to think of cutting it! How I wish I were an elegant blonde like you.”
Vicky chuckled again as she anchored the hat with a dangerous-looking pin. “You have just proved that females are never satisfied with their lot. I have often longed to be transformed into an exciting dark-eyed beauty with raven curls like yours.”
“Though brunettes may come into fashion occasionally, gentlemen generally gravitate to the blondes,” the other girl insisted, shaking
her curls mournfully.
But when, a few minutes later, they went in to parade their finery before Mr. Massingham, something Drucilla insisted to a reluctant Vicky that she had promised faithfully to do, it was evident that one gentleman at least preferred brunettes over blondes. Certainly his quick eye missed nothing in summing up the older girl’s appearance, from the crown of her dashing hat to her soft kid shoes, but his attention was expeditiously transferred to the younger, whom he proceeded to shower with well-turned compliments.
“Flatterer!” Drucilla scoffed gaily, her dimples playing hide and seek as she looked down her pert little nose at him. “Why you should suppose me to be so corkbrained as to swallow all that butter is a thing that has me in a puzzle.”
“Saucy minx!” Mr. Massingham grinned at her affectionately and provoked a giggle.
This spontaneous smile, the first she had been privileged to witness since meeting him, produced quite another reaction in Vicky. It took years from his age and transformed him in a twinkling from a churlish Byronic hero to a pleasant-tempered man who might cause flutterings in any young girl’s heart. It crossed her mind that his feeling for Drucilla might be deeper and more sincere than she had credited to him, and she experienced a momentary compunction for the part she had played in the abortive elopement. This regret was transitory, however, because whatever his feelings, a runaway marriage could only lead to social ostracism for his young bride. Still, she stood observing their interplay with sharpened senses, though only half-hearing the exchange of badinage as she attempted to distil the emotion behind it. She was alerted therefore to the look of triumph, quickly disguised, that he cast her way as Drucilla blew him an airy kiss before departing the room.
