by Carla Kelly
“None of that!” The squire took one last look out the window and hurried to the door. “From now on, you will stay out of the vicar's lessons. If you must walk into the village with Ralph, then visit your Aunt Shreve while your brother is at the vicarage.” He frowned and took a few swings at imaginary enemies with his riding crop. “She's a dratted woman and a nuisance, but I can't have you hounding the vicar.” He patted her cheek. “Even if he is a sorry excuse.”
He had almost reached the door before other Grimsleys converged upon him like driverless coaches hurtling toward the same crossing. The squire looked about for a quick escape, but all routes were cut off.
Martha, towed along by one hand, cried the loudest and hiccupped as her mother pulled her toward the squire. She appeared strangely splotchy about the face and neck.
“Spots, Mr. Grimsley!” Mama shrieked. “Spots!”
Squire Grimsley sighed and looked about for an escape while Ellen watched in amusement. “‘In sooth you ’scape not so,’ ” she murmured to Ralph, who nodded and smiled.
“Taming of the Shrew?” he asked, and she nodded, her hands on his shoulders, as they watched the rest of the Grimsleys unravel before their eyes. Even as she looked on, Horatia, her face pale, staggered toward the squire and sank into a chair, her hands covering her eyes.
“Sarah Siddons is warming up,” Ralph whispered.
“She must wait her turn,” Ellen whispered back. “Mama will win out.”
“Spots!” Mama cried again. She tugged on her husband's arm. “Mr. Grimsley, this is serious business!”
The squire peered closer at his youngest child and then leaped back. “’Pon my word, if it persists, won't she be a sight when she skips down the aisle in front of Horry, strewing around them little posies that I am supposed to pay a king's ransom for in December!”
Mrs. Grimsley glared at her husband until he stepped back again. Her eyes narrowed. “We are having a wedding in less than two months’ time, Mr. Grimsley. This is no joking matter!” She followed up her words by bursting into tears, noisy tears that cast Martha's efforts into the shade. The child ceased her wailing and stared up at her mother. Then her red-dotted face darkened again, and she added her miseries to her mother's woe.
Ralph put his hands over his ears and then nudged his sister, who still sat in the window seat, transfixed by the spectacle before her. “It is Horry's turn,” he whispered. “This will be good.”
“Hush, Ralph,” Ellen whispered as Horatia, her lovely face filled with misery, staggered to her feet and latched onto the lapels of her father's riding coat.
Like others of the Grimsley race, she was tall and possessed a headful of guinea-gold curls that tickled Papa's nose and made him sneeze.
Wide-eyed, Ralph watched the tableau before him, then turned away. “Dear me,” he managed, his shoulders shaking.
Ellen put her finger to her lips. Was ever womankind plagued with such a helpless family? she thought as she hurried to Martha and knelt in front of her little sister. Expertly she ran her hands over the bumps on Martha's face, then stood up.
“Mama, do take it down a peg.”
Mama only sobbed harder. “You and your dreadful slang! You are not faced with a crisis of monumental proportions!” Mama wept into her handkerchief. “Spots!”
“It is worse and worse, Mama!” Horatia burst out. “Chevering says …”
“Nonsense!” Ellen said, cutting off her sister in midsentence and resting her hand upon Martha's head. “Mama, let us begin with Martha. Did you take a good look at her? A really good look?”
Mama wiped her eyes and squinted down at her littlest daughter. “I think I know my own children, Ellen,” she said, biting off her words.
Ellen knelt in front of her sister again, her hands firm on Martha's shoulders. “Tell me truly, Martha. Have you been in Mama's chocolates again?”
Martha, a finger in her mouth, looked from one parent to the other and back to Ellen again. She scratched her stomach and nodded.
“There you have it, Mama. It is merely a rash and will likely be gone before noon.” She gave her little sister a shake. “And you stay out of Mama's chocolates, miss! You know they are her ‘ever-present help in trouble.’ ”
Mama wiped her streaming eyes. “Don't be sacrilegious, daughter! And speaking of that, wasn't that the vicar I saw leaving here in such a snit?”
Ellen nodded. Mama dabbed at her eyes again.
“And I had such hopes of him.” Turned loose, Martha darted away. Mama sighed again. “My nerves, Ellen, my nerves!”
Ellen put her arms around her mother. “They are your closest companions, my dear,” she soothed. “Mama, lie down now and think about this: you could invite Cousin Henrietta Colesnatch to stay with us for the duration of the wedding. You know how she loves to batten herself on relatives. She can watch Martha for you.”
Mama opened her mouth to utter a protest, but she closed it instead and then regarded her daughter for a long moment. “I could do that, couldn't I?”
“You could, Mama,” Ellen replied. “You could even go do it now. Cousin Henrietta could be here by tomorrow evening. She would spare no expense—as long as you paid the post chaise.”
A thoughtful expression on her face, Mama followed her daughter Martha down the hall. Ellen turned her attention to Horatia, who still sobbed upon the squire's coat.
“My dear, what is the matter?” she asked. “Is Napoleon at the gates and no one told us?”
Horry cast her a watery glance. “It is worse than that.” She clutched her father's lapels in both fists. “Papa, did you really promise Edwin's father that you would toast us with Fortaleza sherry?”
Papa stared at his eldest daughter. “I may have, Horry. What is the problem with that? You know we save the best for special occasions.”
Horatia's eyes filled with tears again. “I have come from belowstairs,” she announced dramatically. “Chevering tells me that there is no Fortaleza left. Furthermore, he says that with the Blockade, there is no way to get any more. Papa, I shall die!”
The squire blinked and removed his daughter's hands from his rumpled, sodden lapels. He took one last, longing look out the window. “Surely we can find some good Madeira.”
Horatia threw herself onto the window seat, sobbing and drumming her feet on the cushions. “Papa, you promised!” she sobbed between fresh gusts of tears. “You promised Edwin's father that we would be toasted with Fortaleza. And now I have this note from Edwin informing me that his papa is so looking forward to a sip of the world's finest sherry! Papa, I am undone.”
The squire blinked again. “You cannot suppose that Edwin would cry off over a dusty bottle of sherry, my dear! That is a particle of nonsense not worthy of even you!”
Horatia took no comfort from his bracing words. “You know very well that Sir Reginald fancies himself a specialist in wines.”
She struggled into a sitting position and pressed her hand to her heart. “This will cast such a cloud upon my nuptials that I do not see how I can possibly face Sir Reginald.” She returned to her tears and the handkerchief that Ralph handed her without a word.
Ralph watched in fascination. “‘I wouldn't have thought the old girl to have had so many tears in her,’ ” he whispered to his sister.
Ellen regarded him in amusement mingled with exasperation. “This is no time for Macbeth, you silly chub,” she whispered back. She looked at her sister, pale and miserable in the window seat, and then glanced at Papa, who hovered over her with miserable solicitation.
A year ago, she would have been jealous of the attention Papa expended on Horry. I must have been growing up when I wasn't even aware of it, she thought. Someone in this family has to. She thought another moment and then made up her mind.
“Papa, doesn't Aunt Shreve have a bottle or two of that sherry? I seem to recall that Grandfather Grimsley divided that case in the will.”
The squire made a face. “As he divided everything!” he exclaimed,
his voice loud, his face red. “Do you think I would ask my sister for anything?” He pulled Horatia to her feet, his arm about her. “Horry, I think your precious Edwin can drink Madeira. And so can his father! Paltry little baronet,” he concluded.
Ellen winced as Horatia increased the volume of her misery. Lord help us, in another minute she will be in strong hysterics, and Papa will storm and stamp, and Mama will come running in with hartshorn and burning feathers. Ellen took a deep breath.
“Papa, I can ask Aunt Shreve for a bottle of Fortaleza.”
“You will never get it out of her,” Papa insisted, “particularly if she knows it will be a favor to me!”
“I can manage,” Ellen said quietly. “Hush, Horry. If your face gets splotchy, Edwin might reconsider.”
Horatia gasped and ran to the mirror in the hall, turning her head this way and that to survey the ravages of tears on her face.
“You will look all of twenty, if you keep crying,” Ellen said, her face devoid of all expression.
Horry gasped. “Twenty! Horrors!”
“Twenty,” Ellen repeated, her voice firm. “Now, dry your eyes, Horry. I can solve this problem.”
With a tight little nod and one last teary-eyed entreaty of her papa, Horatia summoned her little brother to help her from the room. She smiled bravely and allowed him to lead her away.
The squire turned to his remaining daughter and grasped her by both hands. “Ellen, if you can carry this off, I will get you anything you want,” he declared.
Ellen stood on tiptoe and kissed her tall parent's cheek.
“Done, Papa, done. Better yet, I will return with two bottles of Fortaleza.”
Papa closed his eyes in relief, hugging her to his ample chest. He picked up his riding crop again and dashed out the door, leaving it wide open. In another moment Ellen saw horse and rider thundering in the general direction of the last siren call of the hunting horn.
Ralph returned and flopped down on the window seat. “El, they wear me out,” he complained when he could manage speech. “I think Horry is a perfect lamebrain to moon over that spotty Edwin. You would never do such a thing, would you?”
She shook her head, the laughter back in her eyes.
Ralph sat up, resting on one elbow. “Why did you promise Papa two bottles of that dratted sherry? You know that Aunt Shreve has not spoken to him since the reading of that will four years ago. When I was but a child,” he added.
Ellen burst into laughter. “And what are you now, my dear?” she teased and took him by the hand, pulling him to his feet. “Come. Let us do our best.”
It meant retracing their steps from manor to village again for the second time that morning, but neither Grimsley objected. The air was crisp with autumn; the tantalizing fragrance of burning leaves made brother and sister take a deep breath and sigh together.
They looked at each other and laughed. There wasn't any need to speak; they understood the Grimsleys too well. Papa saw no further than hounds and horses; Mama darted from anxiety to crisis; Horry was twined all around herself and her darling noddy Edwin.
“There is hope for Martha,” Ralph said finally, giving voice to what his sister was thinking. “We shall give her a few years and see if she improves.”
“‘A few years,’ ” Ellen mimicked. “By then you will have abandoned me for Oxford and will not have a thought to spare for either sister!”
“If Papa doesn't stick me in an office in the City with one of Mama's brothers first,” he said quietly and took her by the hand. “You know Gordon is supposed to be the Oxford-educated one.”
They walked a moment in silence. Ralph squeezed her hand. “Whatever the outcome, I will always have a thought for you, El.”
They continued in companionable silence. And I for you, Ellen Grimsley thought as she looked down at her little brother.
He strode along at her side, his face half turned to the sun, a smile in his eyes. His hair looked as it always did, as if he had bounded out of bed, rushed to the stable, and combed it with a pitchfork.
But his freckles were fading. Mama had remarked over breakfast only this morning that his wrists were shooting out of his cuffs and he was overdue a visit to Miss Simpson, who made all the children's clothes.
Papa had come out of his hunting fog long enough to peer closer at his son. “Nay, wife, not this time,” he had boomed out. “’Tis time for Ralph to visit my tailor. He's too big to wear nankeen breeches anymore.”
Ellen nodded, remembering the glow of pleasure on Ralph's face. Papa had noticed him. Perhaps when he wore long pants and a gentleman's riding boots, Papa would acknowledge that his younger son could be a scholar as well as a rider to hounds.
On a day as glorious as this autumn morning, anything was possible, Ellen decided. Perhaps Aunt Shreve would relinquish two bottles of Fortaleza without a murmur; perhaps Horatia would reconsider and let her be a bridesmaid after all, even if her small stature did upset the symmetry of the other, taller cousins and friends. Perhaps when the wedding was over and Horatia shot off, Mama would relax for a season and not scold and berate her younger daughter because she made no push to secure a husband for herself among the eligibles of the district.
I am too short for a Grimsley and I have no hunting instincts, she thought as they stood still and watched Papa race toward the hounds and riders that milled about on a distant, smoky hillside, waiting for the dogs to recapture the scent.
Brother and sister stood close together and watched the hunters. They leaned forward and listened and then smiled to each other when the hounds began to bay again. Soon the pack, followed by the pink-coated riders, disappeared over the hill.
The field was theirs again. Ralph sat down on a sun-warmed rock. “I will wait for you here, El,” he declared, and then made a face. “After this morning, I haven't the fortitude for the scold Aunt Shreve is going to give you.”
Ellen grinned. “Coward!”
Ralph nodded, unruffled. “Shakespeare would call me a ‘whey-faced loon.’ ”
Ellen waved to him and hurried toward the village.
When she was out of sight, she slowed her steps. Why did I promise Papa that dratted Fortaleza? she thought.
She remembered the reading of Grandfather's will, with all the relatives assembled, black and sniffling, or at least holding handkerchief to nose in a show of sorrow.
Not that anyone had loved Grandfather overmuch before he cocked up his toes. He was a testy old rip who pinched the maids, scandalized his daughter, and infuriated his son by outliving his usefulness. To the best of her recollection, Ellen was the only grandchild to mourn his loss. She missed his stories of battles fought, creditors outrun, and fortunes won and lost and won again.
She missed him still, even four years after his death. At eighteen, she still mourned the loss of the only relative who had not gawked and gasped when she did not fulfill the promise of her Grimsley heritage and grow to elegant heights. He had not scolded her, as if complaints would add one inch to her stature. He had thoughtfully matched his stride to hers and they had walked and talked over the Cotswold hills until he died.
She thought again about the will, written in Grandpapa's crabbed handwriting and changed and changed again as relatives fell short of the mark. In a final show of pique against her father, Grandfather had evenly divided all his possessions except land between his only surviving son and daughter, right down to the half case of Fortaleza.
Ellen closed her eyes, seeing again Papa storming out of the solicitor's office, cheated out of entitlements he felt were rightfully his, muttering about the perfidy of a sister he could name. Aunt Shreve, stung by his anger, had taken instant exception to his blathering and closed her door to him.
“And mind you, Ellen Grimsley,” Aunt Shreve said a half hour later as Ellen sat in her aunt's cozy sitting room on Porter Street. “Your father sets too great a store by Horatia's wedding to that peabrained excuse of a son and heir to Sir Reginald Bland. A baronet!”
&nbs
p; She spat out the word, as if the tea she sipped suddenly displeased her. “What is that to anything? Grimsleys have managed for centuries without titles in the family and done quite well thank you. Does my brother do this so he can smile and nod and play the fool and introduce his son-in-law, the son of a baronet, to his horse-dealing cronies? I ask you.”
Ellen knew better than to interrupt a Grimsley tirade, even if this particular Grimsley had long been wedded and widowed by a Shreve. She folded her hands patiently in her lap.
“And such a collection of foolish parts is our dear Edwin!” Aunt Shreve said, not failing her niece. “Does anything ever go on behind those blue eyes of his, Ellen?”
“Oh, Aunt Shreve, you know that Horry loves Edwin. And if he is not over sharp, what is that to anyone in my family? They'll never notice.”
Aunt Shreve took another sip of tea. “No, I suppose they will not. As long as he can sit a horse, I suppose everyone will overlook his other deficiencies.” She peered over her spectacles at her niece. “Not for the first time have I wondered how you and Ralph came to be dropped down in the midst of that ignorant family, my dear. One could accuse your mother of shady dealings.”
Ellen laughed. “Aunt Shreve! You know that my mother is perfectly respectable!”
Aunt Shreve managed a smile. “Respectable to the point of numbness. Setting all that aside, I trust you will do better than Edwin Bland, my dear.”
Her niece sighed. “Mama claims that all I can hope for is Thomas Cornwell, particularly now since I have driven off the vicar.”
Aunt Shreve winced. There was a long silence, which she finally broke when she had drained the rest of her tea. “Dear me,” she said finally, “he of the protruding ears?”
“The very same,” Ellen replied.
“Goodness, a lowering thought,” Aunt Shreve murmured. They regarded each other, and Aunt Shreve shuddered. “Now there is a young man with nothing to recommend him but his height!” She leaned forward. “I charge you to find some tiny little man. It will drive your father into bedlam.”
“Aunt Shreve, you are absurd!” Ellen protested, laughing.
