by Joan Smith
The bananas, of which he had become fond while in Brazil, he feared would not weather outdoors. He had brought home six different types. Brontley, the president of the horticultural club, had told him bananas were herbs, although they looked for the world like trees. Nature was full of surprises.
His worries about Myra and the duke faded as he immersed himself in the world of plants. He felt at home here, with the smell of the earth and the whispering leaves all around him. His head gardener, MacIver, had weaseled a box of geraniums of some new species out of his friend at Kew. A dozen of them had been used for cuttings. The small plants, forty-eight in all, sat on the end of a table, awaiting planting. The flowers were just beginning to open. Slivers of red showed through the closed heads. The perfume of gardenias in full bloom hung heavy on the air. When he glanced at his watch, it was ten-thirty, and too late to hope to hear from Myra that night. Why had she not sent for him?
His neck was cramped and his feet full of pins and needles from sitting on an uncomfortable stool. He walked down the rows of palms, imagining he was back in the jungle. But try as he might, he could not imagine Myra with him. His heart wrenched at the memory of those long, lonesome nights without her, longing for her. That was just dreaming; Myra would never go to such a place. Sal, perhaps ... She would not be afraid of the odd snake or Indian. A smile curved his lips. Perhaps if Sal accompanied them on their honeymoon, Myra would not balk at Greece. He must be mad, to think of bringing that imp on his honeymoon.
But he would have a honeymoon, and soon. If not Myra, then he must choose another lady. London was full of lovely and venturesome ladies. There was Lady Sara Winsley, and that pretty redheaded girl Alice ran around with. Miss Sutton, was it? Both of them had been rolling their sparkling eyes at him. Yes, by God, he would do it. He would give Myra an ultimatum the next time they met. The duke or himself; he would wait no longer. But he did hope she would choose him.
* * * *
The next morning, Myra went for her bonnet and pelisse after breakfast. “Dunny and I are driving into the village, Mama. Is there anything you need?” she asked.
“Have you written to Griffin?” Alice asked.
“I shall, as soon as I return."
“You should let him know, Myra."
“He will be busy in the morning. She can write when she comes back,” Mrs. Newbold said, and began scratching up a list of a few items she required.
Alice wanted to renew acquaintances in the village, and asked if she might go with them. In fact, she admitted to herself that she wanted to be seen in Headcorn in the carriage with the prestigious strawberry leaves on the door, too.
“Certainly, why not?” Myra said pleasantly.
The duke expressed his pleasure with the idea as well, and in minutes the three of them were darting along in the well-sprung chaise, receiving all the attention they could wish. When they got down from the carriage, they could scarcely walk a step without being accosted by curious villagers. These friends were all too awestruck by the ladies’ new London fashions and by the duke to inquire about Myra's other fiancé, but their curiosity was visible on their faces. Myra had not enjoyed herself so much since strutting on Bond Street with Griffin. Here, she and her duke received the same fawning attention without Griffin.
Myra began to think that she could have the best of both worlds if she rejected Griffin, and he went brokenhearted back to the jungles of Brazil, renouncing civilization entirely. In her mind, the idea had mythic overtones. She saw herself as a sort of goddess of love, inciting hopeless passions in aching hearts around the world. Griffin would discover wonderful new flowers and name them for her. When word of his death reached England, people would send her condolences, as if she were his widow, and Dunny would comfort her. She would wear mourning gowns, or perhaps half mourning. She looked well in violet.
She dragged the duke into the drapery shop, where she could denigrate the goods with the practiced eye of a London shopper. She did manage to find a few bits of lace and ribbon to tempt her, and as the parcels were small, the duke could carry them as well as Mama's parcels.
Alice left them for a quick visit with Nancy Warwick, a bosom bow who had not enjoyed the glory of a Season. They both kept an eye on the window, and when Myra and the duke came out of the drapery shop, Alice jumped up. “I have to go now, Nancy. Come out and see me soon. I daresay we shall be having routs and things at Newbold, since we have to entertain the duke."
“Let me know which one Myra chooses,” Nancy said. A strangled sound came out of her throat.
Alice peered to see what caused it. “Lord Griffin!” she said, in a weak voice.
He was advancing at a stiff gait toward Myra and the duke. Even from across the street, Alice could sense the anger roiling within him. “I must go,” she said, and tore out of the house in an effort to divert disaster.
Griffin had spotted Myra and Dunsmore before they saw him, and immediately strode up to them. “Good morning, my dear,” he said, lifting his hat. “Dunsmore,” he added, a cool glance just flickering off the duke, before he returned his attention to Myra. “What a delightful and unexpected surprise. Have you been at Newbold long?"
Myra read the damped anger in his eyes, and trembled. “No! We just arrived, didn't we, Dunny?"
“Yes, by Jove."
“You must have left London in the middle of the night!” Griffin said.
“We arrived late yesterday, actually,” Myra said. “I was about to write to you."
“When?” His eyes were an accusation.
“As soon as I got home."
“I see shopping takes precedence.” He directed a speaking glance at the bundles in the duke's arms.
The duke, flustered, dropped a bag, and while retrieving it, dropped two others.
Griffin ignored him. “When will it be convenient for me to call, ma'am?” he asked, in a voice stiff with disapproval.
Myra felt at that moment that she never wanted him to call. She spotted Alice flying across the street and turned to her as to a rescuer. “Here is Alice,” she said.
Griffin also ignored this. “When?” he repeated.
“You can come this evening,” Myra said, and gave the teetering parcels in Dunsmore's arms a pat.
“Very kind of you,” he said, his lips white with fury. You can come, as if he were a beggar. He would come all right!
“Come for dinner, Griffin,” Alice said, leveling a commanding look on her sister.
“By all means, if you have not made other plans,” Myra added.
Griffin's black eyes measured the duke. “No plans that preclude you—and the duke. I look forward to it."
Dunsmore was thrown into spasms of dread by that look. It was as frightening as a death knell. He must do something to ingratiate this savage. “We look forward to hearing about your Brazilian adventures, what? Perhaps you could show us some of your—er, some of the things you brought home."
“You should have attended my lectures in London, Dunsmore. I am not accustomed to sing for my supper when my fiancée invites me to dine.” Griffin lifted his hat, glared balefully at the duke, and proceeded on his way.
“I say, did you have to ask him to dinner?” Dunsmore said, in a small voice. “He looked ready to take a bite out of me."
“Silly,” Myra laughed. “What can he do?"
“I wonder if he brought his spear to Mersham,” Alice said mischievously.
Myra and the duke exchanged a frightened look and hastened to the inn, and the safety of the strawberry leaves.
Chapter Ten
Mrs. Newbold was not so lacking in propriety that she failed to send a dinner invitation to Lady Griffin, when she learned that Griffin was to dine with them that evening.
“I suppose I must go,” Lady Griffin said, upon reading the note.
“Suit yourself, Mama. The duke especially asked that I tell him about Brazil, and bring some of my treasures to entertain the folks. You have seen and heard all that."
“It i
s bound to be unpleasant, one way or the other,” she said consideringly.
“Is that a slur on my powers of entertainment?” he teased.
“Certainly not, dear. I enjoyed your bizarre tales the first half dozen times. I do hope you are not going to grow into one of those prosy old bores, like retired generals, who are forever reliving their perilous adventures in public. No, what I meant, actually, is that you and the duke will slog it out about Myra. You must not issue a challenge, my dear. You know my niece is married to Dunsmore's uncle, or some such thing. We are connected anyhow, and it would be excessively bad ton to kill a duke, though I daresay society would give you a medal."
“I shan't challenge him, but I do intend to get the matter settled this evening, one way or the other."
“It is really the outside of enough that that prissy young lady is bearleading you and the duke. Oh, I grant you she is pretty; but she is the sort whose jaw will advance as she ages. I detect a trace of the Hapsburg jaw in that lady, James. Then her nose will descend, and those blue eyes fade quickly."
“Don't be foolish. She is the most beautiful lady in England."
“She is beautiful now, but hers is not the sort of beauty that lasts, like some.” She waited for a compliment on the endurance of her own beauty. When it did not come, she continued, “Lady Calmet, for example, is still a handsome creature, and she is pushing sixty. You could always offer for her daughter, Lady Sara, if Myra turns you off. I am amazed someone has not snatched Sara up before now. They say she has every imaginable accomplishment."
“You are being a tad previous, Mama. Myra has not turned me off yet."
“Let me know her answer when you get home. Tell the Newbolds I have a headache. This is the last evening I shall have to pay back Monty, and I mean to put it to good use. By tomorrow night, he will be at the dower house. Ha, now he will regret not fixing it up for me! The place is like a dungeon. It needs redoing from top to bottom."
“I am sure Monty will do all that needs doing."
“He is a frightful nipcheese, but only remember all the money he made for us."
“Yes, I daresay it is good business to hire him, but if you go abroad again, dear, write frequently, so that we do not take the notion the savages have made a fricassee of you, or Monty will move himself in as your heir again. What barbaric rubbish will you take to entertain the guests this evening?"
“Myself, primarily. As I consider the likely lack of conversation, however, perhaps I shall take along a few other farouche items as well."
“Don't take those horrid macumba things, dear. They kept me awake for hours. I find myself burning the hair from my brushes, in case my dresser gets hold of it and puts it on one of those dolls the natives from Bahia stick pins in."
“Those African religious cult stories usually bring the house down,” he said unconcernedly.
“I am sure they do, dear, but a hostess has no particular desire to have her house brought down around her ears."
“You take me too literally, Mama."
“A gentleman says what he means, James."
“Pity a lady don't,” he retorted, and wandered off to his room.
Griffin made a careful toilette before going to Newbold. He was not immodest, but he knew that physically, he was vastly superior to the duke. He would win Myra by his handsome face and his lively conversation. He would charm her by tales of the beauty of Brazil—and perhaps even induce in her a wish to travel...
Griffin regretted his uncivil treatment of Dunsmore, and took along a few of his Brazilian artifacts to make up for it. He had a small trunk of them still packed from his London lectures, and had the trunk put into the carriage. No time had been specified for arrival, but Newbold kept country hours, and he went at six o'clock. He was greeted by Mrs. Newbold and Alice.
“We have put dinner off until seven, since the duke is with us,” Mrs. Newbold explained. “Myra took Dunsmore to call on the vicar. He is going to give Dunsmore a tour of the church tomorrow. The vicar will be coming back with them for dinner.” She had augmented the dinner party to include a few neighbors, to show off the duke, and to divert the likelihood of disaster. Myra had given her a vivid account of the meeting in Headcorn.
“They should be home any minute,” Alice added, when she saw Griffin's hackles rising. “What is that trunk your footman brought in?"
“Dunsmore asked me to bring some of my keepsakes, you recall.” She also recalled Griffin's sharp retort, and smiled to show her appreciation of his compliance.
“Why do you not put it in the small parlor?” Mrs. Newbold suggested. She did not want her saloon littered with spears and shields when her guests arrived.
Griffin directed his footman to take the trunk there. Meanwhile some other guests arrived to wile away the hour until dinner was served. Myra and Dunsmore got home in time to change for dinner at seven. When they saw Griffin's carriage in the stable, they sneaked in by the kitchen door and up the servants’ stairs to change. They both felt very wicked and daring. Griffin's pursuit of Myra had that advantage of enlivening what was otherwise a rather dull courting.
The seating arrangement for dinner had been a nuisance to the hostess. The duke, of course, took precedence over everyone else. She put him at her right hand and Myra's other fiancé at her left.
There was, alas, only one Myra, and she insisted on sitting beside the duke. To make it up to Griffin, she gave him her prettiest guest, Mrs. Arbuthnot, for a companion. This young widow was the local dasher who would not normally get to put her feet under Mrs. Newbold's table. Desperate measures were called for, however, and Mrs. Arbuthnot was an extremely pretty redhead not much older than Griffin. Hopefully, she would keep him in curl.
This lively creature kept Griffin amused over dinner by the simple expedient of smiling in adoration, and making approving sounds at his every utterance. What she did not achieve was to prevent him from noticing and resenting the mama's seating arrangement. A slow anger was building in him. Flirting openly with Mrs. Arbuthnot did not begin to dissipate it. When he occasionally caught Alice's eye, glaring balefully at him across the table, he flirted all the harder.
With a promise of seeing Griffin's treasures after dinner, the gentlemen did not remain long at their port. By nine-thirty they had rejoined the ladies in the saloon, and all were ready to be entertained.
Griffin spoke first of his own interest, the flowers and trees of South America. As interest dwindled noticeably, he had the trunk brought into the saloon, and began displaying the various objects, speaking a little about each one. Some uncut diamonds roused the ladies to interest. They all agreed they looked like ordinary pebbles. He brought forth a geological formation that looked on the outside like a big, rough coconut. It was called a geode, and had been sawed open and polished on the edges to reveal quartz crystals growing inside. They were purple, like amethysts, and were quite a success. But as Griffin began to speak at some length of metamorphic rock and such scientific things, his audience's eyes glazed.
“Did you bring back any weapons, milord?” Mrs. Arbuthnot inquired. “I heard some rumor of a spear."
“Unfortunately, I did not bring the spear with me this evening. I have this little hunting knife,” he said, bringing forth a wicked-looking knife with an ivory handle and a blade eight inches long. “It is used in the hunt, and to skin and carve the catch. Do be careful,” he said, passing it along. “It is very sharp. I saw an Indian cut off a man's hand with this same knife."
Mrs. Arbuthnot emitted a squeal of delighted terror, and the knife clattered to the ground.
Details of this cruel deed were demanded. “The fellow had stolen a pot. Pots are objects of rare value with that particular tribe,” he explained.
“Cut off a hand for stealing a pot?” Mrs. Arbuthnot gasped.
“One would take them for Christians,” Griffin said.
The vicar ruffled up at this. “If you are referring to the precept of an eye for an eye, Griffin, you have not got it quite right."<
br />
“No, Vicar, I am referring to our precept; if thy eye scandalize thee, pluck it out, and presumably if thy hand seize what don't belong to it, cut it off.” He cast a flickering glance at the duke, who paled visibly.
The knife was retrieved and passed gingerly from hand to hand, with the utmost caution.
Mrs. Arbuthnot went to the trunk and lifted out a miniature doll, with a bit of black hair attached to it. “What is this strange thing?” she asked.
“That is a macumba doll."
“What on earth is a macumba?" the lady asked.
“It is a religious cult brought from Africa by the slaves imported to Brazil. In the Caribbean they have a similar religion called voodoo. It is believed the word voodoo derives from Vodun, one of their gods."
“That is interesting,” the vicar said. “Can you tell us something about this religion, Lord Griffin?"
“Only from scraps I have picked up from the natives. The language was a barrier, of course. I learned a fair bit of Tupi, a sort of lingua franca used by the missionaries, but there are many dialects. The divine beings worshiped in their religion are called loa. The natives believe they are inhabited by the spirit of these loa during religious observances, and perform dances and—er other rituals,” he said discreetly. Mrs. Arbuthnot gave him a saucy smile. “They have great bonfires, usually on the beach."
“Fire often plays an integral part in primitive religions,” the vicar nodded. “And water, too, of course. We use it ourselves in baptism."
“They also have some animal sacrifice, mostly chickens, in my limited experience,” Griffin continued.
Myra laughed. “Chickens!"
“You forget our ancient Christian ritual of sacrificing the lamb,” the vicar said, mildly repressive. “What else is in your trunk, milord?” he asked, for he knew the likelihood of argument breaking out if religion became the topic.
