by M C Beaton
Since the day after the dinner party, Sir Peregrine’s health had begun to fail. It was not that he had any of his usual apoplectic fits. He simply seemed to begin to waste away.
He rarely emerged from his room, and although his family would have liked to bully Emily more than they did, they were afraid of Sir Peregrine’s tale-bearing servants. But just when the end seemed as if it must be near, he made a miraculous recovery and confounded his relatives by appearing hale and hearty at the breakfast table one morning.
It was too much for Betty and Fanny. Mama must be told they were wasting their time, and soon they took their departure, to Emily’s infinite relief. Clarissa Singleton remained.
And then one snowy morning, out of the blue, came an invitation from Lord Storm. Sir Peregrine and members of his household were invited to attend a supper. There would be dancing and cards afterward.
Emily had tried very hard not to think of Lord Storm since that last evening, but somehow his face always seemed to be floating before her eyes. Clarissa Singleton promptly departed for town to choose a new dress especially for the occasion. Harriet surprised everyone by opting to go with her. James was back at his rectory. So for three blessed days Emily practically had the house to herself. Or rather, that was what it felt like, although Sir Peregrine was present, not to mention a whole army of servants.
The day before the supper party was chilly, with the park glittering under a light fall of snow. Sir Peregrine suddenly announced he would like to take the air with Emily and Duke. Leaning heavily on a cane and wrapped up to the eyebrows, he hobbled forth. Duke seemed fully aware of the honor being done him and raced around and around, throwing up clouds of powdery snow.
The sun was glittering and gold against a bank of ominous clouds—a sure sign of a storm on the way.
“Well, Emmy,” wheezed Sir Peregrine, “better’n the orphanage, heh?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Emily politely.
There was a little silence while they shuffled in the direction of the lake.
“Why did you take me from the orphanage, Sir Peregrine?” asked Emily.
“Why, to look after Duke, don’t you see?”
“But, I mean, why me? How did you learn of my existence?”
“Through the family, o’ course.”
Emily stopped and turned pleading eyes to his. “Oh, Sir Peregrine. You must know who my parents were. Or at least you must know the name of the relatives who paid for my keep in the orphanage. Please tell me!”
“Can’t,” mumbled Sir Peregrine, avoiding her gaze. “Gave my word. Secret, don’t you see. No, don’t ask any more. Shan’t tell you.”
They had reached the border of the lake with its pretty rotunda on the island in the middle shining in the glaring sunlight.
Sir Peregrine stooped and picked up a stick. “Here, boy!” he shouted to Duke. “Fetch!”
He threw it into the waters of the lake and laughed like a child as Duke plunged into the icy waters and swam after it.
“He’ll catch a cold!” said Emily. “You should not…”
“Tol-rol,” said Sir Peregrine, waggling his fingers disdainfully. “My hounds are out in all weathers, and not one o’ ’em comes to harm.”
Duke bounded to the shore, carrying the stick between his teeth, and dropped it at Sir Peregrine’s gouty feet.
“Aha! What! Good boy! Fetch!” And Sir Peregrine threw the stick back in the lake again.
Emily bit her lip. She wanted to point out to Sir Peregrine that his hounds were hardened to all weathers and did not sleep in specially made beds or lounge in front of the drawing-room fire.
The bank of clouds closed overhead and blotted out the sun. Tiny pellets of snow began to whip into their faces.
“Duke’s in trouble!” shouted Emily, as Sir Peregrine was shuffling about to point himself in the direction of the house.
The dog was struggling in the middle of the lake. He appeared to be caught on something. He gave a long yowl of distress, and his head went under.
Almost without thought, Emily ran into the water and began to wade out to where Duke had disappeared. She could not swim; she prayed it would not get any deeper. Weeds clung around her ankles and wrapped their tentacles around her sodden skirts.
“Come back, you fool!” shouted Sir Peregrine.
The water was up to Emily’s chin now, and she thought that Duke was dead, but his head suddenly broke the surface again less than a yard in front of her. Reaching out her arm, Emily caught his collar in a firm grip.
Duke was too tired to struggle, which was the saving of him. She felt under the water and found strands of weed wound around one of his back legs, and she tore at them until she managed to get the leg free. And then, towing the limp animal behind her, she struggled toward the shore.
She sledged Duke through the thin ice at the edge and up on the snowy bank, then looked down at his now unconscious form helplessly. She bent down and began to pump his paws backward and forward in the mad hope that she could reanimate his circulation. He suddenly vomited a great burst of lake water and began to shiver.
“Good Duke. Fine Duke,” muttered Emily, heaving his huge body up into her arms.
She found herself shivering uncontrollably. A burst of temper did a great deal to give her the necessary energy to carry the animal toward the house, for Sir Peregrine had callously walked off without waiting to see if either of them lived or died.
The butler, Rogers, saw her approach and sent two footmen out to relieve her of her burden. Duke was hustled upstairs and rubbed down with warm towels.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Otley, bustled in at the head of an army of servants, some to fill a bath for Emily, others to pile extra blankets on her bed.
“That was a brave thing you did, Miss Winters,” said Mrs. Otley, “and you are appreciated by the staff, if not by others.”
Rogers arrived with a bottle of brandy on a tray and the news that the kennel master would arrive to look at Duke as soon as Miss Winters was bathed and changed.
Emily made quick work of her bath and felt much better when she was attired in a smart plain walking gown that she had never seen before. She wondered where Mrs. Otley had found it, for it was a perfect fit.
The kennel master, James Balfour, was ushered in. He was attired in a bright-green plush shooting jacket with innumerable pockets and the most dilapidated pair of white moleskins Emily had ever seen thrust into drab horn-buttoned gaiters and hobnailed shoes.
He examined Duke, who was lying breathing rapidly. He looked at his dry nose, prized open an eye, and looked at the red and feverish eyeball.
“Shoot ’im,” he said.
“What?’ said Emily, who had been watching this performance anxiously.
“Beggin’ yer parding, mum, but ’e’s not long for this here world. Shoot ’im. Most merciful thing to do.”
“Leave him with me,” said Emily quietly. “If he becomes worse, I will send for you.”
“As you please, mum,” said Balfour, with a heartless grin.
After he had left, Emily sat down on the floor beside Duke’s low bed, which was a sort of imitation of a real bed, having four little legs to raise it off the floor and blankets and a pillow, and placed her cool hand on his hot, narrow head.
To date, Emily had been her own servant, tidying her own room and dressing herself. Now she seemed to have an embarrassment of servants, as the housekeeper and butler kept sending all sorts of delicacies up on trays. Nobody loved Duke, but they were impressed by Emily’s “spunk” and by her quiet voice and general air of good breeding.
Emily had thought only of saving Duke’s life. Her motives had been purely altruistic. Now she began to think of herself. If Duke died, then she was sure she would be turned out of doors.
She stared at the dog and fretted helplessly over him as might an inexperienced mother over the sickness of her first child.
And a fine mother I would make, thought Emily bitterly. But then I should not be in this
coil. Provided I had money enough, I should simply send for the physician.
The physician! Dr. Ackermann was due to call on Sir Peregrine. Merciful heavens! It was past five o’clock and the doctor might have left.
When the butler called once more to see if miss had everything she needed for “the poor doggie,” Emily begged him to ask Dr. Ackermann to step along.
Fortunately for Emily, Sir Peregrine’s doctor was of the old-fashioned country variety and was not too high in the instep to act as veterinarian when the occasion demanded. He had a round cheerful face under a white tie wig and wore a country-made snuff-colored coat with black waistcoat, short greenish drab trousers, and highblows—those calf-length boots worn by countryfolk.
“Well, Miss… Winters, is it? Yes, yes. Now, let me see the patient. Dear, dear.”
His large, soft, white hands with their antique rings prodded and poked and examined the recumbent Duke.
At last he went to his bag and produced a hornlike instrument and a bottle of black liquid.
“Now, Miss Winters,” said the doctor, “I want you to hold the dog’s head up… right up… so. Good. Now if you will just open his mouth… th-a-a-t’s right… and pull his jaws apart.” He inserted the horn, which proved to be a kind of funnel, and poured the dose down Duke’s throat.
The dog opened its bleary eyes and whimpered faintly.
“That might do the trick,” said Dr. Ackermann, getting to his feet. “Keep him well wrapped up and away from drafts. I assume my bill will go to Sir Peregrine? Good, good.”
He bustled out, leaving Emily alone with Duke.
And Emily, realizing she had done all she could possibly do to help the sick dog, felt suddenly bone-weary. She crawled on top of the bed, still in her clothes, and fell fast asleep.
She awoke some two hours later to find the fire had died down and the room was cold. Duke appeared to be in the throes of the nightmare of a lifetime.
Emily hurried out of bed and made up the fire and put fresh candles in the candlesticks, the old ones having burned down to the socket. And then she crouched down beside Duke and tried to shake him out of his nightmare. His eyes opened, red and staring, and then he began to vomit, great heaving retching bursts which seemed likely to tear him apart.
In desperation Emily rang the bell, and the servants, who were still enjoying the whole drama of the saving of Duke, arrived in droves.
Duke was tenderly lifted from his soiled bed like the most valued patient. Fresh linen was put on his bed, the mess was scrubbed up, and rose water was sprinkled about the room. At last, the dog’s paroxysms subsided and he lay very still.
The servants stood around in silence as if at a wake. The rising storm howled in the chimney, and the candle flames danced, sending shadows flying up the faded wallpaper.
“Oh, Duke,” said Emily tearfully, for she was quite sure he was dead.
And then Duke slowly opened his eyes and feebly wagged his silly plume of a tail from side to side.
What a cheer went up! The noise of rejoicing would have given any sick human a relapse, but Duke bared his teeth in his travesty of a grin.
Footmen and housemaids hugged each other, Cook put her head around the door promising nourishing broth and calves’-foot jelly, the butler suggested a little something to warm them all in the kitchen, and once again Emily was able to go to bed.
It was only when she was dropping off to sleep that she realized she had had no supper and was not in the least hungry, and that altruism has its uses. She had been so concerned about the welfare of the dog that she had not once thought of her own health. She had not even caught a chill.
The morning brought the return of sister Harriet and Clarissa Singleton from London.
Duke was stretched out in a deep sleep when Emily left him to visit Sir Peregrine, who, she convinced herself, must be anxious about the welfare of his dog.
Sir Peregrine, propped against his pillows, did vouchsafe a sort of apology at having left Emily in the lake with the dog. “Made me embarrassed, don’t you see,” he said. “Thought you was making a cake of yourself. But you’re a brave girl, Emmy, and I won’t forget it. I’m glad old Duke’s going to pull through. He’s had enough trials already.”
“I never asked you where you found Duke,” said Emily shyly.
“Found him over in Baxtead one market day. Local boys were torturing him something awful. He was nothing but skin and bone and damn near dead. Had had a bit too much to drink, so I thinks if I do something for this creature, the good Lord will take note of it in the hereafter. Don’t like the animal much, and that’s a fact. But I keep him as a sort of talisman. Only time in my life I did anything for anybody.”
“What about me?” asked Emily. “You took me out of the orphanage.”
“Oh, that,” he said gruffly. “Well, needed someone to look after Duke, don’t you see. Nothing in that. In any case, it looks as if you won’t be going over to Storm’s place with us tonight. Better stay here and see Duke is fully well again. Could have a relapse when you’re gone. Off you go now, and send Mrs. Singleton up to me.”
Emily did not want to see Clarissa, or Harriet, for that matter. She sent a footman with Sir Peregrine’s message and then walked slowly along the corridor to her room.
So, she was not to go to Lord Storm’s supper. Emily’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she wearily wiped them away, thinking that the ordeal of yesterday must have enfeebled her more than she thought.
She naturally was not crying with disappointment. That idea was utterly ridiculous!
Chapter 3
Abbeywood Park, home of Lord Storm, had been made over to him on his twenty-fifth birthday by his father, the Earl of Freham, along with his father’s junior title, Baron Storm. He rarely saw his parents, since they had frowned on the wild excesses of his youth, and although he had served his country bravely in the wars and had proved himself a good and sober landlord before that, they still shook their heads every time his name was mentioned and said that young Bart was sadly “rake-helly.”
He had not meant to see any of the Manley Court menage again, but his old friend John Harris had come on a visit and had been so fascinated by Lord Storm’s description of the household that he begged for a chance to see them all for himself.
And that was how the idea of the supper had come about.
Invitations had been sent not only to Manley Court but to various other county families. It was Lord Storm’s thirty-third birthday, and he had a nagging feeling of guilt that his parents might expect to see him on that auspicious day, since they did not have much of a chance of seeing him at any other time.
But the invitations were out and the deed was done.
On the afternoon before the supper, Lord Storm and John Harris were sitting in the library, smoking, drinking, reading, and enjoying that splendid sort of bachelor existence that makes any right-minded female want to put a stop to it immediately.
“Still snowing, Bart,” said John laconically. Both gentlemen were still attired in the dress they had worn for a morning’s shooting, which is about the nearest a gentleman ever gets to fancy dress—indulging himself by wearing the brightest of jackets, the oldest of breeches, and then sinking his feet into the comfort of a pair of old-fashioned round-toed Hessians.
Lord Storm was dressed in a long sky-blue plush jacket, and John Harris sported a pea-green affair with a great deal of pockets all about it.
Lord Storm glanced toward the window but did not bother to reply to his friend’s remark about the snow.
Of course, thought his lordship, pretending to read, perhaps it would be better if it snowed so much that nobody could come. But that would be a pity, for his chef and his kitchen staff had worked long and hard on the buffet supper, and the orchestra he had hired for the occasion were fiddling away somewhere in the back regions of the house.
Besides, it would only be doing that pert Miss Winters a kindness to show her that he had no dishonorable intentions toward
her at all. He must have a guilty conscience about his behavior, or why else had he thought of her almost constantly? He could not be in love. That idea was laughable. A gentleman did not fall in love with anyone below his station… not enough to marry, anyway.
What was John saying? Something about never having seen such a change in anyone?
“Who are you talking about?” asked Lord Storm, putting down his newspaper.
“Why, you,” said John. “I was sitting here thinking over old times and how wild we used to be. And now look at us. Two staid gentlemen beside the library fire.
“I mean, you never laugh much now, Bart, do you? I mean, I know you, but you must seem like a very high and mighty gentleman to those that don’t.”
“I don’t find much to laugh about,” said Lord Storm. “And don’t remind me of the follies of my youth. I find a rather glacial manner an advantage, John. It keeps the mushrooms and matching mamas at bay, not to mention their silly daughters. Now come, John! In all honesty, has any female ever made you laugh?”
“Old Dome down at the Pig and Whistle in Streatham,” replied John promptly.
“I’m not talking about barmaids with generous appurtenances and a native wit. I am talking about ladies.”
“Oh, them. Well, now you come to mention it, no. But who wants to laugh at ’em? I like being surrounded by soft young things with round white arms and neat ankles.”
“Pah!” said Lord Storm. “If that’s all you want, get yourself an opera dancer. You don’t need to marry them or do the pretty by them.”
“Haven’t you ever been in love, Bart?”
“No,” said Lord Storm with unnecessary vehemence, sending a sudden vision of a log and a girl and a dog and a warm, fresh pair of trembling lips whirling off to a dark corner of his mind.
“Be careful, then. You’re at a dangerous age. You said one of the Manley Court lot was a dasher.”
“Yes, a Mrs. Singleton. Very beautiful.”
“And what of the girl you mentioned? The Cinderella of Manley Court who sits guarding some dreadful incontinent mongrel and waiting for Prince Charming with the slipper of glass?”
