by M C Beaton
“Oh, nothing out of the common way,” said Lord Storm carelessly. “One of those meek little household martyrs who can never stand up for themselves. She is a fairly pretty sort of poor relation, destined to turn into an old spinsterish poor relation.”
“And the two Miss Kiplings?”
“I shall not trouble myself to describe them, since they are no longer in residence at Manley Court.”
“Any other charmers?”
“Not from Manley Court. Phyllis Whitaker is charming but married, as is Felicity Manners.”
“Well, you ain’t going to fall in love this evening,” said John cheerfully. “Oh, look! It’s stopped snowing at last.”
Lord Storm began to find himself looking forward to the evening with uncharacteristic enthusiasm as the hour approached for the guests to arrive.
He had dressed with unusual care, fussing to make sure his valet had stretched his evening coat across his broad shoulders so that there should be no suggestion of a wrinkle. His evening trousers were molded to his long muscular legs like a pair of ballet tights, and his green-and-gold-striped stockings were fitted into dancing pumps of the finest leather. He picked up his silver-backed brushes and attacked his hair till it shone like white gold.
The supper was laid out in one of a chain of saloons which ran the length of the first floor. He would receive his guests on the landing. Dancing was to be held in the Red Saloon, which was large enough to accommodate at least thirty couples. Food was to be served in the Blue Saloon and cards to be played in the Yellow. Abbeywood Park had been built some hundred years before, and then the decoration of the saloons had matched their name. But with the passing of years, the colors had changed. The Red Saloon was now blue; the Blue was Egyptian black and gold. But they still retained their original names.
He was in a position at the top of the stairs as the first carriages arrived.
Mrs. Whitaker and Mrs. Manners and their husbands were the first to arrive. Then came the lord lieutenant of the county, Sir Gerald Baron, with his wife and two daughters, and then the Marquess of Dunster with his two sons.
Finally, from his station at the top of the stairs, he saw the party from Manley Court arriving. James Manley had cast his clericals and was wearing a very dandified bottle-green silk jacket with tails to his ankles, knee breeches with great bunches of colored ribbons, and a striped waistcoat which boasted a great quantity of fobs and seals. He had powdered his hair with flour, not wanting to pay the iniquitous tax on hair powder.
Clarissa was there, looking quite dazzling in jonquil sarsenet, and Harriet, as imposing as any dowager in a formidable turban and gown, both of purple velvet. In fact, thought Lord Storm, she looked just like an illustration of Hamlet’s aunt.
Sir Peregrine was extremely fine in a silk coat of old-fashioned cut, Cadogan wig, and knee breeches. He was in the throes of one of his deaf spells, so all present obligingly cranked their voices up a few notches, although most of them had very loud voices to begin with. After all, most of the gentlemen one met were slightly if not totally deaf from their addiction to shooting anything that moved on their estates—except the fox; heaven forbid!—and so one had to cultivate a very loud voice indeed. Those who uncharitably thought that the overbearing, loud, damn-you-to-hell voices of the English aristocracy came from arrogance and insensitivity were wrong; they came from necessity.
And so Lord Storm found himself demanding in a voice to make the welkin ring, “Dear me! Where is Miss Winters? Not indisposed, I trust?”
“What?” wheezed Sir Peregrine as he advanced toward the Red Saloon, swinging one gouty foot in front of him. “No, no, no. Duke’s ill. Stayed back to care for him, don’t you see.”
Lord Storm was aware of his friend John’s bright eyes on his face, and felt he somehow could not pursue the subject of Miss Winters any further.
Clarissa fastened her luminous gaze on John Harris. She felt she had failed to attract Lord Storm, and she had never been the kind of lady to waste her time on lost causes. Mr. Harris was as tall as Lord Storm, with a pleasant, square face and merry brown eyes. He looked infinitely more approachable. It was rumored he was worth twenty thousand a year.
Footmen passed among the company with drinks, negus and ratafia for the ladies and punch, champagne, or hock for the men.
Mrs. Tommy Whitaker and Mrs. Harry Manners were young county ladies of no particular looks. They were, on the other hand, thoroughly pleasant and devoted to their respective husbands. Tommy Whitaker and Harry Manners had known Lord Storm before he went to the wars and were on easy terms with him.
Lord Storm stood talking to them of this and that, all the social chitchat of the district, and all the while his mind wondered why on earth Emily had not come. Surely the servants could have looked after a mere dog! And since she was such a favorite with Sir Peregrine, surely she could have coaxed him into letting her come.
But to ask Sir Peregrine for further intelligence meant shouting in his ear, and that way Lord Storm would have to broadcast his interest in Emily to the whole room. When he had finished talking to the Mannerses and the Whitakers, he edged across the room to where the Reverend James Manley was standing by the fireplace, gazing into the flames with a singularly nasty look on his thin, wrinkled face as if the branches of apple wood were so many sinners being slowly consumed in hellfire.
Lord Storm politely asked James about various parish matters and then asked abruptly, “Why did Miss Winters not come?”
“She is employed by my brother to care for his abominable pet,” fluted James in a voice that carried to every corner of the Red Saloon, “so no doubt that is what she is doing now.”
Mr. John Harris glanced across the room at his friend in dawning surprise. Lord Storm was certainly showing a great deal of interest in a girl he had damned as a “meek household martyr.”
Harriet came forward and joined James, her purple turban with its osprey plumes nodding vigorously. “I hear you are talking about Miss Winters,” she said. “The girl has no breeding at all. So hurly-burly. The wretched dog was nearly drowned in the lake, and would have been too, had not that silly girl decided to enact some Haymarket scene by plunging in to rescue the animal. It would have died and saved us all a great deal of trouble, but Miss Winters decided to call in Sir Peregrine’s physician to attend to the beast. Such impudence!”
“I trust Miss Winters came to no harm?” said Lord Storm.
“Not she,” sniffed Harriet ungraciously. “Strong as an ox.”
As the musicians played the first bars of the opening country dance, Lord Storm resolutely banished the thought of Emily from his mind. He was a punctilious host and he set himself to please. Mrs. Singleton quite worked herself into his good graces at supper by remarking it was a pity Emily was not present, since she did not seem to have much in the way of fun and parties. Normally shrewd, Lord Storm failed to realize that the clever Clarissa had judged his interest in Emily to a nicety and planned to make full use of it. Certainly Mr. Harris appeared to have fallen under her spell, but she wanted to have one more try at engaging Lord Storm’s interest before she gave up her pursuit in that direction. She had not enjoyed her loss of social status through being married to a City merchant and was determined, if possible, to marry a title next. Mr. Harris was, however, from the untitled aristocracy, and perhaps he might have to do.
At last the evening was over, and John Harris and Lord Storm sat over the brandy decanter before retiring.
“What a rum lot they were,” said John. “I mean the lot from Manley Court—with the exception of Mrs. Singleton, of course.
“I can’t help wondering why you asked them. Sir Peregrine is an awful old bore, Miss Manley is a sour old spinster, and Mr. James Manley is quite mad. Of course,” went on John slyly, “perhaps the fair Miss Winters would have brightened the party?”
“Perhaps,” said Lord Storm with seeming indifference. “I was merely returning hospitality. I should not have inflicted them on my other guest
s. But it’s over and I need never see any of them again. And, by the way, I would like to remind you that you were the one who begged to have a look at them.”
“Aren’t you going to call in person tomorrow?” asked John curiously. It was the custom to call on the ladies one had danced with the night before. Of course, one could send one’s servant.
“I might,” said his lordship. “Or I might ask you to carry my compliments. You, no doubt, are panting to call on Mrs. Singleton.”
“As the hart panteth after the water brooks,” said John, grinning.
“I don’t know if I shall accompany you,” said Lord Storm. “Probably not.”
* * *
But somehow John was not surprised when Lord Storm volunteered to go with him the following day.
A bitter wind from the east threatened more snow as they drove slowly and carefully in the direction of Manley Court. Despite his many-caped greatcoat, John shivered on the box. “Why don’t you let your coachman drive?” he complained. “We could be sitting inside where we belong, wrapped in bear rugs and with a few hot bricks at our feet.”
“I like driving,” said Lord Storm, feathering the Manley Court gatepost to an inch to illustrate his point. His carriage swung up the long drive to Manley Park, but John noticed that as they approached the house, Lord Storm slowed his team and his eyes raked over the lawns as if looking for someone.
Miss Harriet Manley was glad to see them in a sour kind of way but reported that Sir Peregrine had taken one of his turns and was keeping to his bedchamber.
James Manley was for once about his parish business, although he usually left that side of affairs to his overworked curate.
John Harris sat down on a sofa beside Mrs. Singleton and kept one ear cocked to see if his friend would ask for the mysterious Miss Winters.
But Lord Storm did not. Very soon the stipulated ten minutes for making a call were over, and both gentlemen arose to their feet, Mr. Harris having begged permission to take Mrs. Singleton riding the next day and having been accepted.
They said goodbye to the ladies and collected their coats and hats and gloves in the hall.
The butler, Rogers, was holding open the door when Lord Storm heard a little rumbling sound from abovestairs, the scampering of paws, and a ripple of enchanting laughter.
“Miss Winters is at home?” he asked the butler.
“Yes, my lord. The weather being inclement, Miss Winters is exercising the master’s dog in the long gallery.”
Lord Storm stood for a few moments frowning at the floor while the butler waited patiently as a cold wind whipped across the hall.
“Present my compliments to Miss Winters,” said his lordship at last, “and ask her if she could spare me a few moments.”
The butler inclined his head and went off to deliver the message.
“Wait for me in the carriage, John,” said Lord Storm. “I shall not be above a few minutes.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” said John cheerfully. “Am I not to have a look at this meek household martyr?”
“No,” said Lord Storm bleakly. “Be a good chap, John, and do as I say. I do not feel like explaining myself.”
“Oh, very well. But I’ll wait inside the carriage, and you may freeze on the box on the return journey.”
Rogers soon returned to say that Miss Winters was prepared to see his lordship.
Lord Storm mounted the stairs after the butler, wondering what he should say and why he was making such an effort to see the girl anyway. Before he reached the doors of the long gallery, he decided it was because he felt in need of apologizing to her for his cavalier behavior. Once that distasteful task was over, then he could forget her.
Rogers threw open the doors of the long gallery.
“Lord Storm,” he announced, and then retired, leaving the doors punctiliously open, since Miss Winters was not chaperoned.
Emily turned a flushed face to his. “I shall just roll this ball once more for Duke.” She rolled a wooden croquet ball along the polished length of the gallery, and Duke went bounding after it. Having seized the ball in his jaws, he stood staring wildly about him, then dropped it at his feet, keeled over with a thump, and went promptly to sleep.
“Poor old Duke,” said Emily. “He is still exhausted after his ordeal, my lord. He nearly drowned. I have been trying to teach him to retrieve, but he does not really like to fetch anything other than a stick.”
“The animal is utterly hopeless.” Lord Storm smiled. “He’s also much too fat. His back’s like that of a well-fed sheep.”
Now, Emily had not become any more fond of Duke with the passing of the winter days, but to her surprise she found herself resenting Lord Storm’s criticism of the animal immensely. Duke looked vulnerable and ugly, lying stretched out, chasing rabbits in his sleep.
“It’s not his fault,” said Emily hotly. “He’s never been trained to anything. You are too harsh—on people and on animals.”
Lord Storm’s lips tightened. He was not used to being criticized. In fact, he could not remember anyone’s having even dared to do so, with the exception of his parents and John Harris.
Then he recollected his apology.
“Pray sit down, Miss Winters. There is something I wish to say to you.”
Emily dutifully sat down in a hard chair near one of the long windows which lined one wall of the gallery. Lord Storm stood in front of the empty fireplace.
Emily was wearing the plaid gown which Mrs. Otley had given her. Her black hair gleamed with health, and her blue eyes surveyed him curiously.
“Miss Winters,” began Lord Storm, “I wish to make you an apology. I am not in the way of thrusting myself on young ladies of good breeding….”
“I see.” Emily smiled. “You usually confine your attentions to ladies of bad breeding.”
“No. Let me finish, miss,” said Lord Storm furiously. “I am making you a humble apology, dammit, and the least you can do is sit there quietly until I am finished.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Emily meekly, although her eyes were dancing.
“As I was saying,” went on his lordship, beginning to stride up and down, “I am very sorry if I caused you any embarrassment. There!”
“Thank you,” said Emily demurely. “But what made you think I would welcome your attentions?”
Lord Storm flushed. “I assumed, madam, that you were waiting there to waylay me. It has happened before. I mean, in similar circumstances.”
“What a very lucky man you are, to be sure,” said Emily. “All these fair damsels throwing themselves at you.”
He stared at her haughtily, and then all at once burst out laughing.
“You wicked girl,” he said. “How dare you tease me so, and what a coxcomb you make me look! I am not so vain, you know. It is not my face or figure that the fair sex pursue, but my title and my fortune.”
“Alas! Poor Lord Storm. But it is so very tempting, you know. I mean your fortune, rather than your title. Still, I do not think I could ever be so mercenary,” said Emily candidly. “Of course, I might be in danger of thinking myself into love with some gentleman in order to secure myself a home.”
He walked toward her, pulled forward a chair, and sat down opposite so that their knees were almost touching. All at once, Emily felt uneasy. At close quarters, she was only too aware of a sort of emanation of virility coming from him. “Your position here is not a happy one,” he said, forcing his eyes not to stray to her mouth, which looked so very soft and yielding.
“It is far better than the orphanage,” said Emily candidly. “They were not cruel to me there, but it was so very cold in winter and there was never enough to eat. It is the insecurity that frightens me. I don’t know who this mysterious Manley relative is who paid for my keep in the orphanage or whether he—or she—will support me should Sir Peregrine die. Miss Manley has made it plain that neither I nor Duke can depend on house room.”
“I have business in town, sometime in the coming weeks,�
�� he said slowly. “Perhaps I could call on your lawyers and explain your predicament. Do you know their names and direction?”
“Yes, my lord. Summers and Summers of Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”
“Very well, I will see what I can do.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Emily, deciding that Lord Storm was really quite human after all.
“Perhaps you would care to come driving with me tomorrow?” he said, smiling into her eyes in a way that made her knees turn to jelly.
“Oh, my lord, I would like that above all things, but it cannot be so. I am not permitted to leave Duke. Sir Peregrine has the idea that either Miss Manley or Mr. Manley will poison him.”
“That is utterly ridiculous! But by all means let us humor the old man. We will take that wretched animal driving as well.”
“Oh, thank you, my lord!” cried Emily, quite pink with excitement. “I did so want to go to your party,” she added shyly after a moment. “But Duke was so very ill, although as you can see, he has rallied amazingly.”
Duke opened one beady eye and stared at Lord Storm, gave a cavernous yawn, and went back to sleep.
“I gather you showed exceptional bravery in rescuing the animal,” said Lord Storm, rising to his feet, while Emily blushed and disclaimed.
He took her hand in his. “Until tomorrow, Miss Winters,” he said, dropping a light kiss on her hand.
“Unless it snows too much, my lord,” said Emily, anxiously looking out of the nearest window.
“I am sure nature will favor us.” He smiled on her again and took his leave.
Emily sat down suddenly again and hugged her middle.
“Oh, let it not snow,” she whispered to the sleeping dog. “I would love to see something of the countryside, and I am so tired of being cooped up in here.” And she would not admit that her intense anticipation was for any further reason.
The weather strained Emily’s nerves to the limit. First it snowed, then it rained, then it froze, then it thawed, and then it froze and snowed again—just one of the many reasons why the English weather keeps the English people in a perpetual state of outrage.
