The Merry Month of May

by Joan Smith

  “I want to get down.”

  “Go then,” she said, setting him on the floor with a jar. “Dear little tyke,” she added. “I am quite a mama to my nephews. When Fiona died, they stayed with me for six months, didn’t they, Peter?”

  “Yes, Betsy was very kind to them.”

  “Truth to tell,” Miss Harvey confided, “half the reason I am here is to be with those lads. I hope you have not taken the notion I came because of Peter.” Her laughing eye, however, seldom settled on her beloved nephews.

  Haldiman spoke dispassionately, but his words held a sting. “I think a lady errs to attach herself too strongly to anyone’s children but her own. You will feel a wrench when they acquire a new mother.”

  Betsy’s eyes flew to Peter, thence to Miss Wood, with a sharp, inquiring look. Rufus tugged at her skirt. “What is it now, you little mischief?” she asked sharply.

  “When are we going to eat? Papa said we would have plum cake.”

  “Well, I declare. There isn’t a jot of manners in your boys, Peter. Begging for something to eat, like common paupers. In Canada,” she explained to Sara, “callers are always given a bite. I daresay that is why he asks.”

  With a memory of the plum cake and macaroons in the kitchen, Sara said, “I’m sure Cook has some cake,” and was happy for an excuse to escape.

  Betsy gave a satisfied little sniff. “That put the bug in her ear. Fancy not serving anything but coffee, and you a lord, Haldiman.”

  When her roving eye caught Haldiman with his lips open in astonishment, he rapidly invented a smile. “You will have our manners sharpened up in no time, Miss Harvey.”

  “Well, for starters,” she said, pleased with the compliment, “we need not go on with Miss Harvey and Lord Haldiman forever. We are connections after all. You can call me Betsy, Rufus.”

  Haldiman nodded politely. “I will be charmed to, Betsy.”

  Betsy tossed her curls at Peter. “Your brother is not so toplofty as you warned me,” she chided. She turned her attention again to Haldiman. “Why, to hear him tell it, you are a regular ogre. I half expected to be beaten when we landed in last night. And by the by, Rufus, that was an excellent mount your groom gave me. A sweet goer, headstrong and fast, just as I like. In Canada, you know, we have real distances to cover, not like this poky little scrap of an island.”

  “I have heard North America is larger,” Haldiman replied, with impassive good humor. Her every solecism was welcome, as showing Peter how ineligible the lady was.

  “Heard? Don’t you own a map? You could practically slide England into Retford and leave room for Scotland besides.”

  “I see you are feeling confined on this tight little island already, Betsy. Such a spirit as yours requires the broader spaces of Canada.”

  “I doubt if I could stick it here for long, but while I am here, I mean to see what there is to see. It sets a lady a little apart to have traveled.”

  “There is little enough to see in the provinces. You ought to go to London,” Haldiman suggested.

  “Just what I’ve been telling Peter. We shall all get up a party to go very soon.” Her darting eyes espied a motion at the doorway. “They are serving something to eat at last. Miss Wood heeded my little hint.”

  Betsy was the first one at the table. Haldiman lifted a repressive brow at his brother and said, “We shall cancel that dinner party for tonight. I hope Mama has not mentioned it.”

  But when the brothers joined the others for coffee and cake, they learned their mother had already extended the invitation, and Mrs. Wood had accepted on behalf of her family. Sara was horrified to realize her afternoon’s torment was to be repeated in front of an even larger audience.

  “Just a small party to welcome Peter home,” Lady Haldiman was explaining. “I sent a note off to Reverend Kane. He don’t answer, but he always turns up. Odd manners. Sir Swithin Idle is at home. He will come, and of course his mama.”

  “Sir Swithin is going to paint Sara’s picture,” Mary mentioned.

  “Yes, pretty as a picture to be sure,” Lady Haldiman agreed. “And an amusing rattle besides. He calls me Perdita, for Prinny was once after me for his flirt.”

  “That must have been years ago,” Miss Harvey said.

  “I don’t know,” Lady Haldiman murmured, shaking her head vaguely. “Where do the years go? Past reclaiming. A lovely cake, Pamela,” she added, turning her attention to Mrs. Wood.

  Sara nibbled silently at her cake. How could she get out of this dinner party? Claiming a sick headache would not be inappropriate. Indeed, she felt the incipient stab of pain at her temples to even consider it. Watching her, Haldiman remembered his promise to make the visit short and soon herded the family together to leave.

  As he left, he said aside to Sara, “The dinner party was Mama’s idea. Are you very displeased?”

  “It sounds delightful,” she answered through thin lips.

  “The first week will be the hardest, Sara. You’ll see.” He studied her tense, pale face a moment. She looked very different from the young Sara he had tried to comfort after Peter’s disappearance. That girl had been nearly speechless. The new, older Sara had developed a more forthright manner that interested him. “Idle has chosen a bad moment to capture you on canvas. I didn’t realize he ran tame here at Whitehern. Idle is a bit of a lad with the ladies, you know.”

  Sara gazed at him with a steady, scornful eye, and replied, “We aging spinsters, you know, cannot afford to be choosy.”

  “You don’t mean—is that why you are so adamant about not having Peter?” His voice was high with disbelief. It angered Sara that he should find it impossible another man found her attractive. “You and Swithin are courting?”

  She was about to deny this ridiculous charge, till it occurred to her a new beau would be a wonderful shield against the old. “Now you are putting words in my mouth, Haldiman!” she replied, but in a coquettish way that encouraged the notion and also lent an unaccustomed touch of flirtation to her manner.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Eventually, no doubt, but meanwhile Swithin and I look forward to seeing you this evening.”

  Haldiman just shook his head in wonder.

  Miss Harvey, observing their private tête-à-tête, found it every bit as annoying as having Peter moon after Miss Wood. It had not escaped her notice that Lord Haldiman, an earl and owner of a much more impressive estate than the Poplars, was a bachelor. He seemed so fond of her.

  “I say, Rufus, get a hand on Beau, will you?” she called. “He’s chasing after that ugly old spotted mutt. He’ll come home with fleas if we’re not careful.”

  Haldiman gave a quick glance at Sara. “Folks are less formal in the colonies. She asked me to call her Betsy,” he explained.

  “My dog does not have fleas!” Sara said, and slammed the door.

  Chapter Five

  The sun was beginning to lower when Sir Swithin arrived with his sketch pad and patent pens to begin Sara’s portrait. He wore an absurd violet smock to protect his superfine jacket and sprigged waistcoat, and looked a fool. The crowning touch was a satin beret sliding rakishly off the side of his head. “I always feel costume is so important to set the mood, don’t you?” he asked, in a rhetorical spirit.

  “Have you heard, Sir Swithin? Lord Peter is back!” Mary exclaimed.

  “I have heard,” he frowned. “It always distresses me when real life plagiarizes fiction. One feels the sky should have opened and poured down thunderbolts to accompany his coming. Mrs. Radcliffe would have done no less. I daresay such an alarming event as his return takes precedence over my toilette.”

  Sara was eager to quit the other subject and said, “Very stylish, Swithin. You’ve left it late to begin the picture.”

  “By design, my dear. The sun’s morning rays are not for maturity. They seek out every little trace of Mr. Crow’s claw, just there at the corner of the eye. Not that I mean to infer you are in anything but a perfect state of preservatio
n, barring those few infinitesimally small lines. I shall omit them from the portrait.”

  Mary took up her position at his elbow. “Have you sent out the invitations to our ball yet?” she asked eagerly.

  “Sent them out? Dear child, I have not even begun to design them. An Idle ball must have a theme, with invitations to match. My audience expect no less of me. Hand-drawn invitations, you know. I do not agree with the anonymity of an engraver’s stamp. Sit over there, beneath the lilacs, Sara. I want the shadows on your brow to suggest an air of mystery and brooding. Perhaps if you would just lift your hand to shade your eyes, as if you were looking out to sea.”

  “Out to the cow barn, you mean,” she corrected.

  “Let us not be too literal, my pet. It will be the rolling ocean’s swell when I finish with it. Marvelous news that Lord Peter has returned. I wish I had caught you before that happy event. I fear your smiles will quite upset the harmony of my composition.”

  “What smiles?” Mary demanded, and gave a vivid account of the afternoon’s meeting.

  “The colonial sounds vastly amusing” was his only comment. “I adore genuine vulgarity.”

  “Sara says she won’t have Lord Peter,” Mary said. “I think he’s very handsome.”

  “How will you escape him, Sara?” Idle asked, standing back and making a frame of his finger to set the bounds of his painting.

  “By saying no, if he has the poor taste to offer. No one can expect me to accept. It is illogical to assume I would want him now.”

  “Never put your faith in logic, in affairs of the heart. That invariably leads to mischief. Did not Eve seduce Adam by means of logic?”

  “I thought you would help me, Idle,” Sara replied warily. “If he believed I had another gentleman in my eye, he might desist.”

  “Lovely. I’m flattered to death. I always adore romantic intrigues. You could not have chosen your man more felicitously, for I am a marvelous actor. It will be quite a commedia dell’arte, complete with improvisation. What pitch of passion are you and I to have reached?”

  “Only a very low pitch,” Sara replied.

  He cast a conning smile on her. “Acting without passion is like hearing Mozart hummed. The greater refinements are lacking. Restraint was never my long suit, especially in the gentle art of love.”

  “I have enough restraint for both of us.”

  “And I enough passion.”

  “How long must I hold my hand up to my eyes.”

  “I shall begin my sketch immediately.”

  He was silent while he worked and insisted that Sara, too, be still, which left the burden of talk to Mary. She pestered Idle with suggestions for his ball. After half an hour, he was pleased with his preliminary sketch.

  “I shall transfer this to canvas this evening and return tomorrow to recapture more permanently, if I can, the wonderful spontaneity of this quick sketch. It’s charming, don’t you think?”

  The ladies admired it, prodded by the artist to praise his clever touches here and there. “You will notice I omitted that rather pedestrian gown and brooch you are wearing, Sara. I will want your throat and shoulders exposed for the final work. Nothing salacious, ça va sans dire, but a touch of opalescent flesh to emphasize your womanhood. And the tresses flowing, caressed by a sympathetic zephyr whispering of tragedy at sea. Such a tragedy that Peter has returned.”

  Sara cast a withering stare at him. “So that’s what you are up to! Portraying me as a heartbroken tragedienne.”

  “Your history has always intrigued me,” he admitted. “Reality is inevitably a letdown, is it not?” He did not wait for an answer, but said, “What will you wear this evening? If you are to be my flirt, you must look your prettiest, my pet. Something just a trifle daring, if you possess such a garment?”

  “I shan’t disgrace you,” Sara promised. She was beginning to think the evening might not be so dismal as she had feared. At the back of her mind it was not just Peter she wished to put in his place. She would enjoy to show Haldiman a lesson as well.

  Idle put his sketch pad under his arm. “It will lend credence to our little melodrama if we arrive ensemble, will it not? I shall call for you, and we shall follow your mama and Mary to the Hall. Sevenish?” he asked.

  “We have to be there by seven,” Mary told him.

  “My dear child, I never arrive on time. It makes one appear too easy. Let the company simmer awhile, wondering if I am to come at all. I shall be here around seven, we shall enjoy a glass of wine and depart for the Hall before seven-thirty. Perdita is such a glutton she will begin dinner without us if we tarry longer. And now, adieu.” He bowed, and minced across the meadow, clutching his sketch pad.

  “You shan’t make anyone jealous with him,” Mary informed her sister.

  “Jealousy is not the point.”

  Mary gazed a moment at her sister. “Don’t you really want to marry Peter, Sara?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t love him.”

  Mary looked pensive. “I didn’t know love could die.”

  “There’s a great deal you don’t know about love.” And neither do I, Sara added silently to herself. But she knew something about men and was beginning to wonder if she had chosen well in selecting Swithin for her acting partner. What she really wanted was a more or less silent conspirator, and silence was no more a long suit of Idle than was restraint.

  * * * *

  “We should have left for the Hall fifteen minutes ago,” Mrs. Wood said, glancing at the clock for the third time in as many minutes.

  “Idle will be here any moment, Mama,” Sara replied.

  “I can’t think why you agreed to go with him. It will look so odd to the Haldimans, especially at this time.”

  “His mother will be with us. And our carriage will be right behind yours. Ah, here is Idle now.”

  Sir Swithin came bowing in, looking as fetching as a burgundy velvet coat and white lace could make him, which was not so much fetching as silly. His eyes turned at once to Sara. He studied her figure a moment, approving, though with no great enthusiasm, her choice of a Pomona-green silk gown. There was more of lace and rutching than he could quite like, but then in the country this no doubt passed for elegance. He would slip Sara the hint he preferred less clutter on his ladies. At least the figure was good. That contrast of creamy white shoulders and green was just the effect he wanted for his portrait.

  “Here at last!” Mrs. Wood exclaimed. “But where is your mama, Idle?”

  “At home reading a novel, pretending she has the toothache. She has a marvelous molar that will always oblige her with an ache that leaves as soon as she has avoided her obligations.”

  “Pity.” Mrs. Wood rose to get her pelisse. “We are late. Let us be going.”

  “How lovely you all look,” Sir Swithin exclaimed. “And how grateful I am that I don’t have to bestow Aphrodite’s apple on one, like poor Paris. May we have just a tiny sip of wine before leaving? My throat is parched. I blame it on you all. You have taken my breath away.”

  Mrs. Wood could not like to refuse a guest such a simple request, but her impatience was obvious. She poured a very small glass. Swithin took the decanter and filled it more generously. “Do not fear, madam. The party never really begins till I arrive,” he said, and sat down.

  At seven-fifteen he put aside his glass and permitted the impatient company to part. He behaved more like a drama director than a flirt in the carriage alone with Sara. “We shall not use terms of endearment,” he decided. “That has a touch not only of the common but even of insincerity. I have often observed that when a couple ‘dear’ and ‘darling’ each other to death in company, they are at each other’s throats in private. We must, of course, be on a first-name basis. You will be Sara, and I shall be Swithin. One could wish for more authority in the name. It is hard to do anything with Swithin. It has, alas, the insignificant sound of the soft i, made worse by the lack of a strong consonan
t. I wish I had been called Robert or John.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your name.”

  He gave a sharp look. “At least you didn’t thay it thuits me!” Sir Swithin had a suggestion of a lisp that only came out when he was upset. “We shall allow ourselves a few languishing looks, and if Peter becomes too particular in his attentions, I shall display a proper degree of uxorious jealousy. You might do the same if the colonial finds herself enchanted by me. One never knows. She will never have seen anything like me in the colonies.”

  “That is true,” Sara agreed, biting back a smile.

  “Ah, you have claws, I see! Do you know, Sara, I begin to think I never fully appreciated you before. Fancy that, a lady of some merit living beside me all these years, and I never deigned to notice you. Life is strange.” But not so very strange after all. Sara was using him to make Lord Peter jealous. Such a simple ruse would probably work, too, unless the colonial turned out a Helen of Troy. He looked forward to seeing her.

  He fell into a reverie and Sara did not disturb him. They arrived at the Hall shortly after seven-thirty, too early to please Idle, and too late to please the hostess.

  “Here you are at last! What the devil has kept you?” Lady Haldiman demanded. “The mutton will be cold.”

  Sir Swithin waggled a finger at her and placed his other hand on Sara’s elbow. “What are you suggesting, naughty Perdita? We flew like an arrow, straight from Whitehern to your table. No dallying along the way, alas!”

  Before his mother could misconstrue this speech into God only knew what, Haldiman advanced to welcome the guests. It did not escape his notice that Swithin held like a leech to Sara’s elbow. His ire, as he cast a darkly questioning glance on her, was on Peter’s behalf. Sara tossed her head boldly.

  The next moments were filled with introductions to Miss Harvey and the necessary exclamations of joy at Peter’s return. After Miss Harvey had recovered from shock, she decided that Sir Swithin was the finest gentleman she had met since setting foot in England. Now there was a real gent! And Sir Swithin decided that Helen’s crown remained unchallenged. No ships would be launched on this common little chit’s behalf.