The Merry Month of May

by Joan Smith

  “Perhaps you could give Beau a lift home,” Peter suggested.

  “Put him up here very carefully then, and don’t you dare muddy my skirt, wretch.”

  Beau was lifted aloft Betsy’s mount, and Rufus taken aboard his uncle’s.

  “We’ll leave you two now,” Betsy said coyly. “Don’t do anything you shouldn’t. Come along, Rufus.”

  As they rode off, Betsy’s voice trailed after her. “Fancy that! Sara having secret meetings in the meadow, and she making those prissy faces at home. Still waters run deep. Of course they have reached an understanding. I daresay I would do no less under the circumstances.”

  “I’d best be off,” Peter said. “I’m glad we had this chat, Sara.” He whistled and Sandy turned from a vigil at a mole hole to join him.

  They parted and went their separate ways. Sara’s mission, begun on such high hopes, had not turned out as anticipated, but she told herself she was content with it. It was a vast relief to have finally unburdened her soul of its long misery. She could meet Peter with an easy conscience and a light heart, secure of the new understanding between them. What still troubled her was the intimacy between Betsy and Haldiman. How had it advanced so far, so fast?

  For Betsy to speak so openly of their relationship indicated a firm understanding, yet Sara had trouble believing Haldiman was so easily smitten. The girl had nothing in particular to recommend her, though she was pretty enough and sat her mount well. There was a certain liveliness, perhaps, in her conversation, if one was not fastidious. And, of course, she had the charm of novelty, being from a foreign land. Surely it would soon wear off.

  When Sara returned with a small handful of wilted blooms and a pensive face, her mother said, “Did you have a nice walk?”

  “Yes. I met the Haldimans and Betsy. She and Haldiman were riding. Peter was walking with the boys.”

  Mrs. Wood looked sharp. “What had Peter to say?”

  “Not much. Beau fell in the stream and they had to leave. Where is Mary?”

  “With the modiste, being fitted for her new crepe gown.”

  “Betsy wants her to go to the Hall the day after tomorrow. The coiffeur will be there.”

  “Why don’t you go with her, Sara? You could use a trim.”

  “I plan to let my hair grow. Swithin says it is my crowning glory.”

  “Has he arranged to drive you to the ball?” the mother asked with interest. Idle would not be her own first choice, but he was an entirely eligible parti.

  “No. Now that the picture is finished, we shan’t have so many meetings with Swithin to endure.”

  Mrs. Wood noticed that weary “endure.” “There is nothing afoot between you and Swithin then?”

  “Don’t be foolish, Mama.”

  Mrs. Wood’s patience broke. “I don’t know what ails you, Sara. You don’t stir a finger to catch a husband. There is Idle, eager to be won. Lord Peter, who is madly in love with you, and you go dream-walking the Season away, as if you had forever. I declare I shall have a spinster on my hands if you don’t look lively soon. Look at Betsy! Not here two weeks and already she has as well as won Haldiman.”

  Sara’s cheeks flamed. “I hope you aren’t suggesting I should use her as a model!”

  “I wish you would use someone, for you will never find a husband if left to your own devices.”

  “Perhaps I don’t want a husband,” Sara sulked.

  “And perhaps I do not want a spinster daughter on my hands. Mary is asking Betsy and the Haldimans to tea tomorrow.”

  Sara glowered.

  “And there will be no megrims for you, miss. Betsy will be Lady Haldiman before we know it. She can do Mary—and you—a world of good. The thing to do is ingratiate her now, so it will not look like we are running after her title after she nabs Haldiman. Would you like to invite Idle?”

  “No, Mama,” Sara said, and went up to her room to reflect. She didn’t want Swithin Idle—whom she might possibly win if she could convince him she was unavailable—at a tea party or anywhere else. She certainly did not want Peter. She wanted Haldiman. Who would ever have thought he would settle for just anyone, like Betsy Harvey? She would do as well as Betsy—better. If only she could convince him of it before the cunning colonial rushed him to the altar.

  Chapter Ten

  Miss Harvey took it as a matter of course that the tea party at Whitehern was being thrown in her honor. “I declare,” she exclaimed as she primped at the hall mirror before leaving, “you are all spoiling me with attentions. At this rate, I may kick off my scruples and decide to remain in England.” She peered into the mirror over the reflection of her own shoulder, for a glimpse of Haldiman. He happened to be rooting about on the hall table for his mother’s ear trumpet, and she saw only the back of his head. But when she turned and caught his eye, he answered her smile, and she assumed it was approval of her little hint.

  “It is a great pity Peter cannot come with us” were his actual words. “Sara will be disappointed.”

  “La, he will be meeting her in the meadow after we are all gone. At that stage in the courtship, couples like to meet in private. You fret yourself for nothing, Rufus. It will come as no shock to me if they make the announcement at my ball.”

  He took what comfort he could from those meetings in the meadow. Demmed odd that Sara had not come to tea at the Hall, and now Peter was not accepting the invitation to Whitehern. Of course, he was very busy at the Poplars. Preparing the nest for his bride would be high on his list of priorities.

  “What are we waiting for?” Lady Haldiman demanded. “It seems I am not the only deaf one here. Can you not hear the harnesses jingling outside?”

  The butler held the door. Lady Haldiman sailed through, and Betsy latched on to Haldiman’s arm to go to the carriage.

  At Whitehern, Sara had been nagged into attending the tea, but she had no intention of enjoying it. Her simmering temper rose when Betsy entered, still clinging like a limpet to Haldiman.

  “I see someone is in a pucker,” Betsy teased, with an arch look at Sara. “You must not blame us if Peter is not here.”

  “We did not expect him,” Sara replied stiffly. “We knew he would be at the Poplars. If he is back by mid-afternoon, as he usually is, no doubt he will join us.”

  “You see, Rufus,” Betsy said. “I told you they had arranged the whole between themselves.” She turned again to Sara. “Rufus took the idea you would be in black despair that Peter was not with us.”

  “On the contrary. I learned to live with Peter’s absence some time ago,” Sara snipped, and immediately regretted her lapse. To atone for it, she welcomed Lady Haldiman with enthusiasm.

  The group took up their seats and soon tea was served. Lady Haldiman and Mrs. Wood fell into a discussion of health. Mrs. Wood’s knees were bothering her, and Lady Haldiman countered with a description of her bad back. They took their litany of ills to a sofa a little apart from the younger members of the party. Betsy had a great many secrets to discuss with Mary regarding the ball. “I found the sweetest hairdo in a fashion magazine. We shall ask the coiffeur to try his hand at it tomorrow afternoon.”

  “What is it like?” Mary demanded.

  “A riot of curls all over the entire head. It is called la frisure. We must have our hair in papers all day to achieve the proper effect. Rufus says I shall look a quiz, but I pay no heed to him, I promise you,”

  “Why did you not bring a picture?” Mary demanded.

  “Why, you have the magazine yourself, goose. It is in the latest La Belle Assemblée, on the page with the walking dresses with all the flounces around the bottom, and the ugly little round bonnets. I would not be caught dead in the bonnet, but the lady in the green dress is wearing la frisure.”

  “I don’t remember the hairdo at all.”

  “Get the magazine then, and I shall show you.”

  They were soon perusing the pages, alternately admiring and disparaging the fashions. Haldiman turned to Sara and said, “Peter is havi
ng a closed stove installed at the Poplars. Perhaps he discussed it with you?”

  “No, he didn’t.” Her sharp glance said, “Why should he?” “How are Beau and Rufus?” she asked, to change the topic.

  “Fine. Till Rufus gets his pony, he is amusing himself by learning how to handle the ribbons of the dog cart.”

  “You should have brought them with you.” He smiled at this suggestion of maternal interest. Unnerved by that meaningful smile, she added, “But then we cannot hope to compete with driving a dog cart.”

  “No indeed. Will Idle be joining us?”

  “Swithin does not come so often now that the portrait is finished. He is busy making preparations for his ball, I believe.”

  Every word she uttered bolstered the belief that Sara had come to terms with Peter. Cooling off the affair with Idle certainly looked like it. Again Haldiman smiled. “I know someone who will be happy to hear that,” he said, with a knowing look.

  “We are all happy that he is finally getting down to serious work on his ball.”

  “Misunderstand me if you wish. I think you know what I meant.”

  Sara’s nostrils pinched and her lips thinned. In an effort to get away from this prickly subject, she spoke of other things. “I daresay the Hall is all at sixes and sevens today with preparations for Betsy’s ball.”

  “Yes. Both the garden and conservatory are denuded of blooms. How is your garden?”

  “We can spare a few bouquets, if it would help.”

  He was about to deny the charge of hinting, when it occurred to him that this made a good excuse for a few moments’ privacy with Sara. “Shall we go and have a look?”

  Sara cast a furtive eye on Betsy. “Perhaps Miss Harvey would like to come with us.”

  “Let us not disturb her. She is involved in the life-and-death matter of making a grander appearance than anyone else tomorrow night.”

  They rose quietly and slipped out to the cutting garden. “The carnations are doing well,” Sara pointed out. “And they make a hardy bouquet.”

  Haldiman put a hand on her wrist. “Sara, you know I did not come here to cadge flowers. I want to tell you how happy I am that you and Peter have patched it up. I knew it was but a matter of time.”

  She reefed her hand away from him. Her eyes flashed dangerously and she said, “You misunderstand the matter, Haldiman. Peter did not offer, and I would not accept if he did.”

  “But yesterday ...”

  “Yesterday we discussed the past and buried it. We are friends, no more.”

  Haldiman was silent a moment, considering it. “I made sure you had accepted him. Peter seemed so—calm last night.”

  “I doubt if you were paying much attention to Peter,” she snipped.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It is pretty obvious what occupies your mind these days.”

  “You mean Betsy?”

  “Who else should I mean? You never take a step that she is not at your side.

  “You know we want to keep her and Peter apart,” he explained. A small frown gathered on his brow as he observed Sara’s emotional state. Why should his spending time with Betsy vex Sara—unless she cared for him herself? She had stated categorically that she was not going to marry Peter. A tendril of excitement curled in his breast. While he thought Peter and Sara were involved, he did not allow himself to think beyond having her as a sister-in-law. For years he had wished he could make Peter’s defection up to her, that Peter would come back and marry her. His brother’s return as a widower seemed the answer to his prayers. But perverse fate had made him minutely aware of her charms on the very day he told her of Peter’s return.

  “Yes, and I think I have a pretty good notion why you are so eager to keep them apart, too,” she charged. “You are afraid of some honest competition. Miss Harvey is too outré for Lord Peter, but the eminence of being Lady Haldiman will cover all her sins.”

  Haldiman’s eyes widened in astonishment.

  “You think you fool anyone by that nonsensical story of Betsy not being good enough for Peter?” she scoffed. “He has already been married to her sister. I don’t hear anyone disparaging Fiona and her twenty-five thousand. We know well enough that the Harveys are more than respectable. Betsy is lively and engaging, even if her manners are a little ragged around the edges. She has a cousin, a governor, and an uncle, a judge. Peter will do no better. Whom do you expect him to marry? One of the royal princesses?”

  “I expected him to marry you.”

  “Yes, so that Miss Harvey would be left free for you. If you cannot win a wife honestly, Lord Haldiman, you must find some other unwitting accomplice to remove the competition for you.”

  “I have no intention of marrying Betsy!” he howled.

  “Then you are placing yourself in great peril, sir, for she certainly plans to marry you. And I might add that a gentleman who raises a lady’s expectations by behaving as a suitor ought to marry her, or he is no better than a scoundrel.”

  This charge struck Haldiman as so farfetched that he did not even bother defending himself. He had been polite to a guest in his house and attentive to see she did not nab Peter. As he hastily considered his behavior, however, he acknowledged to himself that his actions might be open to misinterpretation. He must cool his attentions to Betsy. He knew he could not tarry much longer away from the tea party and rushed on to an item of more importance. “Are you quite firm in your decision not to have Peter?” he asked.

  Sara’s wrath was with Haldiman, but she poured it into her answer about Peter. “I would not have him as a gift wrapped in silver paper. Upon my word, you are as bad as your brother. Not marry Betsy, indeed, after the way you have been courting her.”

  “I have behaved like a gentleman!”

  “Yes, a Haldiman gentleman, who scampers off at the last minute and leaves a woman in the lurch! I have not the least doubt Peter would serve me the same stunt again if I were fool enough to accept him.”

  This slur on his family’s name vexed Haldiman to no small degree. “No danger of that, though. You would not have him, but Betsy Harvey is plenty good enough for him. Despite her dowry and eminent connections, I see you place yourself a few notches above her.”

  “That is not what I meant. Peter cannot object to colonial manners, or he would not have married her sister in the first place. Indeed, I did not mean to disparage Peter. He has improved, but I don’t love him.”

  “You accepted him before. What has so refined your sensibilities, Miss Wood? No doubt it is the attentions of Sir Swithin Idle.”

  Sara was annoyed to have to defend Idle’s dilettantism. “At least he can speak of something besides farming,” she said angrily.

  “Oh he can speak on any given subject, especially himself, ad infinitum—ad nauseam. Millinery, fashion, painting, poetry, drama—and no doubt love.”

  Sara tossed her head angrily. “All the fine arts,” she said ironically.

  Haldiman’s jaw tensed. His anger swelled till he was ready to do violence to someone or something. “It was Idle all along, I collect. Peter was your whipping boy, to make him jealous.”

  “I am not so desperate, and Swithin is far too cagey to be taken in by such an amateurish stunt.”

  “By God, it beats me that a sensible woman like you would give that rattle the time of day. Peter is head and shoulders above him.”

  “In physical stature, of course. But I am not an Amazon, after all. Swithin is taller than I.”

  Haldiman realized that belittling a neighbor was bad form, and he was uncomfortable in his posture. “So you are going to marry him?” he asked stiffly.

  “I did not say so.”

  “Your manner says it.”

  “What would you know of manners!” She reached out and snapped off the head of a fine pink carnation and threw it aside without even smelling it.

  Haldiman studied her, unable to believe that quiet little Sara Wood had suddenly turned into a termagant, scolding at him
like a fishwife. What could account for it? His instincts told him that jealousy was the cause, as his jealousy had caused him to rail at Idle.

  Sara turned aside and took a few paces into the garden, her breast heaving in turmoil. She was so agitated she wanted to cry. Forcibly restrained tears pressed at her eyes. Haldiman took an uncertain step after her. She peered over her shoulder at the sound of his steps. He read the confusion and dismay in her dove-soft eyes and was overcome with a need to comfort her. He reached for her hand. Sara twitched away.

  “I don’t know what we are squabbling about,” he said. “If my manners have given you a disgust of me, I am truly sorry.”

  He reached for her hand again. Sara let him take it this time. A quiver coursed through her when his fingers closed possessively over hers. “It is I who ought to be apologizing, I expect. It is really none of my affair how you behave.” Her voice was unsteady. The air felt close around her, scented with the spice of carnations and the perfume of nearby roses.

  “I am happy that you show an interest,” he said leadingly, but his speaking eyes said more. He turned her toward him. “Sara, can we not be friends—kiss and make up?” he said, lightening the suggestion with an arch smile in case he was going too fast.

  A pulse beat in her throat as he pulled her into his arms. It seemed impossible that this visit that had begun so wretchedly was going to end in the magic of a kiss. She gazed as his head lowered to hers, his dark eyes coming hypnotically closer, till his lips brushed her cheek. That was all he meant then, a neighborly peck on the cheek.

  He lifted his head and studied her. Was he imagining her air of disappointment, of dissatisfaction with that light touch? He had always thought Sara a very cool lady, but this afternoon told him he had misread her. There was fire beneath her calm exterior. His arms tightened, and he kissed her again, full on those soft lips that yielded eagerly to his. A flame seemed to burn through him as she responded. Her arms went around his neck, and her lips firmed in passion beneath his. Giddy at the unexpected thrill of her ardor, he tightened his grip ruthlessly, crushing her against him. For a long moment they clung together in a heady embrace.