by Joan Smith
They were interrupted by the sound of the door opening, followed by Betsy’s strident voice. “That sly sister of yours is off flirting with Rufus,” Betsy said, and laughed.
They jumped apart with a guilty start. Haldiman’s hand went to his cravat in a nervous gesture as the voices and footsteps came closer.
“There you are, sly dog!” Betsy exclaimed.
“I was just cadging some flowers for your ball,” Haldiman explained.
Betsy cast a bored eye over the blooms. “We have more than enough flowers, Rufus. Mary tells me I shall look a quiz in la frisure. Come and tell me your opinion of it. We have nearly decided on la victime do instead. You don’t mind if I borrow Rufus, Sara?” She put her hand on his elbow.
Sara noticed that proprietary hand and thought Haldiman ought to be less biddable if he did not plan to marry Betsy. “If you’re sure you don’t want any of our flowers, then let us all go in,” she said, with tolerable composure.
They entered, and Betsy flirted outrageously with Haldiman under the guise of discussing a hairdo. Haldiman, cheered by his success in the garden, almost seemed to be encouraging her. The guests soon left, with Betsy still clinging to Haldiman as if he were a raft in a stormy sea.
“Well, it is to be la victime,” Mary announced. “What do you think, Mama?” She took the magazine to get her mother’s opinion on this important matter.
It gave Sara privacy to think about the visit. What had that interlude in the garden meant? “Kiss and make up,” he had said. That had obviously been his original intention. He only pecked her on the cheek. The rest of it ... She had practically invited his advances. A man was easily carried away in such a situation. She had let Peter kiss her in those old days, and enjoyed it, too, but she had not really loved him. Haldiman was not as nice as she had always thought. His flirtation with Betsy told her that much. He said boldly he had no intention of marrying Betsy. Why should she imagine he had any intention of marrying her, only because he had been carried away for a moment in the garden?
He had come to push forward Peter’s suit. Obviously making her an offer himself was the farthest thing from his mind. But he had seemed awfully jealous of Swithin. She took what comfort she could from that and waited eagerly for the ball.
Chapter Eleven
Lady Haldiman, earphone firmly in place, spoke to her elder son at breakfast the next morning. “I have had a very clever idea, Rufus. I have asked Kevin Moore to the ball.”
Haldiman lifted a questioning eye. “I see nothing particularly clever in asking a handsome rakehell to our party, even if he is a second cousin. We must be sure to count the silver after he leaves.”
“He is welcome to a few spoons so long as he takes Miss Harvey with him when he goes. You see my intention? There will be a match in that quarter certainly. He is handsome as can stare and chronically in the basket, while she is forever bleating about her twenty-five thousand pounds. I hope she takes him back to Canada and her papa’s tall timbers. It seems the proper place for a wolf like Moore.”
“That was not necessary. I especially invited Sir Stafford Grimes for Betsy.”
His mama pulled her lips together and shook her gray head. “And to think, they gave you a degree at Oxford. Grimes is too plain and too gentlemanly to appeal to her, and she too vulgar by half to appeal to him.”
“He was under secretary to the minister of thecolonies. I thought they might have something incommon. In fact, as he has no fortune of his own,he might even be willing to return to Canada withher. Some minor appointment might be arrangedfor him to give him a touch of distinction when sheleads him home.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, Rufus, but Sir Stafford has written me that he cannot attend. No matter, Moore or one of the other bucks I have invited will attach her. So long as she finds someone to her liking at the ball, it will have been worth all the bother.” She set down her earphone and attacked her gammon.
“If only it were that easy,” Haldiman sighed. After Sara’s hint the day before, he had paid particular attention to Betsy’s manner and realized her behavior was troublesomely proprietorial.
“Then you had best not eat anything. Just drink your coffee.” Haldiman frowned. “Queasy—did you say you feel queasy?”
“No, no, Mama. Easy. Simple.”
“Nonsense,” she simpered, stroking her cheek. “It is not a dimple, goose. It is a wrinkle.”
Others were laying plans for the ball as well. Sir Swithin was eager to be praised for his part in reconciling Lord Peter and Sara and called at Whitehern the next day to see Sara. She was in the garden alone, as Mary had gone to visit the coiffeur at Haldiman Hall, and her mother was out.
“Well now, I expected to see roses blooming in those cheeks,” he said merrily. “Did the tryst I arranged for you in the meadow not bear fruit?”
“The meadow? Oh, he wasn’t there,” Sara replied vaguely, and didn’t bother with the rest of the story. Her mind harped on that interlude in the garden and what it might indicate. Her mood was strangely vacillating. At times she felt quite sure Haldiman loved her; at other times she reminded herself that he was Peter’s brother, and the Haldimans had a queer kick in their gallop. His attentions to Betsy were warm enough to cast doubt on the whole affair.
“Now that is odd,” Swithin said musingly. “I see Peter there with his boys every day.”
She looked at him, surprised. “Peter?”
Swithin’s mind worked swiftly, and within seconds he realized his error. “It wasn’t Peter you meant?”
“Good Lord, no. He was there, just as you said.”
A flash of comprehension beamed in his blue eyes. “So it is Haldiman you have in your sights, eh? Shooting rather high—that will be difficult to pull off. Though not, perhaps, impossible with my help,” he added after a judicious pause.
Sara cast an assessing look at him. “Why should you bother?”
It was a task much to Swithin’s liking. Affairs of the heart always took precedence over other matters with him. He considered himself quite a dab in that line and relished the job. “For sweet amusement’s sake,” he said, and smiled. “All is not lost, my pet. We shall continue with our little masque. In fact, we must step up our attack. It is time for endearments. When next your lord sees us together, we shall be ‘dearing’ each other to the top of our bent. Have you any reason to suppose that Haldiman might be interested in you?”
“If he could be satisfied with Miss Harvey, I cannot think him so very difficult to please,” she prevaricated. Haldiman had certainly seemed jealous of Swithin. Perhaps that jealousy could be turned to good use.
Swithin batted Betsy aside without even considering her. “Not in Haldiman’s style. He is merely keeping her from Peter. I know Perdita does not favor any match in that quarter. How much more strongly she would feel about the Sauvage attaching the elder son.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Sara said. “From what Mary tells me, Betsy is treated quite like a daughter already.”
“Trust me, Sara. I am never mistaken in matters of this kind. Haldiman would no more marry that girl than he would wear a jacket by Stutz. She is the wrong cut for him. There is no harm in trying out my plan, in any case, so I shall call for you this evening. We arrive together, and I display all the bristling resentment of the jealous lover when anyone else stands up with you. I shall also observe Haldiman and the Sauvage. I will know to see them together if I am mistaken.”
“You said you never were,” she reminded him. Her interest had perked up as he spoke, but his last words left a doubt.
“Even the Creator occasionally makes a mistake, you know. He made Beau Brummell and porridge. But then he created me to atone for them. Now, I must hear what you plan to wear. Pray do not tell me a white gown.”
“No, it is blue.”
“Not too terribly pastel and girlish, I trust?”
“It is powder blue.”
He studied her face. “Hmm, those gray eyes would prefer a diff
erent shade. I wish we had consulted sooner ... I seem to recall seeing you at an assembly in a bronze gown that was not contemptible. Do you still have it?”
“That was years ago. It’s passé.”
“If I remember it, it is unexceptionable,” he decreed. “Wear the bronze, and I shall color a gardenia from my orangery with green ink, to incite a little commotion and have folks hovering around you.”
“I don’t want a flower leaking green ink on me,” she protested.
“I do not do things by halves, love.” She lifted a brow at the familiarity. “Just practicing, Sara. No need to poker up. I cut the stem and immerse it in a pot of green ink. The color is drawn up into the petals and sealed with wax at the tip. I did white roses in blue for a Tory friend. It was quite a success. You will congratulate me when you see it.”
“I will thank you now for all your efforts, Swithin. It is very kind of you.”
He nodded and said, “I am really only amusing myself, but as you are to be the beneficiary of my genius, I accept your gratitude. I must go to my conservatory and select your gardenias.” He rose and wandered off up the path.
Looking after him, Sara found it hard to believe he could incite Haldiman to anything but amusement, even with the help of green gardenias. She had no better plan, however, and appreciated his help. Her mother was pleased to learn Swithin was taking Sara to the ball. Her little lecture had been heeded, it seemed. Sir Swithin would not have been her first choice, but he was actually better off than Lord Peter.
As Sara dressed for the ball that evening, she knew that Swithin was right about the gown in any case. The bronze suited her maturity better than the blue. Its subtle color lent her an air of sophistication, and its simple lines showed her figure off to good advantage.
Mrs. Wood looked at her two daughters and didn’t know which of them was the greater peagoose. There was Sara in an exceedingly plain gown three years old, and Mary in an outfit that was fitter for a lightskirt.
“Get upstairs and sew two inches of lace on the bodice of that gown,” she decreed, when she saw how low cut it was.
“But Betsy and I are going as twins,” Mary pointed out.
“We do not follow colonial customs in this house, Missie. I’ll not have you making a cake of yourself in public. You may sew on the lace or stay home.”
Mary went grumbling upstairs and had the servant add blond lace to her gown. She had had a pretty good idea her mama wouldn’t let her wear it so low and had the extra lace standing by.
“Well, Sara, I thought you were wearing your blue gown” was her next speech.
“Swithin particularly asked me to wear this one. He remembered it from the assembly years ago. He is making me green gardenias to wear with it.”
This being the case, Mrs. Wood had not another word to say against it. If Swithin had reached such a peak of infatuation, the age of the gown was obviously of no matter.
“Green gardenias? What a clever rogue.”
Sir Swithin soon arrived, resplendent in an ice-blue embroidered jacket of watered silk, white satin trousers, and white silk stockings. Dainty black patent slippers completed his outfit. “Rather ancien regime, don’t you think?” he asked, turning to show off the full glory of his ensemble. “I was tempted to powder my hair, but feared it would be gilding the lily. That is a particularly inapropos metaphor, considering the shade of my hair, but never mind. What I meant is that I abhor flagrant excess.” Mary stifled a giggle. Observing her, he added, “Pale blue can never be flagrant.”
The ladies made a pleasing commotion over the green bouquet, though it was not very pretty. Lady Idle was with her son, the arrangement being that she would continue her trip with Mary and Mrs. Wood.
“Why didn’t you color me some flowers?” Mary pouted.
“Because Sara must be unique,” he explained. “There is a very good reason for it,” he added, smiling a secret smile at Sara, who blushed.
They looked and sounded like a couple in love, and the mothers exchanged a knowing glance. Mrs. Wood began trying to like Swithin. She had no difficulty liking his fortune and the location of his home so close to her own. Sara would be living literally within walking distance. It would hardly seem she had left home at all. “A glass of wine before leaving?” she suggested to humor Swithin.
“I am already intoxicated,” he smiled, and took Sara’s arm to lead her out.
When they were alone in the carriage he said, “I adore fooling Haldiman and the world at large, but I hope our mothers won’t be too disappointed when this great romance comes to naught.”
“Your mother doesn’t know, then?”
“One does not tell one’s parents anything important,” he replied blandly. “Vide the case of yourself and Lord Peter—and Haldiman for that matter. I see the Sauvage and Lord Peter as an entirely compatible couple. She will give him a bustling, clamorous life that he is undiscriminating enough to mistake for happiness. As to her hoping to attach Haldiman—ale and champagne do not mix. Or should I say apple cider and champagne?”
Idle’s opinion pleased Sara, as it coincided with her own. She would observe closely how both Haldiman and Peter reacted to Betsy’s self-flaunting gown and party manners. Betsy made a pretty picture riding in the meadow where she showed to best advantage, but would she pass muster at a polite party?
Haldiman Hall was lit with torches in front when they arrived. Several carriages were lined up at the front door, disgorging passengers. “There is some magic in a ball, is there not?” Swithin said. “The blood hums through the veins as one awaits entry. Yet even before it is half over, one realizes it is just another ball. Invariably a disappointment, like a knock at the door or reading the journal. It is precisely why I am brooding so deeply over my own ball. It must enchant.”
Sara, less accustomed to balls, disagreed with him. She was on nettles for the party to begin. Her heart beat faster as she waited with Swithin to be announced. Below her the welcome line stood greeting guests. She was a little miffed to see Betsy Harvey standing between Lord Peter and Haldiman, waiting to be presented to society. She looked unexceptionable. She looked as if she belonged there. There were several gowns as daring on ladies who were no longer debs. The coiffeur had shortened her hair, making it less unruly. At her throat there sparkled a set of diamonds and sapphires. No one, at first seeing her, would take her for anything but a lady of the ton.
Soon Sara’s eyes turned to Haldiman. His black, smoothly barbered head was inclined toward a new arrival, saying some words of welcome. At his throat an immaculate white cravat stood out in contrast to his black jacket. She watched as Betsy put out her hand and placed it on Haldiman’s sleeve. He turned and smiled at her, making some light comment. There was an air of pleasurable anticipation about him as he gazed at Betsy. Sara’s heart clenched in anger.
Then he glanced up and saw Sara, with Swithin standing by her side whispering some nonsense in her ear. Haldiman’s smile stiffened perceptibly in that fraction of a minute that he stared at them. Sir Swithin watched this mime with the keenest interest. He began to wonder if all his machinations were necessary. The homely phrase, “jealous as a green cow,” occurred to him. He would never utter such a phrase, but it suited this rustic couple down to the heels. There was Haldiman, who ought to know better, glaring at him as if he’d like to run him through. To add a fillip to the man’s jealousy, Sir Swithin reached out and touched Sara lovingly on the chin. “Hold your head high, my pet,” he smiled. “We are about to be announced. Don’t look as if you are ashamed of your escort.”
As Sara moved along the line, she felt a nervousness growing in her. The first greetings passed without incident. Betsy said, “Where is Mary? Don’t tell me she isn’t coming! We are supposed to be twins. Wasn’t her dress darling, Sara? And don’t you look lovely. Doesn’t she look handsome, Rufus?” She raised her hand to shield her mouth from Peter and added, “I wager a certain someone won’t care for your escort. It will serve him right. There is nothing lik
e a little competition, even if Idle is the best you can do.” She laughed merrily at her own cleverness.
Sara’s eyes blazed angrily, but she kept her tongue between her teeth. She was still glowering when she met Haldiman, which made him uneasy. He welcomed her with stiff formality. “So happy you could come, Sara.” There was no warmth in his greeting, no hint that she was anything but a neighbor.
Betsy adopted a smirking face and turned her attention to Sir Swithin. “You are showing them all the way, Sir Swithin: fine as a star. Even the lords are not so finely rigged out. I expect this is how all the swells dress in London, eh?”
“Au contraire. You will not see a replica of this jacket anywhere. It is my own design.”
“You’d never guess it was homemade to look at it,” she said, with some intention of reassuring him.
“No one but myself could have designed it!” Swithin twitched his head angrily and moved along the line.
The opening minuet was led off by Haldiman and Betsy. Sir Swithin had Sara for his partner. He was sure Haldiman would appear for the second set, but it was Lord Peter who claimed the honor, and Sara appeared perfectly satisfied with her partner. Sir Swithin felt the stirrings of dissatisfaction. Was someone making a game of him? Was it Lord Peter the wench craved all the time? At such moments of uncertainty his own interest in Sara increased alarmingly, and he sallied forth to nab her company during a short intermission.
They were accosted by Betsy Harvey and her companion, a Mr. Kevin Moore. “I declare, don’t you show us all the way, Miss Wood,” Betsy smiled, with great condescension. She would not be caught dead in such a quiz of an outfit, and her flowers weren’t even ripe. “If you had no flowers in bloom at Whitehern, you should have let us know. Our conservatory is full of them.”
“Sir Swithin made these especially for me,” Miss Wood pointed out, for she knew that Sir Swithin liked his ingenuity praised.
Betsy reached out and crushed a petal. “Gossoon. They are not silk. They’re real flowers.”
