by Joan Smith
For no reason she could put a finger on, Samantha’s thoughts turned to Mrs. Armstrong.
“He’s hell-bent on marrying,” Monteith said thoughtfully. “It was all he talked of yesterday afternoon.”
“A man doesn’t go to a Green Room at the theater to find a wife,” his mother pointed out.
“A last bit of a frolic before he was caught in parson’s mousetrap was the way he described it,” Monty told her. “I felt his frolics were best played out in the city. He’s serious about marriage, Mama, and what we should do is import some of our spinster cousins to have a go at him.”
Lady Monteith considered this a moment. “If I could be sure Edith is past her breeding years, I’d invite her,” she said. “She always claimed Teddie is her heir. The Russels will be at him to get married and settle down.”
“I don’t believe Edith will turn the trick,” Monteith said. “A dry moralist of more than forty years will not tempt Howard—or anyone else. The lady must be lively, pretty, and youngish. I’ll cudgel my brains and think of someone.”
“You might think of someone for yourself while you’re about it,” his mother said grimly. “He called you to task for still being single. We don’t want to do anything to give him a disgust of us.”
“In which case you must turn Mr. Sutton off, Mama,” her son retaliated.
“You don’t think he was serious about suttee?” Samantha asked.
Monty regarded her quizzically. “He doesn’t plan to try to introduce the custom to England, but he does appear to have a distinct aversion to widow ladies—as wives, I mean. In a mistress, widowhood is no objection. We must confine our bridal candidates to spinsters.”
“Perhaps if he took a mistress ...” Lady Monteith said thoughtfully.
Again Samantha thought of Mrs. Armstrong. She nearly uttered the name, till she remembered no actual evidence suggested the woman might be of the muslin company. She didn’t openly consort with gentlemen, at least, though there was a certain something in the flash of her eye and the sway of her hips that suggested it. The feeling was widespread in Lambrook. Mrs. Russel was the only lady who had called on her for purely social reasons. A few others had dropped in to have their tea leaves read. Mrs. Armstrong did some amateur reading of the leaves. She did not accept money for it, but was known to welcome flowers or food.
“But then, there is all the lovely jewelry,” Lady Monteith added after a little pause. “We may kiss that goodbye if he takes up with a lightskirt. And he’d build her a house, too, very likely. So vexing, one hardly knows what to do.”
Monty cleared his throat and uttered a speech that had the awful ring of truth to it. “I rather think you distress yourself for nothing, Mama. The burra sahib will do as he demmed well pleases.”
After a good deal more discussion, the Brights went home, and Lady Monteith went to bed to continue scheming. She mentally drew up a schedule of items to be accomplished. She must discover just how strong Howard’s constitution was. Her hope was that his stomach was gone entirely and he would survive only a year or so. India was a well-known destroyer of constitutions, and, really, the meal that bothered him that night was not extraordinarily rich.
If he seemed strong, she must find him a lady too old to breed, but still young enough to be attractive. Preferably this unique lady would be a cousin guaranteed to leave her portion to either Teddie or Bert upon her own demise. And in the meanwhile, she must find him a local mistress, to keep him away from the pernicious Green Room. She would also make life at Lambrook Hall so delightful that he would be in no hurry either to marry or go to London. And she’d set Monty on to finding Teddie and Bert, too, only she knew they were touring the Lake District with friends, and finding them might take weeks.
Only after all this had been settled did she finally close her eyes and sleep.
Chapter 5
At nine-thirty the next morning the door knocker sounded in the Bright household. Social calls at such an hour were unknown, so the Brights were astonished to hear Lady Monteith’s voice in the hallway. Within thirty seconds, Lady Monteith and her son were shown into the breakfast parlor, where the ladies were discussing last night’s party over a second cup of coffee.
“Irene! What brings you out at such an hour!” Mrs. Bright exclaimed. “I hope there is nothing amiss at the Hall?”
“Everything is amiss at the Hall,” was the comprehensive reply.
“Sit down and have some coffee.”
Monteith took a chair beside Samantha while her mother poured and she outlined the problem.
“It is that cursed stuffed cat!” was the first exasperated speech. “Howard has been asking for it, even before he left his room this morning. It seems it saved his life in Calcutta. Some banditti entered his room one night to stab him, and one of them stepped on the cat’s tail. The cat awoke and yelped, thus alerting Howard. What idiotic idea must he take into his head but to have the thing stuffed when it died, and send it home to the Hall.”
Monteith’s eyes glinted with amusement, and he said aside to Samantha, “The cat’s name is Ginger. We do not call it the ‘cursed stuffed cat’ in front of Howard, you understand. I mention it in case the subject should arise–pas I fear it will. Mama tells me you think Mrs. Armstrong has Ginger. The lady, if memory serves, also has ‘lovely black hair and long lashes.’ “
“Yes, she’s the woman I mentioned to you last night. She’s new in the parish—she came in April,”
His eyebrow rose a trifle in question. “Woman or lady?”
Samantha hesitated. “I don’t know that she isn’t a lady,” she admitted. “She lives in a decent house and has servants.”
“So do the more successful members of the muslin company. The purpose of our visit to town this morning is to retrieve Ginger. Do you call on Mrs. Armstrong? Mama doesn’t seem to have her acquaintance, which makes our visit awkward. We had hoped you might introduce us.”
“No, we don’t know her.”
“Then I assume she is not accepted as a lady.”
Samantha frowned over this social puzzle. “She doesn’t go to church, you see, or we would have met her. She keeps rather to herself. Mrs. Russel called once, and Mrs. Armstrong never repaid the visit, which was taken as a wish for privacy. A few other ladies left their cards, and none was returned.” Samantha hunched her shoulders.
“And so Mrs. Armstrong has been gossiped into the social wilderness,” Monty said. “I have noticed the more attractive women often suffer that fate at the hands of their less well-endowed sisters.”
“She attends informal social dos. We nod and say how do you do when we meet. You and your mother could call—I’m sure Mrs. Armstrong would be honored at the attention.”
“The honor lessens, however, when she learns we’ve called to reclaim Ginger, n’est-ce pas?”
“Quite, and naturally you don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with the ‘lovely black hair and long lashes.’ This is an unaccustomed fit of shyness, Monty!”
“You are mistaken. My fear is that she is not a female Mama should call on.”
“Then call on her yourself and leave your mother here.”
Lady Monteith overheard the end of their talk and added her mite to it. “That is what I told him! Either you go and let me stay home with Howard, or I’ll go and you stay home with him. I dread to leave him alone. The servants aren’t safe with his chasing them. He got Jennie cornered this morning.”
“We’ll be back before he’s arisen,” Monty said. “I come to think the easiest approach to Mrs. Armstrong is to write her a note requesting the return of Ginger.”
“I hope to take the cursed cat home with me before your uncle is up.”
Mrs. Bright pondered a moment and said, “Then you must have your tea leaves read. That is a safe sort of semisocial visit.”
“Good God!1’ Lady Monteith exclaimed. “Is she a fortune-teller?”
“She read the leaves—just for fun,” Samantha explained. “She doesn’t ac
cept money for it.”
“We’ll do it, then,” Lady Monteith decided, “and count on the weight of our titles to carry us through. I wish people would decide what class they are in. I don’t know whether I am going on a social call or a business visit.”
“Neither one nor the other,” Monty said. “You are going on a pilgrimage, as one philosopher to another, seeking the truth regarding tall, dark strangers and trips and letters en route to you. In short, you are having your leaves read. Why don’t you come with us, ladies?” he said to the Brights.
“Three readings will take too long,” his mother objected. “Put down your cup, Monty. We must get the cursed cat and dash back to the Hall. I have some hope Howard will spend the day in bed. He wanted only cold lemon water for breakfast—which didn’t keep him from chasing Jennie.”
“And catching her,” Monteith added. “Fortunately, I was close at hand for the rescue.”
“With luck, his dyspepsia is worsening,” Lady Monteith said. “I wonder what is good for it.”
“Warm milk and bread, I should think. Papa always took pap,” Samantha suggested.
“She means good for making it worse,” Monteith explained. “A quick demise is your goal, is it not, Mama?”
“I don’t wish the man ill, but it would make life a deal easier for the rest of us if he could be confined to his bed.”
Lady Monteith straightened her furs around her shoulders and they left. The Brights went about their customary chores. Mrs. Bright was with her housekeeper scanning the shopping list and Samantha was in the kitchen, in hands with the lace collars from her gowns. These she always washed herself, as it was a fussy and time-consuming job. Her mind wandered to the unusual advent of Lord Howard into the daily life of Lambrook. It was amusing to see Lady Monteith scramble for anyone. She would have her hands full trying to manage the nabob. What a quiz he was, she thought, and smiled at the memory of his brandishing the scimitar with a sword clamped between his teeth. He was really quite handsome and dashing. She hoped he wasn’t confined to his bed for too long.
Wrapped up in thought, she didn’t notice the butler approaching her. “You have company upstairs, Miss Bright,” he said, causing her to start in surprise.
“This early? Is it the Monteiths come back?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. The gentleman is Lord Howard.”
“Lord Howard!” She stared, eyes blinking. “What on earth is he doing here? It’s only ten o’clock! And he’s supposed to be ill.”
“He looks in fine fettle, ma’am,” the butler said, with a twinkle in his eyes, for the servants were well aware of what was going on in the neighborhood. “He particularly asked to see yourself.”
“Oh, dear!” she gasped. Her hands flew to her hair in a preening gesture not used for gentlemen of no interest. She removed her apron, wiped her hands, and went upstairs.
The booming accents of Lord Howard were audible from the end of the hallway. “The lemon water set me back up on my pegs in jig time. I was a little surprised to hear Irene and Monteith had come calling on you so early. I decided to add myself to the party.”
Samantha hastened to the doorway and looked in. The dyspepsia left no trace of weariness on their caller. He was obviously not a young man, but he was also not approaching anything like decrepitude. Energy emanated from him like heat from a winter grate, and his toilette was in the highest kick of fashion.
She smiled and went in. “Good morning, Lord Howard. This is a surprise. I’m happy to see you’ve recovered.”
He rose punctiliously and bowed. “Recover is the wrong word entirely. I was not ill. I haven’t been bedridden since the turn of the century. I had a bad fit of dysentery in the tropics, but that is long past.” He thumped his chest playfully. “I am in the prime of life, missie. Come and sit beside me. Your mama was just telling me you ain’t engaged or anything of that sort. The gentlemen hereabouts must be a slow bunch of tops.”
Samantha felt a rush of pleasure at his warm compliments. “No, I’m not engaged,” she said.
“I am happy to hear it. Why go to London chasing after a Mrs. when there are prettier birds in Lambrook than ever flew out of it?” He drew Samantha onto the sofa beside him, while her mother looked on in futile dismay.
Samantha felt a strong inclination to laugh aloud, but confined the urge to a low gurgle in her throat. Good gracious, he’s come courting! she thought.
“Your late papa was a colonel, as I recall?” he said.
“Yes, in the Dragoons.”
“I remember young Bright. Brightie we used to call him. You have got something of his laughing eyes, missie.”
That her suitor should call her father “young Bright” was a shock. She looked to her mother and said, “I am thought to take after my papa. Mama, you can see, is a mere slip of a thing compared to me.”
“I like a good strapping lady.” He nodded approvingly.
Mrs. Bright hardly knew how to register her disapproval. The man was a Monteith after all, the brother-in-law of her best friend. Obviously she couldn’t be rude to him, yet she wished to tell him in no uncertain terms that she disapproved of his behavior toward her daughter.
“My daughter is twenty-six, Lord Howard. I believe it was mentioned last night.”
“I’m aware of that, madam. You are thinking I am a bit long in the tooth for her, and she is a bit young for me, but I assure you she can handle me. I’m not the sort to cut up rusty with a young wife and beat her into submission. I appreciate your concerns. What do you know of me, after my having spent decades abroad amongst heathens? But this is only a friendly visit. My greatest fault is that I say what I should only think. A man can’t help thinking.”
“It is your views on suttee that concern me!” the worried mother exclaimed.
He laid his head back on the sofa cushion and laughed merrily. His teeth, she noticed, were in excellent repair. His open mouth reminded her of a picture of a crocodile. Then he lifted his head and turned serious. “Let me lay your fears to rest on that score at once. That is merely my personal feeling about a custom carried on in a foreign country. It wouldn’t do in England. I wouldn’t expect my widow to hop into the flames. It stands to reason no lady who had just come into a million pounds would want to burn before she had a chance to spend it. As to my religion, it may relieve your mind to know that my next social call this morning is on the reverend and his lady. I mean to toe the line very properly.”
Samantha bit her lip and quietly studied their caller. She found him interesting—fascinating—but hardly as a husband. “We are happy to have you visit as a friend,” she said. “It may be premature to—”
He lifted a hand and silenced her. “Say no more. I have jumped in too quickly. Blame it on my impetuous youth,” he said, laughing. “It was poorly done of me to start hinting at my intentions so early in the game. You must get to know me first, and I must get to know you. It may well turn out we boil at different degrees. I haven’t had a good look around yet myself, for that matter. But I usually know what I want, and as soon as ever you looked at me with those big, bright eyes, I said to myself, ‘You’ll not do better than that little lady, Howard my lad. Not if you look for a century.’ I daresay I didn’t make that strong an impression on you. I’m not much to look at, with my hide tanned like a saddle, but I’m a gentleman beneath the leather, and a richer one than you’re likely to meet this side of the ocean. My wandering ways would cease once I was shackled to a good wife. She would want for nothing that love or money could buy.”
He picked up her hand and held it a moment. Samantha looked at his strong brown fingers holding hers. She was strangely affected by his blunt speech, and didn’t want to hurt him. Nor did she feel at all physically repelled by Lord Howard. He was still virile and attractive. How old was he anyway? He was the late Lord Monteith’s younger brother. He might be younger than she had been thinking. Partis were few and far between in Lambrook. She was already twenty-six; all of her girlfriends were married.
Lord Howard chuckled. “Here am I pushing my suit forward again at top speed, when I have just promised you I would slow down. You make me lose control of my feelings. But there is no harm in it—your mama is here to see I don’t step out of line.”
Mrs. Bright coughed discreetly. She, too, found something oddly attractive in his straightforward manner and the energy of his affection. Samantha gently withdrew her fingers, and an embarrassing silence fell on the company. It was broken by the sound of the door knocker, quickly followed by Lord Monteith’s voice.
Almost before Samantha had time to think, the Monteiths were in the saloon, their eyes large in astonishment. Monteith lifted a quizzical brow at Sam.
“Howard, what the deuce are you doing here?” Lady Monteith demanded, like a scolding mother.
Howard rose politely and smiled. “I came down to join you. The servants told me where you were.”
“But you’re supposed to be ill!”
“Devil a bit of it. The sight of Miss Bright is enough to cure a leper. How does it happen I got here before you? You left home half an hour ago.”
The Monteiths were seated, and the conversation resumed. From his chair facing Samantha, Lord Monteith studied her closely. Now why was Miss Rusticity smirking like the cat who just swallowed the cream? A blush was flattering to the lady. His eyes moved to Lord Howard. He, too, looked a trifle discomposed. Was it possible the old gaffer had come on a courting expedition? His lips worked unsteadily when he caught Samantha’s eye.
“I went to have my fortune told,” Lady Monteith said.
“Was Mrs. Armstrong at home?” Mrs. Bright asked, as the visit had been short.
“She was still in bed, if you please! We were invited to wait, but were too anxious—” A guilty glance toward Lord Howard betrayed the cause of her anxiety. “I was wondering, Samantha,” Lady Monteith continued, “if you would mind speaking to Mrs. Armstrong—about that matter we discussed recently.”
