Country Flirt

by Joan Smith

  Lord Howard listened with interest. “The morning is still young,” he said. “Why don’t we wait an hour and all go to the fortune teller? I don’t believe a word they have to say, but it is good, innocent fun. Does your vicar disapprove of it?” he asked the company at large.

  “What business is it of his?” Lady Monteith snipped.

  Lord Howard thought a moment before replying. “He seemed the sort who made things his business. I’ve just been telling Miss Bright I mean to call on him this morning. A new organ or stained glass window will get me in solid in that quarter. I’ll nip over and say how do you do, then we’ll all meet here and go on to the fortune teller. Does that suit you all?”

  “No, it does not,’1 Lady Monteith said firmly. “I think you ought to go home to bed, Howard.” An organ would cost a fortune!

  “Nay, I have business to tend to. You run along, if you’re in a yank to get home, Irene.”

  Lady Monteith sat, uncertain what was the least objectionable course, and finally took her decision. Monteith would accompany his uncle, and she would return to rearrange the household to Howard’s comfort. The guests left together and went their different ways.

  Mrs. Bright fanned herself with a magazine and said, “It looks like the beginning of a very strange summer, does it not?”

  “Uniquely strange,” Samantha agreed, and laughed. “How am I to handle Lord Howard if he persists in this farouche notion of courting me?”

  “You must show him from the beginning that you are not interested, Samantha. I don’t think you should have let him hold your hand.”

  “But perhaps I am interested—a little,” her daughter said pensively. “He’s really quite amusing.”

  “Irene will be in the boughs.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t bother me, Mama,” Samantha said pertly. “I would enjoy to pester her a little.”

  Mrs. Bright pinched her lip, and when she looked up, a mischievous smile lurked in her eyes. “It would serve her right! Irene has held sway in the village for too long.”

  “Sending me off to recover the stuffed cat, as though I were a footman! I don’t believe I shall do it. Why should I?”

  “Because she is our friend, and she needs our help,” her mother replied simply.

  “No, I shall go because I want to,” Samantha decided. “And I shall have my fortune told while I am about it. Will you come with me?”

  “One of us should stay home in case callers come. There will be a spate of callers this morning to hear all about Lord Howard.”

  “I shan’t be long.”

  Samantha got her bonnet and pelisse and was off.

  Chapter 6

  Mrs. Armstrong was up and dressed and extremely curious by the time Samantha reached her door. Like everyone else in the village, Mrs. Armstrong knew of Lord Howard’s arrival home. Like most, she knew from her servants that Monteith’s carriage had stopped at Bright’s door, followed shortly by Lord Howard’s, knew to a fare-thee-well that the nabob was presently ensconced in the vicar’s house with Lord Monteith.

  All very interesting to be sure, but how had she become involved? First, Lord Monteith and his mama calling on her, now Miss Bright. Some vague thought of fortune-telling was at the back of her mind. A gentleman just returned from India might conceivably have some interest in the occult. What never occurred to her for an instant was the mangy old cat stuck up in the attic.

  Mrs. Armstrong was elated by her sudden surge in popularity. She had played a careful game when establishing herself in Lambrook. It had been necessary to vacate other out-of-the-way homes due to a too hasty making of friends—the wrong kind of friends. She was retired from her real business now. At thirty-five, a woman with thirty thousand in the bank didn’t have to entertain any gentleman she didn’t care for. The little trouble with Mrs. Armstrong was that she cared for most gentlemen. But in Lambrook she had been as careful as a nun. No one guessed her seamy past, and she intended to settle down as a respectable matron. When she was sure she liked Lambrook and Lambrook liked her, she’d send home and have Jimmie join her. Her son would be raised like real gentry. And if some respectable, well-to-do gent wanted to make her an offer of marriage, she might consider it.

  Meanwhile, she would go below and see what high-and-mighty Miss Bright had to say for herself. All Mrs. Armstrong’s gaudier gowns were stored in a trunk at her mother’s house. What she had bought to wear in Lambrook were what she considered dully respectable outfits, enlivened only by her own considerable charms. A mauve morning gown with a fichu right up to her collarbone was relieved from monotony by the close cut that showed clearly the line of her bosoms. Her jet hair was saved from dullness by a gold butterfly tucked into her curls. She was too old for ribbons, and though ostensibly a widow (as a spinster disliked to claim a son), she was too lively for caps.

  As she entered her saloon, her dark eyes were alive with curiosity. Samantha gazed and found herself still unable to put Mrs. Armstrong into a recognizable category. With all the outward trappings of gentility, there was something about her that didn’t sit right.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Armstrong.” She smiled uncertainly.

  Mrs. Armstrong had no intention of recognizing her caller, and pinned a curious smile on her handsome face. “Good morning, madam. You wished to see me?”

  “Yes, I’m your neighbor from across the street—Miss Bright.”

  “Ah! And you’ve come for a reading?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Armstrong gave a polite little tsk of annoyance. “What foolish lady gave you the idea I make a career of that nonsense? I only do it for amusement amongst friends.” Though her words were harsh, she smiled pleasantly and took up a chair, to prevent her caller from rising. “But now that you are here, we shall have tea, and if you like, I’ll glance at the leaves. I’ll ring for my servant.”

  The tea was sent for, and Mrs. Armstrong waited. Samantha shifted uneasily in her chair. She had never felt so uncomfortable in her life. Mrs. Armstrong made a strong impression on everyone she met. It was her eyes that did it, Samantha thought. They were clever, bright, beautiful eyes, long and dark and as cold as ice water.

  “It’s warm for this time of year,” Samantha said.

  “Yes.”

  After a little silence, Samantha decided to forge ahead with her real errand. “It was Lady Monteith who asked me to call. She accidentally gave something to the church bazaar—an item she wishes to recover. It was a stuffed cat—a brindle cat with glass eyes. I believe you bought it?”

  Mrs. Armstrong had bought the cat to show the village she was willing to do her bit for charity. She had no more use for it than anyone else, but she thought it might amuse Jimmie. Meanwhile, it sat in its glass case in the attic gathering dust.

  “Good gracious.” Mrs. Armstrong laughed. “That was months ago. Why does she suddenly want it now?” The name Lord Howard was in her mind, and the possibility that those green eyes were valuable—emeralds perhaps. They must take her for a simpleton!

  “It actually belonged to Lady Monteith’s brother-in-law. He has returned from India and has expressed an interest in it,” Samantha explained. “It’s quite valueless, and as I see you aren’t using it as an ornament, I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind selling it back. Naturally, I’d reimburse you.”

  Mrs. Armstrong waved the idea of reimbursement away with a careless hand. “I would be delighted to return it if I had it.” She smiled. “I don’t believe I kept the thing. I picked it up on impulse—one wants to contribute something to the bazaar—but I didn’t keep it.”

  “Do you remember who you gave it to?”

  Mrs. Armstrong laid a dainty finger against her cheek and pondered. “It may come to me. I’ll try to remember, Miss Bright.”

  “It’s rather urgent, actually. Would the servants know?”

  Mrs. Armstrong’s dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. Rather urgent, was it? The thing must be worth a fortune. It could be stuffed with diamonds, for all she knew. “I’m
afraid not. I shall put on my thinking cap and try to recall. That was the week I sent a parcel of old clothes and things to a charity house I sponsor in London.” Little was known of Mrs. Armstrong, but it was known she came from London.

  “Ah, here is our tea!” the hostess exclaimed, and smiled. The subject of the cat was forgotten,

  Samantha drank up her tea rather hastily. Mrs. Armstrong was just discovering in the leaves a tall, dark, elderly gentleman who had come from a distant land (for she was eager to talk about Lord Howard) when the door knocker sounded.

  Within seconds, Lord Monteith and Lord Howard were shown into the little saloon. Samantha watched with amazement as Mrs. Armstrong’s expression shifted. Her polite smile didn’t widen. It was the eyes that changed. The lids drooped somewhat, and a more gentle look came over the hostess. Her whole body posture became softer, and when she spoke, her voice had turned playful.

  “I am honored to receive two such distinguished visitors,” she said. Her eyes hardly knew which to honor as she spoke, but common sense told her Monteith was above her touch, while the noble blackamoor was quite in her style. Raffish, rich, old, and lecherous. She saw the glint of interest in Lord Howard’s eyes and studied him from under demure eyelids. “I was just reading Miss Bright’s leaves,” she said and smiled. “You must forgive the foolish fancy of we ladies.”

  Greetings were exchanged again with Samantha, then Lord Howard turned his attention to the hostess.

  “Foolish is what it is,” he agreed. “I am all for foolishness myself, so long as it don’t break the bank. Not that I mean to say we don’t intend to pay! We have come for a reading, madam, if you will be so kind.”

  Mrs. Armstrong waved the mention of payment aside With the same smile that greeted Samantha’s suggestion of paying for the cat. It was obviously the cat that had brought Lord Howard to her door, but she’d let him bring up the subject. Her estimate of the ugly thing’s value soared through the roof. She could hardly wait to get up to the attic and rip it apart to learn its secret.

  “It is only a hobby, but I will be happy to oblige you, gentlemen.”

  She sent for more cups and poured the tea. “Now you must not add milk. Just drink it up, leaving a few drops in the bottom to swirl the leaves. Who will go first?”

  Lord Howard never took second position. “You can start with me,” he said.

  “Shall we just remove a bit to the corner? Peace and quiet are necessary for a proper reading.” She led him off to the other side of the room.

  “This sofa will be comfortable,” she decided. The diffused light filtering through the curtains was also flattering. As she spoke, Mrs. Armstrong moved to Lord Howard’s side, and he began some brusque flirtation. Monteith turned to Samantha and winked.

  “Why did you bring him here? She might mention the cat,” Samantha said in a quiet aside.

  “Did you ever try to stop a tornado? He was coming, with or without me. Has she got it?”

  “No, I think she gave it away to some charity in London. She’s bound to mention it. I didn’t intimate it was a secret.”

  Mrs. Armstrong turned a knowing eye to the whispering couple. “You must drink up your tea, Lord Monteith,” she chided.

  Lord Howard’s cup rattled in his saucer and he proclaimed himself ready. “I hope you see a pretty lady in the logs and leaves,” he said, handing the cup to Mrs. Armstrong. “You would certainly see one if you looked in your mirror.”

  “You are too kind.” She took the cup and held it aloft, the better to show off her well-shaped arm. “The type of cup used is important,” she said. “It mustn’t have any pattern inside, to confuse the arrangement of the leaves. It shouldn’t have ridges or be too narrow at the bottom. This is the right sort of cup—oh, but you’ve left too much tea, Lord Howard. We only want half a teaspoon. You must sip a little more.” She held the cup to his lips. Lord Howard gazed deeply into her eyes as he slowly sipped, taking care not to make a racket.

  When the proper amount of tea remained, she said, “I see you are right-handed. You must hold the cup by the handle and swirl it quickly.” Lord Howard gave it a swirl. “No, not like that! Counterclockwise.” Again, her dainty white fingers touched his hand, guiding it in the proper course. “You get a wish,” she said in her gentle voice. Her dark eyes gazed into his. “Just wish for what you want.”

  Their eyes held over the moving cup. Lord Howard was struck most forcibly with the notion that the young female was not averse to fulfilling his every wish. A pity Miss Bright should be present, or the thing could be settled on the spot.

  “Now turn the cup upside down on the saucer,” she ordered. “Place your left hand on the bottom of the cup–like so.” Again, her fingers guided his with loving touch. “And the right hand on top of the left. Now you concentrate on your wish.” Her body inclined to his as she spoke, just as he wished.

  He glanced impatiently to Monteith and Miss Bright, who were engaged in some private conversation. “A complete reading ought to be done in private, I expect,” he said.

  She lifted her dark eyes and gazed at him. “That would be best, if you’re serious about learning your future, Lord Howard. I thought it was only an idle pastime?” The intensity of her gaze went far beyond reading leaves, and they both knew it.

  “I’ll come back this evening,” he whispered. “Say about nine? Just make up anything you like for now.”

  Mrs. Armstrong spouted a deal of nonsense about seeing the cup’s interior as a clock, each number having to do with direction, each level from rim to bottom designating a stage of the future as well.

  “An archway, Lord Howard! That is a sign of hope! And look at all the little dots—that signifies money. You are going to come into money.”

  “Look at the time zone again, missie. I already have money. Plenty of it. Do you see a lady in the near future? That is what interests me!”

  “I see a gate,” she said, with another long look. “That means an opportunity awaits.”

  “Excellent! Does the position indicate nine this evening?”

  She lifted her chin, and her soft expression congealed in annoyance. “Not quite so soon as that.”

  “There ought to be something in there to show jewelry,” he tempted. “Do you see a bracelet or brooch? Ruby or emerald—anything you fancy.”

  The only item Mrs. Armstrong fancied was a golden band. She had no intention of sinking into her old occupation. She gave him a wounded look and set the cup down. “I have already told you, I don’t accept payment for reading the leaves,” she said stiffly; then she beckoned Monteith forward for his reading.

  His reading was much more businesslike. There was no touching of the hands, no long gazing into his eyes, though she was careful to discover bells and other signals of good fortune. As it had been hinted that money was not welcome, the gentlemen were at something of a loss as to recompensing their hostess.

  “I hope we may have the pleasure of your company at the fête champêtre next week,” Monteith said. “It will be held on the grounds of Lambrook Hall.”

  This charity affair was open to all and sundry without benefit of an invitation, but Mrs. Armstrong thanked her guest very civilly and bowed them all out. Then she raced up to the attic and began examining the cat. She knew a glass eye when she saw one, and she saw two plain glass eyes staring at her from the corner. They couldn’t possibly be emeralds. Black dye had been melted into the glass. She snipped the taxidermist’s stitches along the stomach and poured sawdust out onto the floor. There wasn’t a thing in it—no diamonds, nothing. All the cat was good for was doing Lady Monteith a favor, and as it never did any harm to be on terms with the village’s leading lady, she would stuff the sawdust back inside and restitch the horrid thing.

  The morning was far from over. High Street was just coming alive when the party left Mrs. Armstrong’s house.

  “Shall we go for a little drive?” Monteith suggested.

  “I’ll take my morning constitutional,” Lord How
ard decided. “I want to walk up and down High Street and say good day to everyone. I have many old acquaintances to resurrect. There’s no point your wasting your time, Monteith. Give me an hour or so and meet me at the inn. As Irene took your carriage home, you will have to go back with me.”

  Monteith deemed his uncle safe for an hour on High Street and suggested Samantha go for a drive with him to pass the time.

  “I’m surprised she didn’t mention the cat,” was Samantha’s first speech once they were alone.

  “I was on nettles, waiting for her to blurt it out. Mrs. Armstrong is a handsome woman.”

  “Woman, or lady? I still can’t make up my mind.”

  “That would be due to your lack of intimacy with the former. Mrs. Armstrong is a handsome female, and a clever one, too. You notice I was allowed to arrange the leaves myself. Uncle required assistance at every turn. I think the old slice is after her.”

  “I think your nose is out of joint, milord. Howard has mighty broad taste if he cares for her. Not an hour ago he all but asked for permission to court me!”

  Monteith stifled his amusement as long as he could, but soon a loud bark of laughter broke out. “You aim too high, miss! Don’t mistake Uncle’s Indian manners for romance. It will be an incomparable for him—if Mama and I don’t prevent it.”

  Samantha felt a surge of anger at his laughing disbelief.

  Monteith realized he had been gauche and tried to butter her up. “I daresay you are called an incomparable in the village.”

  “Yes, here amidst the stiff competition of Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Tucker, I have been called an incomparable; and two gigs are called heavy traffic.”

  “I’m sorry if I trod on your toes, but pray don’t go calling a few meaningless compliments an offer of marriage.”

  “It might interest you to know the words ‘pushing my suit forward’ were used, and ‘young wife.’ It was marriage he was discussing, nothing else. He’d never marry Mrs. Armstrong—a widow. You know his views about that.”

  Monteith’s laughter faded, to be replaced by a blank stare. “By God, I think you’re serious!”