by Joan Smith
“I assure you that sacrifice is not necessary, dear,” her mother said. “You must not let Irene’s sulks deter you from such an excellent parti. All will be forgiven once you are mistress of Shalimar.”
“My decision has nothing to do with Lady Monteith,” Samantha said firmly.
“But why are you refusing him, then?” Clifford asked. “You’re the envy of every lady in the parish—in all of London, I daresay. Why, Howard’s the catch of the decade.”
“He is extremely eligible, Sam,” her mother added.
“But I don’t love him, you see. Nor do I particularly want to be as rich as Croesus. I’m convinced I should be quite uncomfortable in a marble palace, surrounded by foreign servants I cannot even talk to.”
“You’d soon catch on to the lingo,” Clifford assured her.
“The honeymoon in Paris, Sam!” her mother reminded her. “I thought you were looking forward to it.”
It was clear they didn’t understand. They were going to ask a million questions and pester her. “Not with Howard!” Samantha said, and fled from the table, holding her napkin to her lips.
“Well!” Clifford said, and looked to his hostess for enlightenment.
“I wonder what’s gotten into her?” Mrs. Bright mused.
“Last-minute jitters, perhaps?”
“It seemed like more than that. When Sam speaks in that prissy way, she is usually hiding something. I wonder if there is someone else....”
“Teddie was always fond of her,” Clifford mentioned. “Irene used to say that if his Uncle Hiram left him a few thousand, they might make a match of it.”
“Sam never mentions Teddie or Bert from head to toe of the week. Dear me, I wonder if it’s Monteith she has in her eye. He has been calling more often this spring than ever before.”
Clifford looked worried. “Irene won’t countenance that. She cannot bear-lead Howard, but she keeps a firm grip on her boys.”
They discussed Samantha’s inexplicable behavior till lunch was over, then moved out to the garden to enjoy the sun and flowers. From her bedroom window, Samantha looked down on them. They looked contented, like a happily married couple. Clifford was a kind, good man. He’d make an excellent husband for Mama, and she’d make him a better wife than the demanding Irene. She knew her rejecting Howard was a rub in their path, but she couldn’t face life with Howard. She’d rather marry the dustman.
At Lambrook Hall, the Monteiths were also distressed. “I expected better of the Brights,’’ Irene scolded, stabbing angrily at a plump shrimp. “Not content with stealing Howard’s fortune, they must have Clifford’s as well. It’s so unfair, Monty!”
Monteith felt like a caged lion. Roaring and gnashing his teeth ill became a grown man, however, so he attempted to be ironic instead. “If you will remember, Mama, I told you it was pointless trying to lead Howard. If Sam refused him—1’
A snort of incredulity greeted this. “Much chance! She trapped him into it, the sly miss, pretending butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and all the while she was making up to him behind our backs.”
Monteith’s jaws worked, and he continued, “If Sam refused him, he’d only marry someone even less eligible.’’
“He’d have to go back to India to find someone less eligible than that rustic.”
“She will make me a charming aunt.”
“Yes, when she grows up! And that doesn’t excuse Nora for stealing Clifford!”
“Well, Mama, you treated him like an old shoe. What do you expect? I have more respect for Sutton than I ever thought I would have.”
“And I’ve lost Nora, too,” she moaned, and finally shoved away the plate. The cold shrimp sat like a chip of ice in her throat, refusing to go down. “They’ll never come to the fête champêtre now. We’ve expanded the thing to last a whole day and night. I cannot face it, Monty. I shall take to my bed and claim a sick headache.”
Monteith also pushed his plate away. A black scowl rode on his brow, and his voice sounded dreadfully like his papa’s. “No, Mama. You will don your best bib and tucker and show the town what you’re made of. We Monteiths don’t buckle under that easily.”
“I wonder if Clifford would come if you asked him, Monty?” she suggested, a ray of hope lighting her eye. “I doubt he’d have the gumption to say no to you.”
“And you actually love such a gutless creature?”
“Monteith! Watch your language!” She folded her napkin in her lap and said uncertainly, “It’s not that I love him, precisely, but he is good company. He always lets me win at cards and is willing to take me anywhere. It is lonesome, Monteith. You forget I am here alone nine-tenths of the year. And I dislike the Dower House. It is so dreadfully dark, with that yew hedge shadowing the windows. And the rooms so small. Naturally, I shan’t go on living at the Hall after you bring home a wife.”
“That isn’t about to happen in the near future.”
“You never know when the arrow may strike,” she warned.
The footmen began placing dishes on the table. The very smell of hot meat was like an emetic to Monteith. He actually felt ill. You never know when the arrow may strike. It had struck sometime within the past week; he had acknowledged it even more recently. When Howard came home boasting of having “snatched the prettiest little lady in Kent” was when the shaft entered his heart.
Monteith had begun feeling ill at that moment. Ill and angry and desolate, “She hasn’t accepted!” he had exclaimed, before he got a rein on his temper.
“You may consider the bargain settled,” Howard had said, smiling. Monteith had willed down the urge to strike that gloating old face. “And a hard bargain they drove, too, but I consider her worth every penny.”
A satirical gleam from his nephew’s eyes was all that was required to elicit the exact sum. She had sold herself for sixty thousand pounds. That was the sum and the total of it. Sam, with her innocent freckles and her quaint manners, was just another fortune hunter when all was said and done.
He was furious with himself as well as her. He had been too slow, had had too high an opinion of himself. In his pride he couldn’t believe he had fallen in love with Sammie Bright, who had loved him forever—well, liked him anyway—and would certainly have snatched at an offer. His having fallen victim to her provincial charms should have been a boon to her. He should be playing the role of knight on a white charger, carrying her out of anonymity to a life of wealth and privilege. What did the wretched girl do but find herself a knight who could carry her higher and faster. He couldn’t compete with white marble palaces and a million pounds.
“When is the event to take place?” he had asked Lord Howard, through stiff lips.
“As soon as I get back from London. I am taking your advice and going there this very day to arrange for the architect. But don’t fret I mean to saddle you with my bride. We’ll tour Europe on our honeymoon while the castle is abuilding. Sammie wants to see Paris.”
Monteith was stirred from these unpleasant memories by his mother’s voice. “I’ll write the note, and you deliver it,” she said, looking at him with a curious eye.
“I beg your pardon? I was woolgathering.”
“The note—to Clifford. I wonder if he’s left the Brights’ yet. I know perfectly well Nora would urge him to stay for lunch.”
Monteith’s aversion to asking Clifford to attend the fête champêtre began to fade. “I could hardly deliver such a note while he’s at the Brights’ without asking them as well,” he pointed out.
Irene gave a tsk of annoyance. “We might as well face facts. Sam has got him; there’s no point cutting off our nose to spite our face. I have no wish to be excluded from the doings at Shalimar. The whole world will be down to visit them. Urge Nora and Sam to come to the fête as well. It will only fuel the rumor factory if they aren’t here.”
Lord Monteith spent fifteen minutes in the arrangement of his cravat and put on his best jacket before going to pay the call. He felt as nervous as a bride when
he lifted the brass acorn knocker at the front door of the Willows.
“Good afternoon, milord.” The butler smiled. “The mistress is entertaining in the garden. I’ll take you out.”
“Is Miss Bright there as well?” Monteith asked.
“Miss Bright is upstairs, sir. Was it the young lady you wished to see?’’
“No! That is—yes, if you please.” He hadn’t foreseen the possibility of being alone with Sam, but it was not an opportunity to be missed when it occurred so naturally. “I’d like a word with her as well, if she is not indisposed.”
Samantha heard the bell and hopped up from her bed to hang over the banister, from which vantage point she could hear without seeing or being seen. The voice she heard set her heart pounding eagerly. Her curiosity and hope soared together to great heights as she scampered back to her chamber to make hasty repairs to her toilette.
When she descended the stairs a moment later, her hair had been brushed till it shone, and a smattering of powder subdued the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Now that she had the opportunity to meet Monteith face-to-face and alone, her former pessimism was blended with a pleasant, tingling excitement. She assumed he had come to hint her out of accepting Howard’s offer, and meant to pay off a few old scores. It was a change for her to have the advantage of him, for once! She’d make him squirm before telling him her decision. How angry he’d be that he had lowered himself to come, once he learned it wasn’t necessary.
As soon as Monteith saw the glitter of mischief in her eye and the pert smile on her lips, he stiffened to a ramrod. His lips thinned and he spoke harshly.
“I see you’re chirping merry at your conquest, Sam.”
She eyed him with amusement. “What conquest is that, Monty? Oh—I daresay you’re referring to Howard’s offer. And I didn’t even have to learn to read the leaves.” She sat on the sofa and nonchalantly arranged her skirts around her. “To what am I indebted for the honor of this call?” she asked with a bland smile.
Monteith looked at the sofa a moment, and took up the chair facing it, as he didn’t want to betray any eagerness to be close to her. “Mama wished me to ascertain that you and your mother still planned to attend the fête champêtre tomorrow.”
Sam gave him a long, searching look. “I believe not, if the chilly stares received from your pew at church this morning are an indication of how we shall be received.”
He jerked his shoulders in a movement at odds with his usual composure. “Mama was in a bit of a pucker about this Clifford thing, but—”
“What accounts for your glares, Monteith? I made sure you would approve of any disturbance in that quarter. It wouldn’t be Howard’s offering for me that accounts for your frowns?”
“No!” he said quickly, angrily. “Although I will say I’m disgusted to hear of the settlement you demanded,”
She allowed a cool tinkle of amusement to issue from her throat. “Demanded? You misconstrue the matter! I’d be bathing in diamonds if Howard had his way. So generous,” she added, to goad him.
“You might have screwed him up to a hundred thousand if you hadn’t been so eager to have him!”
She swallowed her anger and answered with forced civility, “The eagerness was all on Howard’s side, I promise you. I haven’t quite agreed to have him, actually.” She peered to see if Monteith showed any interest in this leading speech.
His brow darkened and his jaws worked. “You’re even more grasping than I believed. You didn’t need me to hint that a higher dot might be managed by a little well-timed reluctance, did you?”
The unfairness of this charge was a goad to her proud spirit. Worse was Monty’s complete lack of interest in her reluctance to accept Howard. “After all, he is worth a million, as he is so fond of announcing. A lakh is only ten percent of a million, you must know. A lakh is a hundred thousand, Monteith. I mention it as you seem to have missed out on the trick of speaking Indian when trying to bring Howard around your thumb.”
“Unlike your cunning self!” he charged, and jumped to his feet to pace the saloon. “You work fast, Sam. I have to give you credit for that. I thought if I could get him blasted off to London before—” He came up short on this betraying speech.
She stared while a well of hot anger steamed up in her breast. She rose to her feet to confront him. “You urged him to go! He even told me so, and I never suspected why! You thought he’d forget me if you sent him away. And you accuse me of cunning!”
Monteith wheeled around and faced her. His livid color only accentuated the white line around his lips. His nostrils flared as he prepared his setdown. “I tell you to your face, madam, you are a cunning, conniving, vain, self-seeking, provincial fortune hunter. You set your cap at Howard to show me you could get him—to flatter your vanity and teach me a lesson.”
Samantha gasped at this outrageous charge. For a full fifteen seconds she was speechless. When she recovered her wits and tongue, she lashed out at him. “I never fully appreciated the vastness of your arrogance till this minute. You actually think my accepting him involved you, in some manner. I assure you, a relative stranger who shows his face in the county two or three days a year does not feature that prominently in my life.”
“Are you trying to make me believe you love him? You love that swaggering, bilious, bragging, rough-tongued old lecher?’’
“I never said I loved him.”
Monteith’s face stiffened like a starched collar. “Then you admit you’re just after the money!”
“Certainly not!”
“Are you not?” He grabbed her two arms and held them in a painful grip while his dark eyes blazed into hers. “Tell me you’re not. Tell me you love him, if you can say it without blushing, and I’ll know you’re a practiced liar. You’re marrying him for his fortune.”
This loaded command was met with a flash of violence. Samantha wrenched her arms free and turned on him like a Fury. Her breath came in quick pants. “I’ll tell you nothing, sir. Who I marry is none of your business. And why I marry him is my own affair. What does your concern amount to but a will to keep Howard’s fortune for yourself? You don’t give a Birmingham farthing whether I’m in love, or happy, or he’s happy, as long as the million is safe. You don’t even care whether your own mother is happy! You think you’re the center of the universe, that the whole world revolves around you. Your nose is out of joint because a better man has come along to call the tune. You’re no longer the lord and master, ruling everyone. Well, I take pleasure in telling you, Lord Monteith, you don’t rule me.”
“When have I ever tried to rule you?”
“You’re trying now. Why did you come here but to argue me out of accepting Howard’s offer?”
“Do you love him?” he asked, and stood firm, pinning her with his eye.
Beneath the frustration and anger that glittered there, Sam thought she discerned a glimmer of something else. If it was love... She tossed her head and looked away, waiting for him to say, or do, something. From the corner of her eye, she saw his rigid form and heard only the echo of his quick, shallow breaths. The silence stretched till she wanted to scream. When she could endure it no longer, she said, “Love isn’t born in a minute. It may take time, but no doubt it will come. Howard is a very passionate lover.”
His movement was so quick she didn’t have time to move. His arms flashed out and grabbed her fingers in his, crushing them till they ached. “Are you telling me you let that lecherous old lout get his hands on you?”
She looked at his fingers gripping hers, then looked at Monteith with a meaningful light in her eyes. “The Monteiths, in my experience, have never waited for permission before placing their hands on a woman. Howard is rough, and woos not like a babe. But then Howard may be forgiven—his intentions are honorable.”
Monteith heard that meaningful accent and through the cloud of anger tried to interpret it. He was on the edge of declaring his own honorable intentions. His fingers worked nervously on Sam
antha’s, clutching and slowly inching up toward her wrists as he braced himself for his declaration. She sensed what was in his mind, and waited.
When the silence stretched uncomfortably, Samantha spoke again to bring the issue to a head. “Naturally, I shall accept him,” she said firmly.
Jostled out of his hesitation, Monteith heard himself say in the stern accents of a judge, “You will not. I forbid it!”
It was not the speech she expected to hear. The moment of possible reconciliation was over. Samantha swallowed her disappointment and tried for an air of ironic levity. “Do you indeed, milord? Go ahead—forbid it till you’re blue in the face, but I will marry Howard, with or without your sanction or permission. If you wish to make an egregious ass of yourself by trying to stop us—”
Monteith dropped his hands. Unthinkingly, he ran one through his hair, disturbing its careful arrangement. “Sam, this match is not right for you!”
“No, Monteith; it’s not right for you! You’ve done your duty by warning me of the dangers of a good and lawful marriage. Your conscience may rest clear that you’ve done all in your power to save the family fortune. I assume that this invitation to the fête tomorrow was to cement family ties. I’m sure Howard would dislike to be at odds with his kin, so Mama and I shall attend.”
She made a graceful curtsy and said before parting, “Pray deliver my compliments to Lady Monteith, and tell her I look forward to seeing her tomorrow. She will be anxious to see my engagement ring.” On this parting shot, she swept from the room.
Monteith stood on a moment alone, wondering where he had gone wrong. At length, he went into the hall and got his hat. He remembered, before leaving, to pass Mr. Sutton’s invitation to the fête along to the butler, as he couldn’t face more company.
Samantha went to the front window to watch him leave. One lone tear oozed out of her eye and slid unnoticed down her cheek.
Chapter 14
Monteith met his mother as he went storming into Lambrook Hall. “They’re coming to the fête,” he said.
