by Joan Smith
She drew a contented sigh and set down her coffee cup. “Good things come in threes,” she said. “Here are you rid of Lord Howard and expecting an offer from Monteith.”
“I am not expecting an offer, Mama!”
“I made sure when you went into the garden with Monteith last night...”
“I didn’t go to receive an offer. Nothing of the sort happened.”
In her happiness, Mrs. Bright found a reason for the delay. “He could hardly offer till you rid yourself of Howard. I shall get busy and write up that note right after breakfast. That is the first good thing. Secondly, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Clifford offers for me after you are shot off. And thirdly, Mr. Beazely wouldn’t be calling at ten o’clock in the morning if he were not becoming serious about Mrs. Armstrong. Mark my words, Sam, she’ll nab him. At last we shall know what class of society she belongs in. He will be an excellent match, so well to grass and very respectable. No doubt she is feeling emanations this very minute. He’ll bring the fortune-telling to a halt.”
Samantha let her mother babble on, as it saved her having to talk herself. She was in no mood for polite chitchat.
At Lambrook Hall, Lady Monteith presided over a much grander table in a much grander room. None of the grandeur gave her any pleasure that day. Her thoughts were gloomy as she sat at breakfast with her son. In fact, she was hardly thinking at all, but only trying unsuccessfully to contain her seething emotions.
“I hope you are not hinting that you mean to marry Samantha Bright yourself!” she declared, eyes flashing. “Have some pride, Monteith. To go hat in hand to those wretched women, after what they have done to us!”
In a good mood, Monteith replied mildly. “The damage has been largely undone, Mama. Sam is giving Howard his congé. This little illness will slow down his search for a replacement. With luck, the building of Shalimar will consume his energy for the next months. You said last night you wished to repair the rent friendship with Nora—”
“That was last night. And furthermore, your uncle doesn’t remember a thing about that disgraceful interlude in your study. He speaks quite as foolishly as ever about Samantha. Don’t think to announce an engagement between Sam and yourself, when the whole town thinks she is engaged to Howard—including Howard. I’m surprised he isn’t on his way to the Willows already, ill though he is. Really, he looks a total wreck today. One trembles to think what dissipations he has been indulging in in London. He tells me lemon water will cure him, but I am sending off for Dr. Pratt if he shows no improvement by noon.”
Monteith drew out his watch and glanced at it impatiently. “I had planned to leave immediately and speak to Mrs. Bright. She will be sending Howard a letter terminating that foolish misalliance, and Sam will be returning the ring.”
“Not when the poor man is ill, Monteith. You must show a little consideration. Only think if his dyspepsia were to carry him off,” she said half hopefully. “I wonder if he has made a will. One dislikes to ask ...”
Through the rose tints of his euphoria, Monteith recognized that it would be cruel to kick a fellow when he was down. “Let’s send for the doctor immediately,” he suggested.
A footman was sent off, and within half an hour Dr. Pratt was being led up the stairs with his gold-knobbed cane in one hand and his black bag in the other. It was another thirty minutes before he returned belowstairs. Such a lengthy visit gave rise to awful hopes and fears. Lady Monteith had soared in fancy from the dizzying heights of being sole inheritor of the nabob’s wealth to being left out in the cold entirely. She was frazzled to a thread by the time the visit was over.
Dr. Pratt wore a serious face when he went to join her and Monteith for consultation. “I don’t like the looks of this,” he said, shaking his head. “His temperature is over a hundred, and his pulse very weak and rapid.”
“Surely a little too much brandy couldn’t have caused that!” Lady Monteith said.
Monteith felt a dreadful premonition that a crack on the head might be the cause, but was soon reassured.
“No, a lot too much, over a long period of time. Liver, complicated with a fever, I’ve come across before in gentlemen returned from India. Something they pick up there,” he said, rubbing his jaw in confusion. “It flares up from time to time.”
Lady Monteith leaned forward in her chair and spoke in a hollow voice. “Is it likely to prove fatal?” she asked.
“It shortens the life, but it don’t seem to carry them off in one blow. It recurs, getting worse over the years. Cutting down on the brandy and wine would help stave it off. His constitution should be built up—plenty of rest, no late nights. I fancy his late-night revels do half the mischief. And don’t let him eat those spiced dishes the nabobs like so well.”
“Try if you can stop him!” Monteith said.
“I put the fear of God into him,” Dr. Pratt replied. “He’ll eat pap and gruel and pork jelly for the next week, and like it. His liver is giving him such a hard time, I shouldn’t think he’ll cut up too stiff on you. He has a great desire to live, you see. That is better than a tonic. I daresay it is his engagement that causes it. At least, he speaks a deal about Miss Bright.”
Lady Monteith bared her teeth in a parody of a smile. Life was too cruel. The one good thing that had come out of the fête champêtre, the rupture of Howard’s engagement, was back to haunt her. On the other hand, it kept Monteith from offering for Sam. How odd that she used to wish the girl was her daughter-in-law,
“I’ve written up some instructions,” Dr. Pratt said, drawing out a sheet of paper. “But the most important things are plenty of rest and quiet, and no brandy or wine. Mild foods only. I’ll be back tomorrow to see how the old gentleman goes on. You’ll call me if he takes a turn for the worse. And now I’m off to change George Plummer’s bandage. He nearly cut his foot off with an axe, clumsy fellow.”
When the doctor was gone, Monteith sat staring into space, planning how to arrange his immediate future. Naturally, he couldn’t propose to Sam immediately, but he could drop a hint.
“Well, that settles it,” his mother said. “You must explain the situation to the Brights. Nora will not expect you to offer for Sam now.”
“It’s not Nora I’m worried about.”
“You might worry about your mother, for once. Financial interests aside, think how you would look, beating up an old man—your own uncle—then stealing his bride while he is sick in his bed, possibly dying.”
“Neither the ‘beating,’ which was exactly one blow, nor the fever are my fault.”
“Next you will say offering for Sam is not your fault, either. Hah, I know whose fault it is. The sly minx. You were properly taken in. She never had any intention of marrying that old gaffer. She only accepted to nudge you into offering.”
“She never accepted at all.”
“But she took the ring fast enough!”
“There’s no point arguing, Mama. I’ll go to the Blights’ now and explain the situation here.”
“Give my regards to Mr. Sutton,” his mother said tartly.
* * * *
After Monteith left, she took a pot of tea and a novel upstairs and read to Howard for an hour. He found it strangely peaceful, lying in bed, looking out at the pale blue sky of England, dappled with the tips of tall trees. So different from India. There it was blazing blue and scorching sun or the demmed monsoons, when the air was as heavy and gray as the sky.
“It’s peaceful to be home, Irene.” He smiled wanly. “Many a sultry night as I lay on my charpoy, I dreamed of such peace. But when I got home, there was so much I wanted to crowd into what is left of my life that I went into a sort of frenzy. Dashing off here and there—to London. I fear I overdid it this visit. Next time I shall stay away from the Green Room.”
“So that’s what you were up to, naughty boy,” she scolded, but leniently. Of course an older woman understood a man’s needs. Especially Irene—she had learned about men the hard way, from his brother Ernest.
>
“You have danced your jig, sir; now you must pay the piper. But we shall try to make your recuperation as pleasant as possible.”
“I’d like to see Sam. I fear she isn’t happy with the ring I gave her. I daresay it was the star ruby she had in her eye. I only gave her the smaller ruby set with diamonds.”
“What were you keeping the star ruby for?”
“I thought it a trifle gaudy for a young girl. I planned to give it to you in thanks for your hospitality.”
A beatific smile curved Irene’s lips. She held the teacup for Howard to sip. Her voice was a dovelike coo of pleasure. “You are thoughtful! I never expected anything of the sort.”
“I always had the greatest respect and admiration for Ernest’s bride. If your memory is as long as mine, you will recall who was dangling after her first.”
Irene did, indeed, recall. She recalled as well the abrupt manner of turning him off once Ernest began showing his interest. “My parents were at me night and day, Howard. You know how ambitious they always were,”
“I understand, Irene. I daresay I’d have done the same thing in your boots. I was a callow, penniless youth at the time, with my fortune to be made, and Ernie was already in command of the hill. And now we’re old, you and I. A young bride will give me the illusion of youth for the few years I have left. She is monstrous pretty, young Sammie.”
“Lovely.” Lady Monteith smiled through her rage. “I only hope she doesn’t wear you out.”
When the visit was over, she went to her room and attacked her face with the rouge pot. Or was it the hair that made him think her old? Silver wings were forming around the temples. She would have her dresser buy a bottle of henna dye. And perhaps a rearrangement of her coiffure . . .
* * * *
Samantha could see at a glance that Monteith was troubled when he came to call. “How is Howard?” she asked, when he was seated in the saloon.
“He’s taken a turn for the worse,” he said, and outlined the situation. “Mama feels—and I’m afraid I agree with her—that this isn’t the optimum time for you to turn him off.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting I go on being engaged to him!” she exclaimed in horror.
“You needn’t worry about any recrudescence of his passion. He’s flat on his back—weak as a newborn kitten. It will be just for a few days. As soon as he’s feeling stouter, you can jilt him.”
Sam looked at her mother. Mrs. Bright pinched her lips and considered for a moment. “Monteith is right, Sam. You can’t tell him when the doctor says the engagement is all that is keeping up his spirits. You must be patient for a few days.”
A second thinking of the matter led Sam to agree. “You’re right, of course. What difference does a few days make after all? And as he is ill, I shan’t have to call on him.”
“Not today, in any case,” Monteith decided.
* * * *
By the next day, Howard felt well enough to sit up and eat a bowl of gruel for breakfast. It was fed to him by a much-rejuvenated Lady Monteith. Her hair, arranged in a youthful bundle of curls atop her head, gleamed like new copper. Her cheeks were as pink as peonies, and on her finger sat a heavy star ruby, given in a fit of gratitude the night before when she had read him three boring chapters of Scott’s Waverley.
“More Waverley, Howard?” she asked archly when the tray had been removed.
“Let us just sit and talk, if you can spare me a few minutes, my dear.”
“You know my time is entirely at your disposal.”
Howard took her fingers and squeezed them. “I have been a great thundering nuisance to you, Irene. And now this to top it off—an invalid on your hands. You will be wishing me at Jericho.”
“Where else should you come after your travels, but to your home, Howard? I’ll hear no more of nuisances, if you please. What have I to do all day long, alone as I am nine-tenths of the time? I am delighted with your company.”
“Do the youngsters not visit you? I had hoped to see Ted and Bert before now.”
“Had they known you were coming, Howard, wild horses wouldn’t have kept them away. They are touring the Lake District this summer. Monteith thinks they should see their own country, to develop a proper feeling for it and all its beauty. We’ve written, and hope to see them soon.”
“Ah, well, I hope they don’t come till I am feeling more the thing. Youngsters racketing around a house are the very devil, but I do want to speak to them later on and see what I can do for them. I thought twenty-five thousand apiece would see them settled in whatever careers they have in mind.”
A gush of pure joy made Irene’s rouge unnecessary. “Oh, Howard, you are too generous! Fifty thousand pounds!” In her excitement, she reached forward and grabbed his hands. He squeezed hers and took advantage of her proximity to slip a kiss on her cheek. Soft as a baby’s skin, that cheek. And what a pretty flowery smell came from her.
“The least I can do for my nevvies.”
And the least Irene could do was keep them out of his way while he was ill. There was no point risking the fortune by having the ill-bred whelps where Howard could see them. It hadn’t taken Monteith long to come to cuffs with the nabob, and he was the most civilized of her sons.
Receiving gifts and money always put Lady Monteith in high spirits. She could hardly control her joy that morning. She became quite frolicsome just before dashing downstairs to write the notes telling her younger sons to prolong their tour.
“Let me straighten these pillows,” she said, lifting Howard’s head in her two soft hands.
He grabbed her fingers. “Why are you so kind to an old sinner like me, Irene?” he asked. His dark eyes gleamed with the stirring of passion.
She suppressed her joy and allowed a wistful smile to do its work. “We shan’t have you with us much longer, Howard. Soon your marble walls will be rising.”
“I shall miss Lambrook Hall. Remember, we used to chase the peacocks, Irene? I pulled a feather from old Inky’s tail and gave it to you. Papa gave me a sound thrashing. You no longer have peacocks in the park.”
“I remember,” she said, on a luxurious sigh. “No, the peacocks are gone.”
“I shall give you a pair—and come and visit them often, if I may.’’
“I wish you never had to leave.”
Irene was careful not to look at Howard as she uttered this lure. She busied herself straightening his blankets, and as she left the room the feminine swaying of hips was a little more pronounced than usual.
Howard watched her departure with admiring eyes. A fine figure of a woman, always was. In his weakened condition, the upheaval of building Shalimar seemed like a hideously bothersome and expensive business. How nice it would be to finish his days here at the Hall, or someplace like it.
As to a young bride and a parcel of sons—children were noisy, troublesome wretches. His little lad in India—Georgie, he called him—had squalled night and day from the minute he was born. His lineage lived on in Ernest’s sons. It was not as though he had a title of his own to bequeath.
Of course, Irene was a widow. As that handsome hussy, Serena, said, a woman was not a suit of clothes ordered for one man, but a book to be read. For that matter, he had often worn Ernie’s jackets and been quite comfortable in them. Sammie was as pretty as could stare, but a prudish young lady. The young didn’t understand passion. It would take months to heat up her ardor. He could hardly jilt her—Mrs. Bright was Irene’s best friend. Monteith seemed rather fond of the young lady….
His eyes fluttered shut and he wafted in dreams back to Kashmir, where he wandered through the gardens of Shalimar with Jemdanee.
Monteith noticed his mother’s juvenescence and had some notion of its cause. It was the fifty thousand for the boys and the great ruby ring that she spoke of, but her smiles looked like million-pound smiles. The solution to every problem lay in his mother’s being able to pull it off. He personally went to the bookstall and picked up half a dozen romantic novels and a pot
of rouge of a less glaring red.
Chapter 17
Two days after the fête, Monteith went to the Willows to deliver Sam to the Hall for her first visit to the invalid.
“Don’t leave me alone with him, Monteith!” Sam warned, as she put on her bonnet at the hall mirror.
“You’ll find him a changed man,” Monteith promised. “I’m almost beginning to like him myself.” He tilted her bonnet at a more fashionable angle and gazed at her with a long, unsettling look. “Don’t worry I’ll leave you alone. You might find yourself falling under his spell again.”
“That would upset your plans, wouldn’t it?” She sniffed.
“More than you know.”
“I never was under his spell.”
“I swear Mama is. Of course, his kind donation to the boys has something to do with it.”
They went to the carriage and in due course entered the grounds of Lambrook Hall. Samantha looked at the stretching sea of lawns and the spreading breeches, with the stone walls of the Hall rising in the distance. “How lovely it is here.” She sighed.
“I mean to spend more time at home in the future.”
“A city rattle like you? Dr. Johnson says when a man is tired of London, he’s tired of life.”
“Dr. Johnson is wrong. I am not tired of life; I’m only tired of wasting it. This illness of Howard’s has made me realize I’m mortal.”
“That must have come as a sore blow,” she said curtly.
“Most knowledge is hard gained. Being only mortal and with a mortal’s wish for eternity, I mean to marry and populate the county with my offspring.”
“In that order, I hope?”
“In that order, if Howard is well enough to receive your rejection,” he said, and cast a meaningful smile at his partner. “Otherwise . . . well, I don’t mean to wait much longer.”
