Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

  Good, you damned bounder, she thought, and squinted all the harder. She smiled to herself. Hawk thought: Poor little dowd, surrounded all her life by beauty. He had to admit to himself that Clare and Viola weren’t at all difficult to look at. He felt sorry for Frances.

  “Tell us about his lordship,” said Alexander. “He does well?”

  “No, sir,” said Hawk, a glimmer of pain in his eyes. “He is quite ill at the moment.”

  “Damn,” said Ruthven, running his fingers through his thick head of hair. His eyes settled on Hawk’s face for a long moment, and he nodded silently, realizing why the young man was here. The Marquess of Chandos wanted his debt of honor paid before he died. He frowned. Something was odd here, very odd. He rose, and said to Sophia, “I shall show his lordship to his room now. And I promised Alex that he could meet him.”

  Hawk rose with alacrity, and after murmuring his thanks to his hostess and nodding to each of the daughters, followed the Earl of Ruthven from the drawing room.

  Ruthven said without preamble as they climbed the stairs, “You’re here to wed quickly?”

  “Yes,” said Hawk. “My father wishes to see my bride before he dies. The wedding must take place as soon as possible.”

  “Ah,” said Ruthven. “It’s sorry I am, my lord. I’ve a great fondness for your father.” He frowned a moment, then said, “His illness came upon him quickly?”

  “Very quickly. A congestion in his lungs.”

  Ruthven said nothing more for a moment. The Chandos servant who had been here but five days before had said nothing about any illness, and the marquess had merely written in his letter that his son would be in Scotland very soon. Yes, all of this was most odd.

  “You are fortunate that none of my daughters has wed, my lord.”

  “Yes,” said Hawk.

  “There was a nice boy, Ian Douglass, who wanted Frances, but she would have none of him.”

  Hawk threw Ruthven an incredulous look. At his host’s bland smile, he decided he’d said the wrong daughter’s name.

  “So,” Ruthven continued, “since your father is ill, you are in something of a hurry?”

  “I fear so,” said Hawk. He drew a deep breath. “I have no intention to insult you or your family, my lord, but I must needs be quick to make my choice. I have promised my father that he will see his daughter-in-law before he ...” Hawk broke off, fear, concern, frustration clogging his throat. He felt Ruthven’s hand gently touch his shoulder.

  “ ‘Tis all right, lad. You have something of a schedule, then?”

  “Yes,” Hawk said. “I’ve given myself three days to make my ... oh hell, sir, my selection! Then another four to prepare for the wedding, and it’s back to England.”

  “Your father is proud of you,” Ruthven said unexpectedly. “He wrote to me of all your exploits. With Wellington on the Peninsula?”

  “Yes. When I sold out, things still were in chaos. There are rumors flying about that Napoleon plans to invade Russia. One but prays that it will be ill-fated.”

  “Ah,” said Ruthven, “here is my son, Alex.”

  The very image of his father, Hawk thought at the sight of the small boy standing in the open doorway of the nursery, his clear gray eyes fastened upon Hawk’s face.

  “Do your best, boy,” Ruthven said, grinning down at his son.

  “How do you do?” said Alex very formally, extending a small, somewhat grubby hand.

  “I survive, Alex,” said Hawk, and gravely shook the boy’s hand.

  Ruthven said, “I see that Adelaide hasn’t cleaned you up, lad. Doubtless ‘tis all the excitement with the girls.”

  “Viola’s gown nearly made Adelaide blind,” said Alex with some disgust. “You should have heard Viola simpering and carrying on in front of her mirror ... such a ninny!”

  “That will be enough, I think,” said Ruthven. “Now, lad, off you go. Adelaide is most certainly ready for your lessons. You can get to know his lordship better after a while.”

  “Aye,” said Alex.

  Hawk watched the boy dash down the long, rather barren corridor. “You are lucky, sir,” he said. “A fine boy.”

  “Yes, he is,” said Ruthven. “Now, Rothermere, here is your chamber. Marta cleaned it up quite nicely.”

  “Call me Hawk.”

  Ruthven raised an eyebrow.

  “A name that has followed me from the army. Rothermere was my brother’s name for so long, I can’t accustom myself to it yet.”

  “Ah yes, Nevil. A pity.” Ruthven strode into the chamber, standing aside for Hawk.

  It was a wonderful room, Hawk thought, staring about him at the dark wood-paneled walls, the blackened fireplace, and the majestic bed that sat in isolated splendor in the middle of the room. There was but an old armoire against one wall and a winged chair in front of the fireplace. There was one red wool carpet on the floor, small and faded.

  “This is Frances’ room,” Ruthven said blandly, watching the earl’s reaction at this announcement.

  Hawk turned to look at his host in some amazement, a look that was not lost on Ruthven. There was no evidence at all that a young lady spent her time here. Of course, Hawk thought, Frances was such a pitiful, homely little thing, she probably didn’t want any mirrors or dressing tables about to remind her of her looks.

  “I’ll leave you and see that your man is sent up,” said Ruthven. “Dinner is early here, six o‘clock.” He nodded and left the room.

  I am going to kill Frances, Ruthven decided, striding back downstairs. I am going to wring her neck, shake her until her teeth rattle, then I’m going to thrash her until she can’t sit!

  Suddenly he laughed deeply. One never knew what to expect from Frances. At least she was never boring, curse her!

  3

  Was ever woman in this humor won?

  —SHAKESPEARE

  Frances was easing out of the kitchen door, freedom in sight, when she heard her father’s roar.

  “Frances!”

  Her hand tightened on the doorframe, and one foot snaked past the step.

  “Frances, if you take one more step, I’ll murder you!”

  Angus, the Ruthven woodsman, and Donald, a halfwitted boy whose job it was to muck out the stables and run errands for the cook, Doris, stared between master and daughter, saying nothing. No one said anything when the earl flew into one of his occasional rages. Frances believed all their people were proud of her father’s outbursts, and retold around peat fires in the winter how they had seen the earl do this or say that. Now, she thought, I will be the subject of a story. Angus spit in the corner, and shrugged, but Frances wasn’t fooled, he was all attention.

  “Yes, Papa?” Frances said at last, turning to face her father. “Did you wish something?”

  “Did you wish something?” Ruthven mimicked her, and strode forward. “Come with me, my girl.”

  “Really, Papa, I—”

  “Shut your trap, Frances!” He grasped her arm and pulled her through the door.

  She took double steps to keep up with him. At least, she thought, there would be no scene this time in front of Angus, who was the most garrulous servant at Kilbracken. They walked past the stables, past Randall and Penelope, their two goats, toward the hill behind Kilbracken that was just beginning to burst with bright purple heather.

  Ruthven released his daughter’s arm and looked down at her in disgust. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you stupid girl?” He looked at her eyes through the disgusting spectacles, and shuddered.

  Only the truth, Frances thought. She thrust her chin up and said, “I do not wish to marry this Sassenach, Papa. I will not marry him. I am merely ensuring that he won’t give me another one of his arrogant looks.”

  “Arrogant? Rothermere? Why, the boy’s fine, just fine. If he’s a bit stiff, I can’t say that I blame him. Like you, Frances, it was not his choice to come up here and take himself a wife. He’s behaving quite properly. What’s more, you stupid twit, the boy’s father i
s gravely ill. How would you feet—warm and friendly and bursting with good spirits?”

  Oh dear, Frances thought. She’d not known about Rothermere’s father. Well, she was sorry, to be sure, but it had nothing to do with her. She raised her chin, and the spectacles slid down her nose. “Papa, I don’t want to marry. I don’t want to leave you or Kilbracken. I belong here. Please, Papa.”

  That brought him up short, but just for a moment. “Just what makes you believe that he’d give you a second look in any case? Talk about conceit, my girl! You’re no better than Viola.”

  “I know,” said Frances. She sat down in the midst of a clump of heather. “But I simply don’t want to take the chance.”

  Ruthven was silent for a moment. Frances, uncomfortable with his silence, much preferring his rages, waved her hand about her. “Would you want to leave this, Papa?”

  “What I want,” he said at last, “is what’s best for you, Frances.”

  “That man,” she said in budding anger, “is certainly not it. Oh, he’s well-enough-looking, I grant you that, but he’s English, Papa. English! He probably thinks we’re all savages, you know he does.”

  “With our proper British speech? Not likely, my girl. Frances, you’re getting me off-track. Now, I want you to appear as yourself at the dinner table.”

  “No,” said Frances.

  Ruthven, who had seldom heard any form of negative from his favorite daughter in all her nineteen years, merely stared at her. He said finally, “Do you have any idea how awful you look? How homely and dowdy?”

  “Of course, I practiced in front of the mirror, before I removed it from my bedchamber.” She tilted up her face. “The bedchamber Sophia so kindly gave to him.”

  “I can’t see the man camped amongst pink frills, for God’s sake, or breathing in Clare’s oil paints.”

  “He could have slept in the tower.”

  “Stupid girl! And have the floor collapse beneath his feet?”

  That was true enough, Frances thought, but now she had to sleep amongst Viola’s pink frills.

  “Where did you get those damned spectacles?”

  “From a trunk in one of the attics. I rather thought they were a fine touch.”

  “I’m going to thrash you, Frances.”

  “If you do, I’ll look even more awful.”

  The both of them knew it was an empty threat. Ruthven didn’t know what to do. Damn her for being so much like him! “You refuse to obey me, Frances?”

  “Please, Papa,” Frances said, rising and grasping his hands in hers, “please don’t make me. Besides, he won’t want me anyway. Did you not see how he was gazing at Viola? She’s young and malleable, and gentlemen want that. And she’s pretty as Clare, and so vivacious. You said the earl preferred lively ladies. I would make him miserable, you know. Even Clare would please him more than I would. She could be quite an asset—she could paint portraits of all his friends. Think about the poor man, Papa.”

  Ruthven was thinking about the poor earl. He was fond of his other two daughters, but they weren’t Frances. They wouldn’t make the Earl of Rothermere remotely happy, and if he weren’t happy, how could they be? Unlike Frances, Ruthven knew of Hawk’s character, at least from his sire’s undoubtedly biased perspective. He decided to think about this. Perhaps he could speak to Hawk, tell him of the deception, tell him what a fine girl Frances was, encourage him to be ... He frowned. Hellfire, he could just see the look on the young man’s face were he to tell him that his middle daughter couldn’t abide the thought of being his wife and had made herself purposely ugly to avoid it. He cursed fluently. Frances could see the pulse pounding wildly in his throat.

  “At least change out of that rag you were wearing,” he said, his voice rough. “And rid yourself of those wretched spectacles.”

  “Very well, Papa.”

  “And you will not be rude.”

  “All right, Papa.”

  That stopped him cold. Frances was never so submissive. Ruthven sighed, then winced at the sight of her hair. Her beautiful hair looked like a hag’s crop. Even if he forced her to appear as she should, he knew well enough that she would manage to make herself exceptionable. He wouldn’t put it past her to spit in the earl’s face if provoked. No, he amended, she’d insult him down to his boots, and so cleverly that he would in all likelihood look like a gape-mouthed fish. And no one would be able to accuse her of being precisely rude. It was too much.

  “I will see you later, Frances,” he said, and left her. What was he to do? He finally decided after two glasses of his finest sherry that he would study the Earl of Rothermere’s behavior very closely, then decide if he was worthy of Frances. If he was, then he would act.

  Frances stared after her father, so relieved that she wanted to shout. She already had selected a gown for dinner. Its pale yellow color made her look so sallow as to appear ill with the plague. “I’m sorry, Papa,” Frances said to the spindly gorse bushes with their budding yellow flowers, “but you don’t really want me to leave. Who would see to the sick animals? Who would drink whiskey with you and listen to all your stories? Who would trade jests with you? Who would ride with you, spend long nights camping in the mountains in the summers?”

  Frances rose and stared about her. Why couldn’t life be simple again? She forced herself to shrug. The earl would select either Viola or Clare. There would be peace again at Kilbracken.

  She could look worse, Ruthven thought as he settled himself into his high-backed chair at the head of the long dining table. Still, she didn’t hold a candle to Viola or Clare, both of whom looked as delicious as treats from a confectioner’s shop.

  The Earl of Rothermere, even to Frances’ jaundiced eye, was immensely handsome in his black evening clothes. She heard Viola suck in her breath at the sight of him, and Clare sat forward, thinking, in all likelihood, that it was in evening clothes that she wanted to paint him.

  If I could paint, I’d paint him naked, striding out of the loch.

  Stop it, you silly fool. No matter. He will leave soon and take either Clare or Viola with him. I’ll remain here, safe and sound.

  Hawk was polite. He seated himself on Ruthven’s right, and regarded his dinner, silently served by Tottle. The butler’s black sleeve, close to Hawk as he leaned over him, looked shiny and smelled musty. Did he normally wear a kilt? Was a man normally bare-assed under a kilt? Hawk wondered. Weren’t kilts still outlawed?

  “ ‘Tis partan bree, or crab soup,” Sophia said brightly as Tottle served a goodly amount into the earl’s bowl.

  “It looks delicious,” said Hawk, dubiously eyeing the anchovies that floated darkly in the light stock.

  “It is not so tasty as your English dishes,” Viola said. “Perhaps you can tell us some of the foods you enjoy.”

  Oh, shut up, Viola! From what Papa says of English cooking, it is unimaginative and boring! Frances toyed with her soup, not looking up, her lips a thin, flat line.

  “I doubt it,” said Hawk somewhat obliquely. He turned to Ruthven. “I find your coat of arms most fascinating.” He smiled upward at the colorful Ruthven shield, and read slowly, “ ‘Vivit Post Funera Virtus.’ ”

  “Aye,” said Ruthven. “A good motto—‘Virtue outlives the grave.’ Nonsense, of course, but our ancestors had noble causes and ideals. The fork-tongued lions guarding the crown—they look noble and strong enough, but there is our history to disprove it.”

  A sticky subject, thought Hawk, and merely nodded.

  “What is your family’s motto, my lord?” asked Clare.

  “ ‘With a strong hand—manu forti.’ ”

  “Just like the English,” said Frances under her breath. “More accurate would be ‘With a strong fist.’ ”

  “What did you say, Frances?” asked Ruthven, tickled that his daughter had finally opened her mouth.

  Frances didn’t move a muscle, but continued to study her soup. “Nothing, Papa,” she said in an emotionless voice.

  Hawk spared a glance at
the girl. At least her nose was naked of the spectacles, but her hair looked a bird’s nest beneath the ghastly cap. He wondered if she could even see her soup. He noticed that Adelaide was looking at Frances, her expression bemused and, he thought, wondering a bit, somewhat amused as well.

  He brought his attention back to his dinner as he was served kippers with rice balls, and something thankfully that he recognized—salmon.

  He knew that he should be studying the girls. He had set a time limit on his delibrations, and he had to get on with it. Beginning in the morning, he would meet with each daughter individually. Oh hell, he thought, he might as well get started now. He asked Viola a question, something about her interests, and she regaled him with her domestic talents. Talk about outlandish stories for a winter’s night, Frances thought.

  Hawk, all polite attention, then turned to Clare, and she too seemed all too ready to say anything that would please him. “I should like to see your painting,” he said, and she agreed readily.

  I can’t completely ignore her, Hawk thought, turned his eyes to Frances, and said politely, “What do you enjoy doing, Lady Frances?”

  Frances quivered a bit with anger. The arrogant, conceited pig was pitting sister against sister. “Nothing,” she said, not looking at him. That won’t do, ninny!

  She heard her father say quickly, “Frances plays and sings beautifully.”

  “Almost as well as a performing dog,” she muttered, earning a glare from Sophia, who had heard her.

  “I should like to hear you perform, perhaps after dinner,” Hawk said, wondering how he would hide his bored yawns. Lord, this was worse than a London Season with all its terrified little debutantes trying to make good impressions on the eligible gentlemen.

  “An excellent idea,” said Sophia, sending Frances a dagger’s glance.

  The dinner drew to a close with a trifle. Poor Doris, in an excess of exuberance, had used too much sherry and the cake was soggy. Hawk thought he would be ill.

  Ruthven saved him. “Tottle, remove the stuff if you please. If it is all right, Hawk, we will continue on to the drawing room with the ladies.”