A Duke for Christmas (20 page)

“New husband?” Sophie said, faltering for the first time. “What new husband?”

“How should I know? Fine as five pence you are, and if some young rascal isn’t already in love with you, it must be your fault indeed.”

Mrs. Lindel intervened. “She’s not even out of mourning yet.”

“Fine feathers,” Miss Menthrip said, pointing her stick at Sophie.

“Borrowed plumage,” she shot back, recovering her pluck.

“I know it, I know it,” Miss Menthrip said, cackling like a parrot. “That confoundedly silly niece of mine is making your other clothes up. Pretty things too, though I don’t like that very pale purple on blondes. Washes ‘em out. I told her to make it out of that figured silk.”

“What figured silk?” Mrs. Lindel demanded. “We saw none such.”

“No, I know you didn’t. That ninny forgot she had it on order. It came a day later and she didn’t want to trouble you to come all the way out again. I told her, ‘I’ve never known one of those Lindels to stay at home if they could go out,’ but there, she’s a fool now and time shan’t mend her.”

“I’ll go at once. You stay, Sophie. Keep Miss Menthrip company.” Mrs. Lindel hurried from the house.

“Do you care for tea?” Miss Menthrip croaked “Put the kettle on, child.”

“Truthfully, Miss Menthrip ...”

“Truthfully, I’m the last in a long line of calls and you feel so full up of tea that you could drown. Aye, I remember. Go out and look at my garden; you’ll feel the better for it.”

When she came back into the house, cold but relieved, she could indeed face a cup of tea. A few meager biscuits set out on a plate she ignored. Miss Menthrip, though more secure than she’d been once upon a time, still had to count her pence or have no pounds at all. Her plates and cups might be Derby but her poverty was well known.

Tea was a comfort to poor and rich alike. They sipped in silence for a moment. “Are you very badly off?” Miss Menthrip asked in a less challenging way.

“I’m afraid so. My mother, my sister, and her husband are very kind, but I cannot live on their charity.”

“Why not? I do.”

Sophie, afraid she’d hurt the older woman, hastened to make her meaning clear, but Miss Menthrip held up her hand.

“Never mind, never mind. I know what you would say. Our cases are not alike. You are young and strong, well able to face the cold winds of this world. So was I, once. But one grows tired of the battle. One is glad, in the end, for kindness, even if it be charity.”

“I am not come to that.”

“Still, bear it in mind. Now, you say that you have sent a parcel to these publishing johnnies. Where are they?”

“London.”

“London, eh? Would it surprise you very much to learn that no parcel of any description left Finchley for London today?”

Fortunately, Sophie had put down her teacup or Maris’s dress would surely have been imperiled. “How do you know that?”

“Have you been gone so long you’ve forgotten the great interest we all take in one another?” Miss Menthrip’s still-black eyebrows lifted. “I can tell you that Mrs. Alberts received her new feathers, Mr. Lanscombe his chemicals, and that both Danesby and Dr. Richards have written to London to record the birth of the heir. Miss Bowles has written her weekly letter to her sister and Susan Archer has written for new music, for which we all give thanks since we’ve heard ‘Maiden’s Lament’ and ‘A Scot’s Farewell to Bannockburn’ until we’re fair sick.”

“But no parcel to Messrs. Oilier in Vere Street?” Sophie knew what Miss Menthrip said was true even before she offered her proofs. Finchley as a whole did keep a close eye on what passed through Mr. Harley’s hands. He had acted as postmaster here for several years. Despite his propensity for gossip, he remained the best man for the position.

“Who did you give it to? Or did you leave it on the table in the hall, as is the custom?”

Sophie wasn’t surprised that Miss Menthrip knew where the mail collected at Finchley Place. She probably knew everything from how often they changed the linen to the length of Mrs. Lemon’s apron strings. “I left it on the table per Mr. Tremlow’s instructions.”

“Then you must discover who took it from there, for I assure you it never came to town. Ask Mr. Harley, if you don’t wish to take my word for it.”

“You know I cannot ask him. It will be all over town in a moment. Will you promise not to tell anyone?”

“I do not pass on what I hear. I am the end of this gossip river, not its source. But you will let me know what passes?” Her eyes glittered like a habitual drunkard scenting whiskey on the air.

“As soon as I know myself,” Sophie promised.

“Excellent. Also, by the way, there was a letter for you, unfranked. It should be waiting for you when you arrive at Finchley Place. Oh, look. Here comes your mother.”

Sophie rode home in a brown study, answering her mother absently, infrequently, and often with ludicrous results. “Sophie, you’re not listening,” Mrs. Lindel said. “What has you so preoccupied?”

“I’m tired, Mother. That’s all. It is exhausting visiting all these people, and my garters are digging into my legs.”

“Sophie!”

“It’s true.”

“Then adjust them, but discreetly. I’m glad this is a closed carriage.”

“Considering the weather, so am I.” She made no movement toward loosening the tight garters. “What are you giving Maris for Christmas, Mother?”

“I’ve embroidered half a, dozen handkerchiefs with her cipher upon them in blue, encircled with rose buds.”

“And for Kenton?”

“Oh, Kenton is a difficult person to give anything to. He has so much and what he wants, he buys. However, Dominic suggested I purchase a new purse for him. I found one in London in Moroccan leather with a ring around the mouth. He’s always dropping coins, have you
noticed?”

“No, I can’t say that I have. And for me?”

“For you, I have a ... secret.” Mrs. Lindel smiled at her daughter’s transparent attempt to prise information from her. “You’re still such a child, Sophie.”

“In some things. I hope I will always try to winkle out the secret of my Christmas presents before I receive them. Can’t you offer me so much as a hint?”

“Not so much as a word,” Mrs. Lindel said. “I am mute.”

When Sophie entered the house, she asked Tremlow where her brother-in-law might be. “He has ridden out upon business, madam. I have instructions not to wait dinner for him.”

“I see.” She debated a moment over asking Tremlow about the missing parcel but, fearing this might be construed as a criticism of some arrangement of the household, she held off. Maris was not available as she was sound asleep.

As Miss Menthrip had prophesied, a letter did await Sophie. As she opened it and read it, Mrs. Lindel waited. The instant Sophie had finished it, she asked, “Is it from Dominic?”

“No. Dominic has no cause to write to me. Besides, he should return today or tomorrow. No, this letter is from that Mr. Knox that I knew in Rome.”

“Is that the man who went with Broderick to that island? Which one was it?”

“Sicily. Yes, he was Broderick’s dearest friend and was there when he died.”

“I’m glad he wasn’t alone. What does Mr. Knox write?”

“He has found work as a tutor to several young men making their try for University.”

“That doesn’t sound very steady.”

“He was recommended to the position by a cousin who promises him a position in his bank come the spring. Mr. Knox is uncertain whether it will suit him. He has a poetic soul and such men do not worship easily in the temples of Mammon.”

“Does he write that?” her mother asked incredulously.

“No,” Sophie said and added, with a wicked smile, “Mr. Knox did me the honor of confiding in me during our homeward journey.”

“If he’s wise, he’ll take what he can and trouble less about his soul. These are not times for men without situation.”

“Are there ever such times?” She put down the letter. “It is wrong, however, for him to leave Kenton to pay for his letter. I suppose I’d better answer, though that isn’t fair to Kenton, either.”

“Dear Kenton isn’t the sort to count such matters. Nevertheless, I can’t say I think Mr. Knox an acquaintance worth pursuing.”

“I’ve no intention of pursuing him, Mother,” Sophie said seriously. “He’s Broderick’s friend. When he told me about his death, I’d never seen anyone so devastated by grief.”

“But you said he first visited Broderick’s ...” she almost couldn’t form the word.

“Yes, he did. But he was shaking and crying when he told me. I can’t simply cut the connection as if he were perfectly unknown to me.”

“No, that wouldn’t be right. However, there’s no need to reply at once. Wait a week or so.”

“Yes, I suppose that would be best. You know, I honestly thought I saw...”

“Listen, is that the gong?”

Tremlow had ceased striking the dinner gong with all his strength, as it invariably woke the baby even though the nursery was at the rear of the house. With his usual dedication, he achieved a pianissimo trembling of the gong that resembled the fluttering heartbeat of a dove rather than the Jovian thunder of old. Though the baby slept undisturbed, the adults found it difficult to tell when meals were served.

The three ladies gathered in the dining room, not troubling to change for dinner as no men would be present. “This is pleasant,” Maris said, smiling at her family as soon as Mrs. Lindel had said grace. “We’ve hardly had time for a good coze since Sophie came home.”

“I was under the impression we’d done nothing but talk,” Sophie said, passing her mother the salt.

“How are all our friends, Mother?”

“Very well. Miss Ondrea and Miss Aurilla are arguing again. Apparently one took the landau out without asking if the other meant to use it. Which one did it, I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. If it weren’t that bone of contention, there’d be another.”

“Don’t they ever agree?” Sophie asked, remembering the night she’d arranged the place cards.

“Not in my memory. They sometimes exist in a state of armed truce, but never peace.”

“Why didn’t either of them marry, do you suppose?” Maris finished her soup. “If they had other people to think about, perhaps they wouldn’t be like that.”

“Some people are just naturally quarrelsome,” Sophie said, wishing to avoid another discussion of marriage. Though neither her mother nor her sister had mentioned Dominic, she knew them well enough to guess what ambitions they had for her. “Others can get along with everyone. And then there is Miss Menthrip, who seems like a dragon but has the heart of a lamb.”

This attempt to alter the focus of the conversation might have succeeded except that the servants entered, changed the plates and went out, leaving the ladies to their venison.

“Most men are more quarrelsome than women, I think,” Maris said. “Not Kenton, of course. Why, he and Dominic have been friends for years and never a cross word.”

“But they are men of especially equable temper,” Mrs. Lindel chimed in. “Why, I’ve never seen Dominic out of temper yet. Even when things go amiss, he always seems to find a reason to be pleased.”

“Yes,” Sophie said when they both looked at her. “He’s everything amiable. A true gentleman. It makes one wonder whether there is something to the theory that blood will tell.”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Lindel agreed. “I think you can always tell a gentleman who was born a gentleman, instead of those trumped-up fellows, ‘pickle lords’ they call them.”

“Mother...” Maris said, rolling her eyes. “You know Lord Caventry meant well.”

“What’s this?”

“Oh, when Mother was in London she made rather a hit with an elderly gentleman. He made his fortune in supplying bullets to the Army.”

“Did he make improper advances, Mother?”

“No, of course not.” But the girls noticed that their mother’s cheeks had grown pink.

“Mother! You never told me.”

“They weren’t improper. But I couldn’t accept any sort of an offer.”

“Lady Caventry ... yes, I could see you in such a role,” Sophie said, eager to give out a little of what she’d been taking. “More easily than I could see myself. You would carry the position with a high hand.”

“I’d give place to you at table gladly,” Maris said.

“You are pleased to tease me, but I assure you it is a position I have no wish to fill. My ambition has always been for you girls, not myself. If I were ever to marry again, I should choose someone of my own station. Reginald Lively, for instance.”

Maris and Sophie exchanged startled glances. “Reginald Lively?”

“What’s wrong with him, may I inquire? He’s a gentleman, I hope. And an attractive one, though I shouldn’t say it.”

“But he wears a wig, Mother. And a corset.”

“What matters that? I like a man to be point-device. He was a good friend to your father and to me. No one has a nicer taste than Mr. Lively. You were saying that you like a man with an equable temper. The only thing that puts him out of temper is an ill-laid table. With his excellent staff, it is a thing that rarely happens.”

“Well, he is rich,” Maris said.

“I hope I’m not mercenary.”

In the silence that fell as the two daughters digested these facts about their mother, Tremlow appeared, but not to continue service. “His grace, the Duke of Saltaire, has just arrived, my lady. He asks if he might join you without changing his attire.”

“Goodness me, yes, Tremlow. Show him in immediately,” Maris said, putting down her napkin.

Dominic came in with his quick stride. He bowed over Maris’s hand, shook hands with Mrs. Lindel, then turned to Sophie, his eyes dancing with happiness. He seized both her hands in his. “You’ll never, never guess,” he said,

She returned the pressure of his fingers almost unconsciously. “What is it? You’re shaking with excitement.”

“Can you blame me for it? It’s also partly being tired. I rode half the day.” He released her hands when Tremlow touched his shoulder to indicate the place they’d laid for him. It was next to Sophie.

She found herself looking admiringly at the set of his coat across his broad shoulders, splashed with mud though it might be. His boots, too, had quite lost the gloss that was the joy of Fissing’s heart, and horsehairs were liberally sprinkled over his breeches. Sophie thought she’d never seen a man so vitally alive and felt a leap of the heart that had nothing to do with whatever he might choose to say.