The Merry Month of May (8 page)

“I don’t know why they are all so determined I must marry Peter!”

“My dear innocent, it is so obvious a hummingbird could see through it in an instant. It is not so much wishing to snare you as to escape the Sauvage. I erred to think vulgarity would be amusing. It was merely tedious. She is a vapid little creature, though the eyes are good. Not that brown is my favorite color. Too doglike to really suit me.”

“I don’t suppose we could go home?” Sara asked.

“Not yet. I have promised Perdita I would sing a few simple tunes for her, accompanying myself on the harpsichord. A few ditties of my own composition. A waste of time really. Her ears worsen. Talking to her is like fishing an empty pond. She never rises to the fly. We can escape to the music room on the pretext of trying the instrument, however, if that would mitigate your agony.”

“Yes, let us do it.”

Idle noticed that she cast one last look at Lord Peter before leaving. The two left hastily. Peter was not watching, but Haldiman saw them go, and when they had not returned in five minutes, he learned from his mother what was afoot and went after them.

He found Sir Swithin sitting at the harpsichord, practicing his ditties, while Sara sat alone, looking cross and bored. A lady did not wear such an expression when she was alone with her lover. This business between Idle and Sara was dust in his eyes. It was Peter she loved. He watched silently from the doorway a moment before joining her.

“So this is where you have gotten to,” he said, and sat beside her.

Sara looked over his shoulder, and when she saw he was alone, she relaxed visibly. “Swithin is going to play a few tunes for us,” she explained.

He cocked his head to one side. “Aren’t we fortunate?” he said facetiously. “Will you sing while he plays?”

“Oh no, you are not
that
fortunate.”

“Idle tells me he is having a ball.”

“Yes, that will be a charming diversion.”

“Well, a diversion in any case. I daresay I ought to do something on a grand scale to mark Peter’s return.”

One ball a season in this quiet corner of the land was an unusual treat. To hear of a second caused Sara to smile in delight. Her dove-gray eyes glowed luminously. They reminded Haldiman of an opal. All tints of the rainbow seemed trapped in their depths. “What a good idea!” she exclaimed.

“I do have them occasionally, you know. Ideas, I mean.”

“Along with some very bad ones,” she pointed out. The opals darkened noticeably.

“Rushing Peter off
to the Poplars tomorrow, you mean?”

“No, bringing him back for a month while the place is made ready. Surely it cannot be that rundown.”

“It is more than habitable. Peter’s delay has another cause, I think?” He made the speech a question.

Sara realized exactly what he was asking, but chose to ignore it. “He mentioned not wishing to leave Miss Harvey here alone.”

Haldiman gave a conning smile. “I don’t believe Harvey was the miss he mentioned. Peter plans to enlarge the Poplars, now that he has a family and money to do it.”

This reminder of his enlarged fortune caused not a jot of interest. “How nice for him,” Sara said, and rose to join Swithin at the harpsichord.

Haldiman followed along, curious to see how she and Swithin behaved together. Idle didn’t interrupt his music, but he turned to gaze at Sara as he sang “Belle Mam’selle,” a song of love in springtime. His voice, though high, was good. Sara clapped when he was finished and said, “That was lovely, Swithin.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I wrote it myself a few years ago as the intermission music for a drama I was putting on. The only change necessary for this evening’s performance is that I shall change Belle Mam’selle’s eyes from blue to gray.”

“I am honored, sir,” Sara smiled, and curtsied playfully.

“Those eyes will defeat me, I fear,” Idle said, studying her. “Not musically, but when I paint you. Gray won’t do at all. Odd that eyes of that evanescent shade are called gray. They are nothing of the sort. Limestone is gray. A pebble on the beach is gray. Old ladies’ hair is gray, but your eyes are— what color would you call them, Haldiman?”

“Opalescent,” Haldiman answered promptly. His mind had latched on to another matter. He disliked to think of Swithin painting Sara’s picture. There was too much possibility of dalliance.

“Mmmm—close, and much better than I expected of you,” Idle said. “I would have said nacreous, but perhaps that is splitting hairs. They will present a real challenge.”

“When will you begin this portrait?” Haldiman asked.

“It is already begun. We resume tomorrow afternoon,” Swithin replied. “And I have chosen your outfit, Sara. That green gown you are wearing this evening. It will give just the contrast I wish, the gentle greenery of spring leaves against your alabaster bosom.”

Haldiman’s eyes strayed to the described area. When he realized what he was about, he looked up guiltily to see Sara staring at him, with two splotches of pink coloring her cheeks. “Where will the sitting take place?” he inquired. It had occurred to him that Sara would not be safe if it were to occur at Heron Hall. This talk of eyes and bosoms was upsetting.

“At home in the garden,” Sara said.

Sir Swithin began to press the keys again. “You may tell the guests I am ready, Sara.”

Sara left, accompanied by Haldiman. “He’s very talented, is he not?” she asked. Her voice was just a trifle breathless.

“Too talented for my liking.” He directed a quizzing smile at her. “I fear he may cut Peter out entirely.”

“I feel I am talking to the wind to tell anyone I don’t plan to marry Peter.”

Before they entered the front hallway, Haldiman placed his hand on Sara’s wrist and drew her to a stop. “You can’t be serious about Idle,” he said.

“Can I not?” she asked in a teasing way. “Perhaps you overestimate my sense. I have exhibited poor judgment in the past, Haldiman. Some of us never learn.”

“But he’s so--”

“Talented? I have no aversion to talent. He’s clever, well to grass, and Heron Hall is right next door to my home. I wonder it never occurred to me to go after Swithin before.”

“Odd it should occur just now when a better choice is available to you.”

“Better?” she asked, with a sharp look. Haldiman gave a conscious look but said nothing. “Coincidence is famous for her long arm, is she not? She has reached out and caught me in her grip.”

He scowled. “You’re only doing it to make Peter jealous. It is not necessary, I promise you.”

The embers of discontent flared to flames, and she answered hotly. “I’m not trying to make him jealous. That’s the last thing in my mind! I just want him to see it is pointless for him to dangle after me. I don’t want to marry him. If necessary, I would even go so far as to marry Swithin to escape him. At least he has not been married before, with a ready-made family in tow.” On that angry speech she stalked off to the salon to announce that the music was about to begin.

Haldiman stood, frowning after her. He had always assumed it would take a little time for Sara to accept Peter’s marriage to Fiona, and the boys. When seats were taken in the music room, he sat behind Sara at an angle that allowed him to observe her. He saw her jaw firm when Peter sat beside her. He observed that she did not instigate any conversation, and when Peter spoke to her, she answered briefly. Was it possible she had stopped loving him? For six years he had pitied her. The whole neighborhood pitied her, and she had let them.

Of course it was infamous how Peter had treated her. Perhaps the offense was too large for a proud woman to forgive, ever. Strange, he had never thought of Sara as a proud woman before, but she now carried her head very high. His eyes strayed to Peter’s other side, where Betsy was chattering away, oblivious to the music. Idle was perfectly aware of her chatter, too. He didn’t like anyone interfering with his performance, silly fop. Though really, it was too gauche of Betsy. God, if Peter didn’t attach Sara, he’d marry that vulgar woman.

Soon a worse interference than Betsy’s talking was loose in the audience. His mother had fallen sound asleep and began to snore. When her gentle buzzing turned to stertorous snorts, Haldiman slid across the aisle and jiggled her awake.

“What, what!” she exclaimed loudly. “Oh dear! I nodded off. Sorry, Idle,” she called from her chair. “I shan’t do it again. The music is lovely. Play on.”

Swithin rose from the harpsichord. “That is enough music for one night.”

“What does he say?” Lady Haldiman asked her son.

“The music is done, Mama.”

“Yes, great fun. Thank you, Idle. Is everyone ready for tea?”

Tea was served and hastily drunk up. Haldiman went to the door to see his guests off. He felt a reluctance to see Sara get into Swithin’s carriage.

“Why do you not go home with your mother, Sara?” he asked. “That will allow Idle to take the shortcut.”

Swithin turned a sapient eye on him. “Too kind—to the horses, Haldiman, but cruel to the passengers. Come along, Sara, my dear.”

Sara tossed a bold smile at Haldiman and left. In the carriage Idle said, “I felt like the proverbial pearl, cast before swine, playing for those yahoos. I know we agreed not to use terms of endearment, Sara, but in my fit of pique I was coerced by an overwhelming urge to give Haldiman a facer before leaving. Odd it was not Peter who objected to the traveling arrangements, is it not?”

“He didn’t look entirely happy either.”

“But he said nothing. I had the feeling in the music room, too, that Haldiman was watching me like a dog guarding his bone. I say, he isn’t in love with you, too, is he?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, I am always ridiculous. It is my sole charm. That does not prevent me from using my eyes, however. The spring promises to be much less boring than I had feared. You must be very careful or I shall go falling in love with you, too. This love is a primitive thing. We fools turn into cavemen when we see a lady favor another man over ourselves. One of Mother Nature’s little tricks, I daresay, to provoke us into peopling her world. Hi ho. Don’t wake me when we reach Whitehern. I do not snore, but I shall be sleeping. My driver will awaken me at Heron Hall. Good night, Sara.”

He pulled his hat over his eyes and enjoyed a little doze. At Whitehern Sara silently crept from the carriage and went inside, laughing at what a strange turn the evening had taken. She, who hadn’t had a beau since Peter’s departure, had suddenly three gentlemen taking an active interest in her life. It seemed something must come of it, but the matter was so confusing that she scarcely dared hope matters would turn out as she wanted.

“I’m riding over to the Poplars, and Peter will go in the carriage with the boys,” Haldiman explained, in a raised voice to his mother the next morning.

“You must take Miss Harvey with you,” Lady Haldiman told him. “I don’t want to be saddled with her all the livelong day. She will want to be trailing through the shops in the village, fingering ribbons and buttons. So very wearing, especially when you have been looking at the same old things forever. I know her sort.”

“I don’t want her to be with Peter.”

“Flee with Peter?
You
will be there to see he don’t pull
that
stunt again.”

“Be
with him, Mama. I don’t want to throw them together.”

“Then take Sara along, and you can entertain Miss Harvey.”

“Sara wouldn’t go.”

“Know what?” She knew by her son’s impatient frown that she had misheard him. “Buy me a new ear horn, Rufus. I dropped my old one and stepped on it. I am tired of being a nuisance. I cannot imagine why everyone mumbles so.”

Even an unwelcome guest could not be abandoned to such crusty hospitality as Lady Haldiman, in her affliction, provided. Miss Harvey was invited to join the group bound for the Poplars.

Miss Harvey was not above quizzing the servants. She learned the traveling arrangements and began devising plans of her own. When it was time to leave, she was waiting in her riding habit. Her trim, lithesome figure showed to good advantage in the tailored habit, and the natty bonnet tilted over one eye lent her an air of elegance.

“I have fallen so in love with that mount you loaned me that I have decided to ride along with the carriage,” she told Haldiman. She was too clever to let on she knew he was riding, too. “Aren’t I horrid, to stick you with those two boys racketing around the carriage? Don’t slacken the pace on my account, Rufus. Ten miles an hour will be a mere dawdle for me.”

Haldiman was pleased with this scheme as it removed her from Peter’s company. “I was planning to ride as well, Betsy.”

“Really! That is delightful. Then we can go on ahead and enjoy a good canter.”

Miss Harvey was a bruising rider. Haldiman had no fear for his mare’s mouth and enjoyed the ride. He set a pace that prevented much conversation. What talk they had was limited to a few sensible questions on the scenery, and Haldiman’s answers.

They reached the Poplars some time before Peter and dismounted to look around. Betsy, examining the half-timbered house, soon realized it wasn’t what she would call one, two, three with the Hall. It was pretty rather than impressive, with rosebushes around the front, and good barns and buildings in the rear. “It’s not exactly the Taj Mahal, is it?” was her comment, delivered in a belittling way.

“Not so very large, but it has three hundred acres, with several tenant farms.”

“How many acres does the Hall have?”

“Three thousand.”

“It’s that business of lords leaving everything to the eldest son,” Betsy frowned. So far as the man to go with the land was concerned, her preference was for Peter. He was more handsome and livelier. “It doesn’t seem fair to me. We have nothing to do with that in Canada. We’re all equal. I have the same dowry as Fiona had, twenty-five thousand.”

“Yes. Would you like to have a look about outside or go in?”

Envisaging a tête-à-tête over the teacups, she replied, “Let us go in. I’m out of practice riding during that ocean voyage. My muscles are aching.”