The Savage Miss Saxon (5 page)

So if Lord Linton wanted to pass the time with idle conversation—conversation that just possibly could keep her mind off her troubles—she was more than happy to oblige him. “What is it about Harold that you wish to know, my lord?” she asked sweetly, acting as if her black-faced companion was come from a variety of species as common to England as turnips.

Nicholas smiled, reading her tongue-in-cheek response quite clearly. “For openers, I’d say an explanation of how he comes to be in your life at all might prove enough to capture my attention. After all, although I am not that familiar with your country, I do believe Philadelphia to have been fairly free of Indian attack for quite a few years now. And an Indian named Harold? Those I imagine to be as scarce as hen’s teeth most anywhere in America. You realize, of course, that m’brother’s sense of high adventure was dealt a mighty blow when first he heard Harold’s name. I am sure he had been banking on some appellation a bit more, shall we say,
exotic
.”

“Harold,” Alexandra admitted, “
is
quite singular—even in America—although I have become accustomed to him, seeing that he has been about ever since I was a child. Chas—my father, if you remember—was a particular patron of the museum Charles Wilson Peale set up in Philadelphia in, oh, about 1790 I think it was. This museum was devoted to displays of tomahawks, wampum, scalps, and other sundry Indian artifacts—all set against a suitably realistic background designed to resemble a forest. It was quite an impressive spectacle, I assure you. Chas was quite proud of his association with the scheme. Well,” she expanded, “as part of this display they had caused to be set up a miniature version of an Indian village, complete with a full-size wigwam. One day it was merely a stage setting depicting an Indian residence, and the next it was occupied by friend Harold.

“Chas said he never did figure out where Harold came from or how he discovered the museum. All they know is that one morning when they opened the museum there he was, sitting cross-legged in front of the wigwam and making himself at home. Chas and Mr. Peale saw no harm in it, and it did serve to bring a good deal of people to view the exhibits, so Harold was allowed to stay—not that I believe anyone could have budged him a jot if they wanted to.”

“That explains the man’s presence, I suppose,” the Earl returned. “I can even push my imagination enough to encourage it to expand to include a friendship developing between this Indian and your father. But,
Harold
? Really, Miss Saxon, that little bit of nonsense is carrying things just an imagining or two too far.”

“Not for Harold’s tribe,” she informed him. “The Delaware take their mother’s name as their own. Harold was the result of a liaison between a chief’s son and a settler’s daughter—a quite
willing
maiden if Harold is to he believed. Her last name was Harold—it is Norse, I think. From his father he took the name Sachema, which means king. I do hope that clears things up a bit for you?”

The Earl gave a short snort. “Madam, it does not begin to scratch the surface. For instance, why does the man paint his face black?”

Alexandra could see that his lordship would not be satisfied with anything less than a full explanation. “As I have already said, Harold is of the Delaware Nation, or at least he is half-Delaware—although I would not give you two pennies for your chances of living out the day if you dared to call him a half-breed—and a member of the Turtle Clan called simply, the Lenni Lenape. Although the tribe disappeared from the area many years ago, somehow Harold managed to stay in Philadelphia, and he holds doggedly to all the Lenape traditions.

“One of those is to paint their faces for different reasons. Red means power and success, blue is for defeat or a time of trouble, yellow announces bravery, white signifies peace, and black, as you may have deduced for yourself by now, means death. Harold truly loved Chas. Therefore he will wear this outward sign of mourning for one full year. Luckily, it is already half over.

“As to his dress—in case you were about to ask—he wears the traditional winter dress of the Lenape, fringed buckskins and a bearskin draped over his shoulders. It is rather an impressive sight, you’re probably thinking, but then you have never sat in a closed coach with Harold after he’s been caught in one of your miserable English downpours. I assure you, sir, the smell of wet skins and fur, combined with the rancid perfume of clarified bear fat with which he greases himself periodically, is not pleasant. But it is his summer attire that may set the neighborhood ladies to swooning, as it consists of moccasins, a breechclout, a few strings of wampum, and little else.”

By now they were more than halfway to Saxon Hall. “That is very interesting, Miss Saxon. And now, thanks to your father’s death, Harold, is—um—your responsibility?”

Alexandra laughed a bit at this misreading of the situation. “Gracious, no. Don’t let Harold hear you say that. It is quite the opposite—Harold has set himself up as
my
guardian. He is, I must add, quite disappointed in his charge, however, for I am nearly of legal age and still unmarried. Indian maidens, you understand, wed no later than at the age of thirteen or fourteen. Harold considers me quite the old maid.” Alexandra’s expression clouded as she was brought sharply back to the present by means of Lord Linton’s knowingly raised eyebrow. “Oh yes,” she ended lamely, “I had quite forgot that for a few moments there. Harold must be beside himself with glee, don’t you think?” Then, with a bit of returning courage she ventured, “You won’t object if he insists on giving the bride away, will you, my lord? You should see him in ceremonial dress—he really is a wonder to behold.”

So much for diversionary tactics, Mannering told himself ruefully. It had worked for a while, during which time he had learned more than he really cared to know about the estimable Harold, but now they were neatly back to square one—their coming meeting with Sir Alexander Saxon, a man whose ferocity could make Harold seem no more threatening a figure than an innocent babe in leading strings.

“Ah, yes,” he sighed now, “we come again to the subject of marriage. I refuse to enter into a discussion of the yeas or nays of the subject—I leave the convincing you of its importance to Sir Alexander, who will doubtless make his reasons for immediate nuptials between us crystal clear—but I do believe we should talk a bit about the man himself. Sort of in the way of preparation, shall we say?”

“There was no great love lost between him and Chas, if that’s what you mean to tell me,” Alexandra volunteered. “He may have been a bit close-mouthed on the subject, but Chas certainly lit no candles in front of a portrait of his sire. No, I expect no grand welcome—only a roof over my head until such time as I can make other arrangements for myself, arrangements that take me back across the ocean as governess to some traveling family or some such thing. This damp island of yours holds no great appeal for me.”

“Your oft-repeated low opinion of this country will no doubt endear you to your grandfather,” the Earl put in sarcastically. Before Alexandra could launch a rebuttal, he went on, “Sir Alexander is a firm believer in the greatness of ‘this damp island.’ Indeed, his world begins and ends with this country—the far-flung colonies of the Empire being barely tolerated by the man. As for America—that ungrateful bag of malcontents who dared to throw us over—well, your father could hardly have picked a better way to insult his father than by settling there.”

“I see. Perhaps, then, it is why Chas chose it. Is there any other subject I should avoid if I don’t wish to be shoved outside my grandfather’s door before I’ve so much as tasted his porridge?”

Now Nicholas laughed outright. “Madam, I fear we should have to travel in this carriage all the way from John O’Groats to Land’s End to give us enough time to cover all your grandfather’s dislikes, quirks, and the like. We do, however, have barely enough time for me to give you a short primer on the man. To begin with, he has refused to recognize what century we are in, holding fast to the time of masters and vassals and the like. His domicile will more than show you what I mean so I’ll leave that for a while.

“As to the man’s personal eccentricities—they are many and varied. Not unlike many Englishmen, he hates and despises anyone who has not been so fortunate as to be born an Englishman. That is not to say he loves his fellow countrymen—on the contrary, it is England he loves, not Englishmen. It’s just that he condescends to tolerate us.

“As to his personal habits, with which you would do well to become familiar if you are to spend any time at all under his roof, he much resembles many English peers in the respect that he drinks like the proverbial fish. In Sir Alexander’s case, it is gin that he favors—morning, noon, and night. Also, and it would be wise to remember this, he despises anyone who will not stand up to him, while at the same time he will tear a strip off your hide if you ever dare raise your voice in his presence. It is contradictory, I know, but nevertheless true.

“He also worships land and money. These are his gods. He won’t care a rap if you are smart as a whip or talented beyond the normal—if you have no money you are worthless.”

“It would seem then that I should not be expecting the man to fall on my neck, overcome with joy, when I arrive at his door nearly penniless,” Alexandra cut in with a bit of temper evident in her voice. “Perhaps it would be best if you just told your coachman to turn the horses about and have an easy end to all of it. I can slink away and none will be the wiser. It certainly would save your bacon for you nicely,” she pointed out.

“It’s too late for that, more’s the pity,” his lordship shot back rather nastily, “as Harold alone under my roof was enough to set the household servants buzzing around the village for a fortnight. Now that they know who you are—and let me assure you they do, as servants seem to know everything—there is no way I can dispose of you without someone thinking I have two bodies hidden under my azalea bushes.”

This last exchange served to put an end to all talk between the two, and the inside of the carriage was once more reduced to a tense silence. It is possible this would have been the case for the remainder of the journey, except that as the carriage rounded a bend in the road that brought them for a few moments into a clearing where the view was not obstructed, Alexandra, who was once again staring out the off-window, caught sight of something that caused her to blink, stare, and then blink yet again.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say I just saw a castle,” she muttered under her breath. She was not so stupid as to think there were no castles left in England. In fact, she was sure there were dozens and dozens of them spread across the island. But this castle looked different from any of the others she had seen along her drive from the docks at Falmouth. As she caught another look at the building when they passed an opening in the trees, she realized what had struck her about this particular castle—all the other castles either had been in ruins or had been altered by additions or other improvements that had brought the buildings more in line with the nineteenth century. “It looks like something straight out of the Middle Ages!” she remarked, a bit of excitement in her voice.

“I take it you have just caught sight of Saxon Hall,” Lord Linton observed matter-of-factly from his corner of the carriage.

“It’s beautiful—simply beautiful!” Alexandra breathed, her dark eyes shining. “I would not be surprised to see the drawbridge come down and a knight in shining armor ride out to meet us. Oh, Chas never told me his home was a castle. A real castle! How could he have ever brought himself to leave it?”

“I’d reserve judgment on Chas’s reasons if I were you,” Mannering broke in smoothly. “At least until you’ve had occasion to use the plumbing. It too is straight out of the Middle Ages.”

Alexandra threw him a fulminating glance and was about to make some cutting remark when a loud blast on a yard of tin made her clap her hands over her ears. “What in thunder was that?” she yelled as the sound of the horn died away.

“That bansheelike trumpeting is
de rigueur
when approaching Saxon Hall, madam. How else would Sir Alexander’s servants—I mean vassals—know to lower the drawbridge?”

Alexandra allowed the Earl’s sarcasm to flow right over her head as she was at once caught up in the romance of having her arrival at Saxon Hall heralded by trumpets—or at least one trumpet. Leaning so far out the window she had hurriedly rolled down as to give Nicholas a much appreciated view of her rounded derrière and more than three inches of exposed ankle, she watched enraptured as the massive wooden drawbridge began its slow descent across a moat filled with some very green-looking water.

Instantly, the sound made moments before by the coachman’s yard of tin was turned into a pleasant memory, as the ancient chains that held the drawbridge set up an earsplitting noise that sent shivers down her spine and made all the little hairs on her arms stand bolt-upright. She rapidly drew her head back inside the carriage, once more pressing her hands to her ears to block out all sound.

“Did I forget to mention the fact that Sir Alexander has never been known as a stickler for upkeep?” Nicholas shouted above the din.

“Oh, shut up!” Miss Saxon yelled back at him, and then she made the grand gesture of removing her hands from her ears and sitting up straight on her seat, her teeth clenched together tightly as she willed herself not to flinch even once for the remainder of the time it took to get that dratted drawbridge lowered.

Once peace had again returned to the countryside (although it was doubtful the birds would return to the vicinity any time soon), Alexandra remarked with studied calm, “A bit of judiciously applied grease should remedy that little problem. I do not for a minute believe such a small problem to make much of a statement against such a beautiful place as this.”

“Ha!” the Earl exploded. “If the drawbridge is to be considered a
small statement
, one can only wonder what you will call the remainder of Saxon Hall’s little inconveniences—
The Complete Works of Shakespeare
, perhaps?”