There was nothing in the letters to be ashamed of, precisely, yet if her aunt should hear of the correspondence and demand to see the letters she knew she would blush at every sentence. Oh, but how they lightened the tedium of the long days alone at Stonecroft! February flew past, with occasional visits from Sir Egbert to oversee his estate and bring her the news.
“Missie is never at home two minutes in a row,” he boasted. “And when she is in, the saloon is cluttered up with Sirs and lords. The Season isn’t properly begun yet either. I don’t see how the pace can get any hotter. They’re out morning, noon, and night, but Elsa says at the height of the Season there’s three and four do’s a night. They are planning Missie’s ball and the presentation at Court. I’ll be bankrupt,” he smiled. “At least the rest of my brood are boys—thank God for small mercies. How are Peter and Paul?” he asked, and was soon dashing up the stairs to see for himself.
Holly was in some little trepidation lest one of Dewar’s letters fall into her uncle’s hands, but Fate conspired to protect her. For the three days Sir Egbert was at home, no letters arrived from Dewar. This fact, while convenient, both disappointed and dismayed the would-be recipient. Had he tired of the little game? With his love of all kinds of writing, critical works and translations and essays, had he been doing no more than passing a dullish visit at Heron Hall by writing an occasional letter to her? It was impossible for her to write again, as he had not replied to her last.
The post, waited for and watched with unabated eagerness, did bring a letter the day her uncle left, but it was from Lady Proctor, not Dewar. She tore it open, waiting with interest to read of Jane’s successes. Again the name of Dewar popped out at her. He had been to call at Belgrave Square, and would return, not the next day, but the next after that. He had left Heron Hall without even telling her. For all she knew, her last letter to him sat on a salver, waiting to be seen by anyone who entered the Hall.
The casual nature of his calling at Belgrave Square, to return in a few days, showed as clear as glass that he was removed to the city for the Season, again without telling her. And why should he tell her? What on earth had it to do with Miss McCormack if Lord Dewar had decided to go to the city for the Season? Nothing in the world, but still she felt betrayed, the more so as the ‘few weeks’ that were to see him at the Abbey had passed without bringing him
The day seemed interminable after reading Aunt Elsa’s letter. A visit from Mr. Johnson did very little to hasten its passing. He gave her a box of twenty-four mugs (cheap and white) to be painted by hand with the names of local personages, in hopes that this blatant hint for purchase would be taken, and the mugs sold at the bazaar. She looked in vain at the list for any mention of Dewar, knowing it would not be there. The only amusement in the visit was that Johnson had taken the absurd notion of putting ‘Lady Proctor' and ‘Sir Egbert’ on two of the mugs. The incongruity of this elevated form on the cheap mug would not prevent a purchase, however.
“With luck, Lord Dewar may bring a few of his friends down to our bazaar,” Johnson droned on.
“I do not expect he will be here. My aunt said he was in London, and planning to remain for some time, I believe.”
“He is expected home shortly,” Johnson countered, very firmly. But, though her heart raced at the words, she could not believe his news was more recent than her own. This was soon confirmed. ‘I had a note of him telling me he had got Billie’s pony. He will be bringing it very soon. Any day now I look for him.”
The rumour that Dewar’s arrival was imminent received some reinforcement during the afternoon. Lady Dewar again popped in, come to the village "to get warmed up in your arctic breezes, for at least they ain’t smoke-laden like mine. I wish you will make Dewar get me one of those Rumford fireplaces you told him of, Holly, for my sitting room.”
Holly had difficulty keeping her lower lip up at this unexpected speech. When had Dewar discussed her with his mother? How was it so calmly said, even in jest, that
she
could make him do anything?
“You seem to possess a good deal more influence with him than I do. Or maybe it is just that you take the pains to exert your influence, for Chubbie is really obliging. Everyone tells me so. I daresay he would have got me one before now if I had insisted. I am not much good at insisting on things,” she admitted. “When you get to my age, you know, it don’t seem to matter much. But we are both glad you made him take a hand on things here in Harknell. It is nice to have the short-cut through Evans’s place—saves a few miles.”
Her other few successful endeavours, having no direct impact on the countess, were not quite clear in the dame’s mind. “So, when he comes, you must hit him up for the new fireplaces.”
“Does he plan to come for the bazaar?” Holly asked, to make her question as impersonal as possible.
“What bazaar? Lud, don’t tell me it is bazaar time already? Surely Johnson won’t be fool enough to have it till the grass is green, and a body can spend an hour outdoors without freezing to death. No, Dewar ain’t coming for the bazaar, but he is coming soon. This week, he said. I expected him before now.”
It was Friday. His arrival ‘this week’ was close enough to cause a pronounced churning inside. Lady Dewar spoke on, apparently unaware of the blanched cheeks of her listener. “I hope he brings Bernier with him. My palate got quite spoiled while he was here. The cream sauces play havoc with my digestion, but they are worth it after all. I say, ain’t you going to offer me a cup of tea, Holly?” she asked, the matter of eating coming to mind with the conversation.
Tea was served, then the countess bundled herself into her blankets and took her leave, with a cheery reminder that she would be seeing Holly very soon.
She missed her son by less than fifteen minutes. While Holly was still reviewing the singular conversation, he was announced. She stood with the paintbrush in her fingers, glaring in dismay at her apron, knowing she was a mess. He stood for a long minute at the door gazing at her, silent, not stalling, yet certainly not frowning either. His elegant greatcoat fell in rich folds from his shoulders. He reached up and removed it, tossing it on a chair without removing his eyes from her.
“Holly McCormack, you
wretch!"
he said in a polite, well-modulated voice. “You knew perfectly well I was coming, and didn’t even bother to brush your hair.” Then he tilted back his head and laughed. With his hands on his hips, he advanced towards her. “Now who was the fool who said birds of a feather roost together?”
“Oh! I didn’t know you were coming,” she said.
“I told you weeks ago. I would have written telling the exact date, but I wanted to surprise you and arrive on the day you expected my letter. I was delayed by finding, when I got to London, that Sir Egbert was not there. Like a ninnyhammer, I decided to wait and see him there, but came to my wits this morning and realized that I could meet him on the road and save a day. His wife told me he always breaks for luncheon at the Green Man in Chatham. So I have seen your uncle,” he said, approaching closer.
“What did he have to say?” she asked, with a convulsive swallow. The thought was reeling in her mind that Dewar had spoken to him about an offer of marriage. It was impossible, but the light in his eyes suggested the same thing. His mother’s spate of visits too....
“He said yes, but hoped we could see our way clear to waiting till the Season is over. I think it a damned imposition myself, but dislike to start off on the wrong foot with the in-laws, and I know
your
sense of duty is too acute to refuse him. It seems hard to me that we have
already
had to wait till Swithin’s eternity unfolded. That was a mismanaged job on your part. However, he is struck with a passion for a Miss Everley, whom he mistakes for a Grecian statue. She looks very like one, even a diffused shade of grey all over. He can convince himself of anything. He is now certain all this celibacy is no more than a selfish indulgence in the propensity to forego. Un-Greek, in short, as moderation is their guiding light. So you are freed from your vow. I have a letter telling you so that is making my jacket reek most unpleasantly of flowers.” He reached into his inner pocket and handed the violet-scented note to her.
She looked at it, using it as an excuse to keep her eyes lowered, for she hardly knew where to look.
“No need to waste time reading it now. It says—I dictated it, as his mind was not quite on the business—that he has come to realize the selfishness of his conduct, and wishes to free you from the vow. The arabesques are his own, and you have his permission,
carte blanche,
to frame or publish it, just as you wish.”
She peeped up, to see him smiling at her softly, almost shyly. All his glib chattering—it was no more than a cover-up for being a little nervous. How odd! He was actually ill at ease, rubbing his hands together in an uncharacteristic, uncertain way. She shook her head and laughed, nervous herself.
“Don’t say no!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Be impetuous for once. Let your impulses and instincts have their say. It would not be at all a bad marriage. It is not the one you envisioned, I daresay, and not the one I foresaw for myself either.”
“No, it is not at all..."
“Ah, but once you are over the element of surprise, you will see all the possibilities for good. You can keep my nose to the grindstone, and I will occasionally pull yours away from it. Moderation, Kate. It is an epicurean tenet you must learn. Don’t be all your life an ant. Join the grasshoppers and we’ll hop.... This is a demmed dull analogy. And a demmed poor job of proposing too. I thought I would do better.” He stopped, sighed, then took a breath, preparatory to launching into more persuasions.
“Are you sure it’s not just Lady Capulet’s voice...."
“Absolutely, utterly, totally, categorically convinced. I have been wrestling with it for some weeks now. If this were one of my dramatic fallings-into-love, Juliet would be the victim. It was my sort of vicarious loving of Jane
qua
Juliet that blinded me at first. I sank into the real thing without realizing it. It must be genuine, because I do not admire you for all my customary reasons. You are not—I’m sorry if I offend you, but it is an easily remedied feature—elegant. You are not very vivacious, or outrageously beautiful. You are not more than ordinarily conversable, and you are too petulant for a lady who lacks the aforementioned virtues.
Ergo,
I must love you for yourself. And to confirm all this theory, I was extremely jealous of Prendergast till I learned he was marrying someone else. Swithin I could tolerate, for I knew you would never seriously consider him.”
“As a matter of fact, I was sorely tempted to consider Heron Hall.”
“The Abbey has not its advantages to tempt you. I have not seven towers, or even one, from which to commit an heroic suicide. But if your heart is really set on leaping off something, I fancy we could get you up to the roof by means of a ladder or pulleys.”
“Oh well, I am not Sappho, after all.”
“No, you are a shrew. Kiss me, Kate!” he said, and swept her into his arms, to forget all his philosophy in an immoderate embrace that reeked more of Bacchus than Epicurus. “Look at you,” he laughed, when he released her. “Paint on your chin. Is that any way to start our life together?” He dabbed at the spot, unaware that he was by that time similarly adorned. “I had better be careful, or your dowdiness will rub off on me.”
“Oh no, Chubbie. You have withstood all the onslaughts of inelegance from your mother; you can withstand mine. Should I write to Swithin?”
“Do. He will want to dance barefoot at our wedding. You will like that, but I expect
you
to wear shoes, and very likely someone else’s well-used wedding gown. But I do not complain—so long as you wear my name, and a smile along with it, to prove I have tamed my shrew.”
She was already wearing the smile, and harbouring some un-tame ideas about their future.
To Marg and Bill Hawken
Joan Smith is a graduate of Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario, and the Ontario College of Education. She has taught French and English in high school and English in college. When she began writing, her interest in Jane Austen and Lord Byron led to her first choice of genre, the Regency, which she especially liked for its wit and humor.
She is the author of over a hundred books, including Regencies, many with a background of mystery, for Fawcett and Walker, contemporary mysteries for Berkley, historical mysteries for Fawcett and St. Martin's, romances for Silhouette, along with a few historicals and gothics. She has had books in the Doubleday Book Club and the Literary Guild, had one book condensed in a magazine, and has been on Walden's Bestseller list.
Her favorite travel destination is England, where she researches her books. Her hobbies are gardening, painting, sculpture and reading. She is married and has three children. A prolific writer, she is currently working on Regencies and various mysteries at her home in Georgetown, Ontario.
Copyright © 1982 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Coventry [ISBN 978-0449503119]
Electronically published in 2016 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.