The Hermit's Daughter Page 3
Sally gave a snide grimace. “What had he to say
to that?”
“The man is unconscionable. He said the likes of us had best keep our feathers plumed, for it is all we have to offer. I swear, Sal, I think he meant— something—not quite nice.”
Sally’s mouth fell open in shock. A cold anger gripped her, rendering her speechless.
“I hate him! I hate him!” Melanie declared, raising her tear-streaked face from her lap. She had never been heard to express hatred for a soul in her life before. Even a convicted murderer was allowed to have been under great strain, and the French couldn’t help being Frenchmen.
Seeing that some order must be brought from the chaos around them, Sally said, “This is getting us nowhere. He has forbidden the match, but we had foreseen that possibility. It does not mean no match will take place. Derwent has already suggested living on our money for the two years till he comes into his own.”
Mrs. Hermitage peered hopefully at her elder daughter. “You said it wouldn’t do,” she reminded her.
“That was before I met Monstuart. What better can he expect from lightskirts? I begin to think the threat of it will do very well—for a lever to force him into accepting the match.”
“He’ll never accept anything,” Mrs. Hermitage predicted gloomily.
“Will he not? He may hold the cheese, but the knife is in Derwent’s hands. When he comes back...”
“He didn’t say he’d come back,” Melanie said, and fell into a fresh bout of tears at his lapse. Derwent always said he would come back.
“I don’t suppose he means to leave the neighborhood without saying good-bye to us,” Sally pointed out. Her eyes narrowed to green slits, and her nostrils quivered dangerously. Watching her, Mrs. Hermitage felt a shiver up her spine. Sal had hardly a feature in common with her father, but in this mood, she bore such an uncanny resemblance that Mrs. Hermitage was strongly of a mind to let Sal take the reins.
“When he comes, we shall trip the spring in our velvet trap. You must plume yourself well, sister,” Sally said in a voice of silken menace.
“Monstuart won’t let him come,” Melanie hiccoughed. “He had the coldest eyes, like an iceberg.”
A sinking sensation came over Sally. Melanie was a simpleton, but she was right about this. Derwent had risen like a puppet on a string at a command from his guardian. It was incomprehensible to her that a man of independent means should be so subservient. The matter was discussed for a long time, but all depended on Derwent’s coming, and in the end there was nothing to do but wait and see if he came.
* * * *
To do Lord Derwent justice, he intended not only to return but to proceed with the match in the teeth of his uncle’s strenuous objections. He knew he was slipping deep into sin to set up his back against Monstuart, who had directed his life for fifteen years as a substitute father, but he intended to do it all the same.
Though he had been in love numberless times, he had never been so deeply, hopelessly, irrevocably in love as now. The string of blondes who had preceded Mellie were but weak imitations of her. She was the apotheosis of his dream. The sweetest, blondest, most adorable girl in the world. He hadn’t a doubt he would die if deprived of her. Nothing of this was said to his uncle, however. Derwent’s courage was not so great that he intended a direct confrontation. He would slip away as soon as he could escape from Monstuart, and marry behind his back.
When Lord Monstuart returned to the Colchesters, he was in a foul mood. He gave his hostess a hint that she had been negligent to have let Derwent fall into the clutches of a fortune-hunting bunch of harpies. His cousin stared at him in shocked disbelief.
“The Hermitages are unexceptionable, Monstuart,” she said at once.
“No, ma’am, they only appear unexceptionable, and hardly that, with the late Mr. Hermitage a mere solicitor.”
“Oh, but not just any solicitor. He was the Hermit.”
Monstuart, usually a highly composed gentleman, gave a start of alarm and exclaimed, “What?” in a loud voice.
“He was the Hermit. You must have heard of him—he was famous.”
“Certainly I knew the Hermit, but he was as rich as may be. His widow and family would not be living off their capital in some provincial backwater.”
Mrs. Colchester stiffened at this slur on her chosen neighborhood. “Some of us like it here,” she informed him.
“You said these people come from Bath.”
“They were at Bath for a while, and Brighton, too, before settling here.”
“I thought I had heard the family moved to Bath. They ought to be wealthy.”
“I made sure they were. Everything is of the first style of elegance. You never mean their pockets are to let!” she inquired with avid curiosity and not a little satisfaction. Mrs. Hermitage’s exquisite toilette had plagued her for many months.
“Not completely broke,” Monstuart admitted, “but in tighter straits than the Hermit’s family ought to be. They are related to any number of good families that should ... Oh, lord!” Monstuart realized that his quick temper had led him into a highly disagreeable situation, antagonizing so many worthies. He was often called upon to rescue Derwent from such persons as he imagined the Hermitages to be, and wasted no ceremony in the doing of it. Perhaps his reaction on this occasion had been a little more ferocious than usual.
In some danger from the feline lady himself, he had intended making the rupture totally irreparable, to forestall any unseemly alliance on his own part. Demands as to why he had not been informed of the family’s background were futile. He hadn’t, and he had acted unconscionably as a result. He still didn’t consider the match with Miss Melanie a good one by any manner of means, but the extrication must be more seemly than he had made it.
He must go back and try to smooth the many ruffled feathers he had raised in that velvet roost. He wished to keep Derwent away from them, however, and so gave no indication of his plan. He took the boy out in the country that afternoon to try to talk some sense into him. The silence that greeted his every word was not the silent acquiescence usually encountered. There was a sullen set about Derwent’s lips that promised trouble. And really he couldn’t do a demmed thing about it but give him a good Bear Garden jaw, which he did.
The boy did not openly oppose him, so the objections to the match were only raised, condemned as intolerable, and then the talk turned to what Monstuart considered more cheerful subjects, such as Lady Mary DeBeirs. “We’ll stay here a day or two with the Colchesters, then take a run up to Chêne Baie,” He said bracingly. Chêne Baie was the abode of the DeBeirses. There was Norman blood in the family, and French names aplenty. Unfortunately there wasn’t an iota of beauty or charm in a cartload of them. Derwent sat sulky and silent throughout the trip.
In the evening, Monstuart excused himself on the pretext of visiting other relatives in the neighborhood. Derwent saw an excellent chance to nip back to Mellie and assure her he had not been discouraged from marrying her. He felt quite manly at his prospective future, flying in the face of Monty’s authority, taking on the care of a penniless wife and her family.
To fool Derwent, Monstuart turned his team west upon leaving the Colchesters, planning to approach the Hermitage residence circuitously. Deceived, for he never suspected a trick, Derwent set out by the more direct route as soon as his uncle was down the road, and got there before him.
Chapter Three
There was considerable elevation in the spirits of the Hermitage ladies when Lord Derwent was shown into their Rose Saloon that evening. Hopes had not been high that he would dare to oppose his imperious uncle. The four were in the sort of mood generated by a successful bucking of authority, made merrier by the element of romance that pervaded the room, Derwent stated firmly that he would take care of them all, “absolutely,” and Mrs. Hermitage said as firmly that she would help. With fifteen thousand pounds to tide them over till Derwent’s fifteen thousand a year became his, the situation di
d not appear at all desperate.
There perhaps lingered at the back of their minds the dread that Lord Monstuart might have something to say in the matter, but such an unpleasant contingency was not spoken of. The talk was all of a remove to Gravenhurst, Derwent’s estate in Dorchester, at his disposal in spite of his uncle.
Sally heard it and frowned. “I thought you planned to go to London!” she exclaimed. That had always been the plan before Monstuart’s arrival.
“Monty will be there,” Derwent said.
Sally stared at his cowardice. It angered her that Monstuart should have anything to say in leading their lives. “What of it? Are you afraid of him? You must present Melanie to society, Derwent. Why, it would look as though you were ashamed of her if you whisked her off to Gravenhurst.” Melanie, who did not share her sister’s love of high society, looked an accusing question at her hero.
“You’re right, Sally, absolutely,” Derwent said at once. “We shall go to London for the Season first.” Really, the boy was criminally easy to lead.
* * * *
With such interesting goings-on to distract them, the ladies didn’t hear the front knocker. When Lord Monstuart was shown into the Rose Saloon, he was faced with the highly unpleasant sight of his cocker of a nephew being fawned upon by three laughing ladies, making him feel, no doubt, like a monarch. Monstuart assumed this was the way they had beguiled the boy, by dancing attendance on him, feeding him wine and compliments. His brow lowered, his nostrils quivered, and an angry liverish hue suffused his face. It was thus that he appeared to the four when his presence was noted. A pall of silence immediately fell over the noisy room, as if the schoolmaster had come into the class and caught his students out in some ribaldry.
“Uncle!” Derwent exclaimed, jumping to his feet with a guilty start.
“Ladies, Derwent,” Monstuart said in a thin voice as he nodded his head and stepped in. His impulse was to take his nephew by the scruff of the neck and drag him by main force from the room and the neighborhood, but he quickly squashed the impulse.
“You said you were going to call on the Gibbards!” Derwent said. His pink face told them all that he had sneaked off behind his uncle’s back, and he had been bragging about how he had not knuckled under to Monstuart.
“They were not at home,” Monstuart replied in glacial accents.
“What in the deuce made you come here?” Derwent asked.
Sally, sizing up the situation, rose and in three smooth strides was at Monstuart’s side, a brilliant glitter in her eyes, and on her lips a small smile of triumph. She curtsied and said primly, “We are honored that we should be second choice for your visit, milord. Do come in. You will think us uncivil, but you must not think we are unhappy to see Derwent’s uncle. Pray, be seated.”
“Thank you,” he replied, and followed her to a chair at the edge of the erstwhile happy group, throwing a measured look to his nephew. Derwent flinched visibly and fell silent.
The new arrival was punctiliously offered a glass of wine and a biscuit by Miss Hermitage. He accepted both with a coolly polite “thank you.” After this effort at civility, an appalling silence fell over the group.
Monstuart, after finishing his biscuit, broke the silence. “You didn’t mention you were coming here this evening, Derwent. I am happy you’re here, however. No doubt you have come, like me, to take your leave of the ladies.”
Derwent looked to Melanie and smiled a smile as reassuring as he dared to make under his uncle’s awful stare. He answered not a word.
It was Miss Hermitage who was pushed into speech by an appealing glance from her allies. “It is not Lord Derwent’s intention to leave us quite so soon, milord. We have some considerable matters to discuss.”
“Indeed?” Monstuart had come to conciliate and was not to be goaded to more savagery by this taunting beauty. He turned deliberately to Mrs. Hermitage. “I was not aware, when we spoke this morning, ma’am, that your late husband was the Hermit, if I may use his nickname.”
“Certainly you may. Everyone called him that,” the widow said, happy to see no immediate ruffling of the waters. “Because of the name, you know, and not because of any unsocial qualities. Quite the contrary, Herbie was very sociable. We used to know everyone in London.”
“You must miss the pleasures of the city.”
“We did at first, but we are settling down to country life. Well, town life, which seems like the deep country to us.”
“Pity.” But if, as he assumed, this retirement was for the purpose of saving money, it must be inefficacious. Everywhere around him, in both decor and dress, there were signs of lavish spending. The family were either fools or schemers; he set himself to the task of discovering which.
“You have managed to create quite an urban nook here in the country,” Monstuart said, glancing at the painted walls, the fine pictures and velvet draperies.
“It wasn’t easy—or cheap,” Mrs. Hermitage replied. “The walls were a hideous mustard color when we hired the places. Made us all look bran-faced.”
His dark eyes flickered over the ladies’ glowing complexions and he replied, “That must have taken some doing.”
“I daresay the dirty windows helped. We have fixed the place up a little, for we were not accustomed to living in squalor. It was very dear,” she repined while her elder daughter shot her a quelling frown.
Sally saw that her mother was about to enter on one of her diatribes on the dearness of everything. This had been one of her pet themes since Papa’s death. She sincerely wished her mother had gone on to tell her just how ill they could afford all the dear acquisitions.
“Everything is expensive nowadays,” he said leadingly.
“Expensive? It’s shocking! Why, to have that very chair you are sitting in covered cost me five guineas, and Melanie worked the embroidered covering with her own fingers.”
“Melanie is an excellent needlewoman,” Derwent tossed in, happy for any detail that enhanced her value.
Monstuart’s unenthusiastic “Very nice” could hardly be construed as a compliment, especially as his body covered her handiwork completely and he made no motion of rising to admire it.
The group chatted on for a while, long enough for the marquess to ascertain that the mother was a fool. He acquitted her of conniving to entrap Derwent, but not of being a ninny, and certainly not of promising to be a very poor connection for his nephew. Already he had observed that it was Miss Hermitage who was looked to for guidance by the group. Her character was still to be determined.
At length, Mrs. Hermitage took up her embroidery and settled down to work. Her eyes roamed often to Derwent and Mellie in the corner. “I need a better light,” she said, and moved to a chair closer to the lovers, who whispered uneasily between themselves, with many a cautious look toward the enemy interloper.
Monstuart turned his conversation to Miss Hermitage. She regarded him with a smug little smile of satisfaction that he was eager to remove from her face. “And are you quite happy to be away from London, ma’am?” he asked politely.
“The peace and quiet of Ashford just suit me.”
“You, too, are an excellent needlewoman, I trust?” He glanced at her idle fingers as he spoke.
“No, I read a good deal, and I enjoy riding.”
“Another shockingly expensive pastime.”
“Its expense need not concern you.”
“The expenses of the whole family concern me, when it is your intention to dump them in Derwent’s lap.”
A mischievous smile lurked at the corner of Sally’s lips. “You are conceding defeat so soon?” she taunted him.
“The word intention does not necessarily denote execution, Miss Hermitage. I was merely commenting on your style of life.” Monstuart hastened to change the topic when he saw he was slipping into bad manners. It was his hope to indicate that he was still very much against the match, without repeating his former insults. “I think you were unwise to leave London,” he said.
“Slim pickings. I seem to recall the Hermit was said to possess the next Season’s Incomparable, at the time of his death. You would have done better to remain in London, when you were at a marriageable age,” he added. No emphasis stressed the word “marriageable,” but the past tense revealed his subtle meaning. “You planned to return when your sister married, no doubt?”
It was the age insult that lent a quick flash of anger to her eyes, but it was the innuendo that she spoke of. “We didn’t plan to live with Derwent! Of course, as things stand now, that may be necessary.”
“As things stand now that I am here, it is unlikely in the extreme,” he countered.
Sally’s eyes lifted to observe him from beneath her long lashes. “If you refuse to forward him any of his own money, he must batten himself on us till he reaches his maturity,” she retaliated, stressing repetition of his own ill-chosen words.
Monstuart swallowed it in silence, but his temper was rising. “I find it strange you did not choose to live with relatives, as money is so severe a problem with you.”
“There is no accounting for taste,” she answered demurely.
His eyes roved around the richly appointed saloon. “There is no taste for accounting in this household,” he retorted.
A little laugh escaped from Miss Hermitage, and he smiled involuntarily in response. “Touché, milord. I did not look for wit in Derwent’s guardian.”
“So I gather. You judge me by the one specimen of my family to which you have been exposed. Derwent is my sister’s son, and the female line of my family, like most,” he added with a challenging glance, “is not bright.”
Sally felt her blood rise to the challenge. “I am said to favor Papa. He was not considered a dull gentleman.”
Monstuart had already begun to confirm who was the brains in the family. “There is some resemblance,” he admitted.
“Did you know him?” she asked, startled. “I don’t recall seeing you about the house.”