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“Of course you wouldn’t,” she replied. “You are the very last person who would understand about keeping one’s sacred promises.”
He raised a silver brow. “A hit. A palpable hit,” he said, his tone amused. “I was waiting for that, and I’m so glad you didn’t disappoint.” He turned to Reginald with an appraising gaze. “You must have the patience of Job, good sir. I salute you.” He raised a glass of whisky in Reginald’s direction.
“I play a good bit of golf,” my stepfather told him. “It teaches patience like nothing else.”
Mother opened her mouth, no doubt to blast Father again, but she suddenly seemed to catch sight of Sebastian. “Who are you? I recognise you. You were at the church today. Do you mean to say—” She broke off, her expression one of mounting horror. “Oh, my dear God. I cannot believe it. Not even you, Penelope, would be heartless enough to elope on your wedding day with another man.”
Sebastian opened his mouth, but before he could get out a word, Gerald stepped up and clipped him under the chin with one good punch, snapping his head back smartly. Sebastian kept his feet for a moment, then his eyes rolled back into his head and he slid slowly to the floor.
Gerald stood over him, shaking out his hand while Father called for George to bring cold cloths, and the children, hearing the uproar, dashed in from outside. As they crowded into the sitting room, Reginald attempted to calm Mother as she hysterically berated me while I stared in horror at Sebastian’s closed eyes.
Father threw up his hands. “It seems we must surrender to pandemonium,” he said to no one.
George brought the cloths as I shoved Gerald out of the way to kneel over Sebastian. Father guided Gerald to the fire and gave him a glass of whisky while I held a cold, wet cloth to Sebastian’s jaw. His eyes fluttered open, wide and very dark. I leaned over him, one hand on his chest, and he reached up to clasp my hand as my face hovered inches from his.
“Can you hear me?” I pleaded. “Are you all right?”
His mouth curved into a smile.
“Lovely,” he murmured. “Just a bit closer.”
I gasped. “You fraud!” I muttered just loudly enough for him to hear. “He didn’t knock you out at all.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes. “No, but I wasn’t about to give him the chance to try again. This way he keeps his pride, and I don’t make a mess of your father’s sitting room carpet by shedding Madderley blood all over it.”
I pushed off his chest, sitting upright and handing him the cloth. “You can hold your own compress,” I told him tartly. I didn’t even bother to explain to him that Gerald had been the boxing champion of his year at Harrow. There was something rather endearing about Sebastian’s faith that he could trounce Gerald, and I had learned enough about men to let him keep his illusions, although I had to admit the chest under my palm had been very firmly muscled.
A quarter of an hour later, order had been restored. Sebastian was sitting upright in one of the chairs, nursing a large whisky and making a show of holding a cold compress to his jaw. Mother had ordered the younger children to return to the motorcar, which they did under violent protest, and Father had opened a bottle of his best single malt to share with Reginald—a sort of reward for the job he had done soothing Mother’s hysteria. Masterman the maid simply stood out of the fray, her expression inscrutable as a Buddha as she watched the chaos unfold.
I sipped at my own whisky as Mother regarded me coldly.
“I do not approve of young ladies drinking spirits,” she said.
“Considering the circumstances, it’s a wonder she isn’t sniffing cocaine,” Father put in. He poured another measure for an appreciative Reginald and settled himself back into his chair.
“Now, I think we can all agree that physical violence is not called for under the circumstances and that we ought to discuss matters like adults,” Father began with a dark look to where Gerald sat nursing his sore knuckles in the corner. Gerald flushed but said nothing.
“Too bloody late for that,” Sebastian muttered.
“Yes, well,” Father said, trailing off with a vague smile. “Now, I think it is quite clear that Poppy did not in fact elope with Mr. Cantrip. He obviously thought he was carrying out some act of chivalry, for which his only payment has been a rather lucky blow from Mr. Madderley.”
Sebastian glowered at Gerald, who studied the carpet with rapt fascination.
Father went on. “Now, there are many things to be settled, but the first is one of the law. Mr. Cantrip, you are entitled to bring charges against Mr. Madderley for the assault to which we have all been witness. Do you wish me to send for the police so that you may do so?”
There were shocked gasps from around the room, but Gerald lifted his chin, ready to do his duty manfully.
All eyes were fixed on Sebastian. “God, no,” he moaned.
“Very well,” Father said, his expression one of grudging admiration. “Now, Poppy, your former fiancé has travelled down here, clearly with an eye to carrying you back to London and into the bonds of holy wedlock. Do you wish to go with him?”
“God, no,” I said, echoing Sebastian as I dropped my head into my hands.
“Very well. Mr. Madderley, you are excused.”
Gerald bolted to his feet. “Now, see here—”
“No,” Father said pleasantly. “I don’t have to see anything. What you must see is that you have intruded upon the peace and tranquility of my house by bringing violence into it. The young man you assaulted is good enough to overlook your bullying, and my daughter wishes to have nothing to do with you. Therefore, you have no further business here. Go away. And next time, choose a girl who actually loves you. My daughter clearly does not.”
I raised my head to watch as Gerald opened his mouth a few times, but no words came. He turned wordlessly on his heel and left.
Father gave me an appraising look. “If that’s the sort of man you chose of your own free will, your mother has done a far more tragic job of bringing you up than I would have credited.”
“Oh, that is like you, Eglamour,” Mother began.
Father lifted an elegant hand. “I’m sure you did your best, Araminta. But it is quite clear that you’ve raised a daughter who has absolutely no idea how to speak to you, otherwise she would have told you ages ago she had doubts about this wedding.”
Mother’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know she had doubts about this wedding?”
Father’s look to me was kindly. “Because she went to the trouble to find out my address some weeks back. I’m sorry, child, but your Aunt Portia has never been particularly good at keeping secrets. She told me you asked for my address, and I hoped you would come to me if you needed me.”
“Thank you, Father,” I said, almost inaudibly.
“Now, I know you want to abuse her further, Araminta, and I won’t say she hasn’t acted quite badly. I’m sure you, Mr. Hammond, are out quite a few of your American dollars on this wedding that almost was,” Father said.
Reginald looked uncomfortable as he always did where money was concerned. “Well, if it made her happy,” he said, trailing off.
“Yes, well, I think we can all agree it did not make her happy. In fact, I daresay the child doesn’t know what will. But she needs rest and time to discover that.”
Mother gathered up her resolve and opened her mouth, but Father lifted his hand again.
“No, Minty. I will give you full credit for raising a lovely girl. She’s audacious and brave and passably clever, I’d say, and, like all Americans, beautifully groomed. But she’s also limp with exhaustion, and a scene with you is the last thing she needs. Leave her here with me. For one month. At the end of that time, I will deliver her to London myself to face the consequences of her actions.”
The fight seemed suddenly to go out of Mother and I stared, rapt. I had never known anyone, not even Reginald, to handle her so deftly. I could see him paying close attention—I only hoped he was taking notes. Mother sniffled a little, capitulating under Father’s masterful handling. “I don’t know what to do with her, Plum. I never did. She’s exhausting, always asking questions and never satisfied just to be. There’s always something new she wants to do, some new scheme to try. Cookery classes and psychology courses and driving lessons, and none of them ever finished. It’s one mad idea after another and so much...she’s just so...so March.”
Father smiled thinly. “Blood will out, dear Minty. Now, go back to London with your appallingly healthy and boisterous brood of Americans and let me sort this out. Perhaps you could send down some clothes for her if you think about it. She can’t totter about like Miss Havisham in her wedding finery.”
Mother rose. “Naturally, I’ve already thought of that. Her trousseau trunk is in the car.” She turned to my maid. “Masterman, we cannot expect you to continue in service with Miss Hammond after today’s debacle. We will naturally give you an excellent reference, a month’s wages, and a ride back to London. It was good of you to come this far.”
Masterman stirred. “On the contrary, madam, I should like to remain with Miss Hammond.”
Mother blinked. “Whatever for?”
Masterman’s expression did not change, but I had the strangest feeling Mother might have more easily shifted the Pyramids than moved Masterman from her decision. “Because it suits me, madam,” she replied quietly.
Mother shrugged. “Very well, but do not be surprised if you find you can’t stick it after all. Miss Hammond can be extremely trying to one’s nerves.” Mother turned and gave me a long look. “One month, Penelope. You have one month to figure out what it is that you want. This is the last time I will clear up a mess you’ve left behind.”
She turned on her heel and swept from the room. Reginald stepped forward, putting a kindly hand on my shoulder as I stared after her in dismay.
“Don’t fret, honey. I’ll settle her down. You just rest and don’t worry about anything. And I’ll put some money into your account,” he added softly. Dear Reginald, always solving everyone’s problems by throwing cash at them.
I summoned a smile and rose on tiptoe to press a kiss to his smoothly shaven cheek. “You really are a very nice man, Reginald.”
He ducked his head and shook hands with Father before following Mother out the door. Father sat back in his chair with an air of satisfaction.
“That man ought to be sainted,” he mused. “For miraculous fortitude.”
“Mother isn’t so bad,” I began automatically.
“She’s a nightmare,” Sebastian observed in a dry voice.
“Dear God, I almost forgot you were still here,” Father said, perking up. “It’s grown late. I suppose we shall have to offer you a place to sleep tonight. George can show you over to the inn. They’ve always a room in reserve for one of my guests, and they’ll be happy to accommodate you. As for you—Masterman, was it? There is an extra bed in the guest room upstairs. Help your mistress, there’s a good girl. I think Poppy is half-asleep on her feet.”
I started to protest that I could very easily make my own way upstairs, but Masterman had taken charge of the situation. I didn’t know if she was more put out at having to share a room or Father calling her a girl, but she pushed me firmly up the stairs and put me to bed with ruthless efficiency. I gave myself up to it, letting her bully me a little since it suited us both. She turned out the light and undressed swiftly, settling herself into the narrow extra bed.
“You didn’t have to stay on,” I told her sulkily. There had been a certain guilty glee in ridding myself of Gerald, but it was a little blunted with Masterman still there to make certain I didn’t do anything interesting.
“Yes, I did,” she said, her voice almost fierce in the darkness.
“But why?”
“My reasons belong to me, miss. Now go to sleep or you’ll look a fright in the morning,” she said.
So I did.
Three (#ulink_6aa9d853-15c9-553e-840b-c40956da8462)
The next morning Masterman busied herself unpacking my trunk while I found Father at breakfast. I murmured a greeting and slid into a chair, smiling widely at a glowering George who banged a pot of tea on the table in front of me and trudged off for a fresh rack of toast.
“Poor soul,” I said quietly. “I imagine he was in the war. Is it shell shock?”
Father lowered his newspaper and gave me a thoughtful look. “You mean his foul moods? No, no. George is a flat-footed Quaker, entirely unsuited to the soldiering life. He’s just churlish. But he is an excellent cook and I’ve never had whiter linen,” he finished. He went on looking at me intently.
“I behaved very badly, didn’t I? It all seemed so remote yesterday, as though it were happening to a stranger, but today...” I trailed off.
“Today it is news,” Father said, passing the newspaper.
There it was, in black and white for all to see. Viscount’s Heir Jilted By American Society Girl. I shook my head. “How awful it sounds. And I’m not really American,” I protested.
Father smiled. “Thank God for small mercies. At least you sound like one of us. It’s been quite a few years since I’ve seen you. You have a look of the Marches about you. Puts me quite in mind of your Aunt Julia when she was your age, although your hair is fairer.”
“If it weren’t for my aunts, I wouldn’t be in this frightful mess,” I said darkly.
Father raised his brows inquiringly, and before I knew quite what I was saying, the entire story tumbled out, starting with Aunt Portia’s gift of Married Love. I paused only while George brought in the toast, but as soon as he returned to the kitchen, I carried on.
“And that’s it, minus the gruesome details,” I added. I alluded to a fundamental incompatibility with Gerald, but there had been no actual mention of sex-tides. Some things a girl cannot share with even the most liberal of fathers. I gave him a smile. “You’ve been truly marvellous, and I know it can’t have been easy, not with Mother descending like all the plagues of Egypt yesterday.”
Father smiled again. “I can cope with Araminta. And I must say, I’m very glad you felt you could come to me. I know I’m little more than a stranger to you really.”
“But you aren’t,” I protested. “I had your letters. At least Mother let us correspond. And I always think letters are terribly intimate, don’t you? I mean, you can tell the page things you can’t ever say to a person’s face.”
“Heart’s blood in place of ink?” he asked, his eyes bright.
“Precisely. Although I seem to be doing a rather good job of telling you what I’m thinking now. I probably shouldn’t have told you any of it, but it seems that once I told it all to Mr. Cantrip yesterday, I can’t stop talking about it. Very freeing, I find.” I plucked a fresh piece of toast from the rack and buttered it liberally. “Of course, now I have to decide what to do with myself.”
“Surely that won’t be difficult.”
“Not for a person like you,” I said, nodding to the exquisite framed landscapes on the walls. “You’ve always had your painting. I’m simply hopeless. I was expensively educated to be decorative and charming and precious little else. Mother was right, you know. I never stick with anything because I don’t seem to be good at anything.”
“What have you tried?”
I shrugged. “All the usual nonsense they make you do at school, at least at schools for young ladies. Flower arranging, painting, music.”
“And none of those suit you?”
“My flower arrangements look like compost heaps, my paintings all look like bogs, and as for music, I have the keenest appreciation for it and no ability whatsoever to understand it. I think it’s because of the maths.”
“Maths?”
“Music is all mathematical, at least that’s what our music master told us. And I was frightful at maths, as well.”
“Rather a good thing your Uncle Lysander isn’t alive to hear you say it. He was a gifted composer, you know. You would have crushed him thoroughly.”
I gave him a sympathetic look. “I know I wrote at the time, but I really am quite sorry. I should have liked to have known him. Perhaps I can meet Aunt Violante and the children whilst I’m here.”
Father stared into the depths of his teacup as if looking for answers. He said nothing, and I moved on, my tone deliberately bright. “In any event, I’m hopeless at all the usual female things. All I seem to be good at is poking around into people’s lives. Headmistress used to say I could take a First in Gossip if it were on offer at Oxford.”
A ghost of a smile touched Father’s lips. “Your Aunt Julia is precisely the same. I sometimes wonder if Mr. Kipling met her somewhere and used her as the basis for his inquisitive mongoose. ‘Go and find out’ will be etched on her gravestone. But she has ended up doing well enough for herself.”
I rolled my eyes. “I should say. It is rather grand having a duchess in the family since I threw away my chance at being a peeress.”
“Believe me, child, being a duchess is the least of her accomplishments, and it was entirely unexpected. If it weren’t for peculiar Scottish peerage laws and half a dozen young men getting blown up in the war, her husband would never have succeeded to the dukedom. No, I wasn’t thinking of her rank, child. I was thinking of her work. She struggled with many of the same feelings you have. She found purpose in joining her husband’s work. I know it’s practically revolutionary to suggest it, but I don’t think idleness is good for young people—particularly not young people with money. It grinds away at the character until there’s nothing left.”
I tipped my head, thoughtful. “You think I ought to take a job? Like something in a shop?”
He smiled again. “I doubt a shopkeeper would want you if you’re hopeless at maths. I was thinking of something that excited you, stirred your sense of adventure. You need to be challenged, child. You need to see something of the world, and from some vantage point other than your stepfather’s yacht. Oh, I’ve seen the society columns,” he went on. “I know what it means to be the stepdaughter of a man like Reginald Hammond. You think you’ve seen the world because you’ve been to New York and Paris and Biarritz, but what have you really seen other than a pack of useless people exactly the same as the ones you left behind? Same old faces, same old places,” he pronounced.
I nodded. “You’re right, of course. There are times I want to simply scream with boredom. But I wouldn’t even know where to start to look for something useful to do.” My glance fell to the newspaper, and I grinned as I pointed to an article. “How about this? Apparently the famous aviatrix Evangeline Starke has disappeared in the Syrian desert. Perhaps I should give flying lessons a bash,” I added.
Father lifted an elegant brow. “I was thinking of something a trifle less life-threatening.”
I was about to suggest rally-car driving when George appeared in the doorway. “It’s that Mr. Cantrip,” he said darkly.
Father smoothed his turquoise waistcoat. “Very well. Send him through, George.”
I was still immersed in the article about Evangeline Merryweather Starke when Sebastian entered and Father greeted him coolly.
“Good morning, Mr. Cantrip. I trust you had a good night’s sleep at the inn?”
