The moonless night, p.9
The Moonless Night, page 9
“Would you be kind enough to get the ice, ma’am, before my ankle explodes?” Sanford asked in a quelling tone.
By the time she returned, there was no mention being made of calling in a real doctor or of continuing on to Plymouth. The subject of leeching, however, had arisen. “I’ll just wash off your arm and put three or four leeches on it,” Biddy was saying.
“That won’t be necessary,” Sanford said firmly.
She persisted a few times, outlining the peculiar excellence of her own leeches, but upon discovering there was a fine graze on Sanford’s wrist where he had tried to break his fall, she relented and settled for the splint and the wrist bandage.
Marie was required to hold splints straight while the cotton was wound around them, later to run for basilicum powder and a plaster for the wrist, and at length for a glass of sherry. When she brought the sherry in, Biddy reached out to take it for herself.
“I’ll make you up a posset, Lord Sanford,” she promised gaily. Doctoring was about the only thing that put Biddy in a good mood.
“No, thank you. Possets disagree with me, but a glass of that sherry...”
“You never want to take straight spirits on top of an accident! It thins the blood, and makes you giddy. You want a few drops of wine in a nice posset, curdled.”
The grimace that lengthened Sanford’s jaw showed pretty clearly that he wanted nothing of the sort, but Marie, tired as she was of running, volunteered at once to fetch the ingredients, and did so, then sat smiling while Biddy heated the milk at the little portable spirit lamp that was an integral part of her doctoring equipment. So handy for warming the linseed oil and melting pinguid.
“Really I feel fine! I wish you will not put yourself to the bother of a posset,” Sanford pleaded, trying once again to rescue himself.
“No bother,” Biddy insisted merrily, smacking her lips over the sherry. “I always make Henry take one after I leech him. It will be ready in a minute.”
“The doctor knows best,” Marie added mischievously.
“Does the doctor not think Miss Boltwood requires a posset after her trying ordeal?” Sanford asked with a threatening glance at Marie.
“I had no ordeal! I feel fine.”
Biddy spared her a quick glance. “You do look a little flushed.”
“No, no, I feel fine.”
“You’re bound to be upset, watching Sanford take such an awful tumble as he did.”
“It didn’t upset me in the least.”
“Well it should have, if you had any proper feelings. Here, there’s plenty of milk. You have some of this posset, too,” Biddy persisted.
“Doctor knows best,” Sanford repeated with a satisfied smile, lifting his glass to salute her. “À votre très bonne santé, Mam'selle,” he continued, and drank without quite gagging.
She scowled at him and took a tiny sip, wrinkling her nose in distaste, then set it aside. “I’ll get Lord Sanford a walking stick,” she announced in a moment, thinking to get away without taking her medicine.
“You drink up your posset,” Biddy commanded. “I’ll get it. Henry has an old blackthorn walking stick in the hallway.” She bustled from the room, her thoughts winging ahead to consider further therapies for her noble patient. He was within ames-ace of a purge, though he didn’t know it.
“Drink up your posset,” Sanford said in a stern voice.
She went to a potted palm and poured the drink on it, washing it in with some of the hot water to hide the traces of milk. “Hot water is very bad for plants,” he said, wishing he had waited and done the same.
“Hot posset is very bad for me.”
“Serves you right. Why didn’t you tell me it was a cockfighting barn, and save me all this bother?”
“It is a conspiracy,” she told him laughing. “I always take my beaux to Steele’s barn, to provide patients for my aunt. It is the only pleasure she has in life.”
“Then it is Mr. Benson you ought to have taken, is it not? I assume he is your beau, and certainly I am not. I observe languishing looks passing between the pair of you. You are choosing poorly, if I may be forgiven saying a word on a matter that does not concern me.”
“I don’t expect that would prevent you, as it did not seem to stop your all but inviting Madame Monet to come to Bolt Hall. But I’m afraid I cannot agree with you that Mr. Benson is undesirable.”
“Is that what has you incensed, my friendship with Monique?” he asked with a speculative look.
“Monique! Upon my word, you work fast, Lord Sanford. Already on a first-name basis after an hour’s acquaintance.”
“I get on more quickly with some ladies than others, Miss Boltwood. Are you not curious at all to hear why I consider Benson a poor match for you?”
“Not particularly.”
“I shall tell you, all the same. He is all to pieces. Was required to sell his property at Devon, not too far from Paisley Park which is how I came to hear of it. He has managed to keep it pretty close, for what purpose you may imagine.”
“No, I can’t imagine.”
“You are dangerously unimaginative. He wishes to nab an heiress while he is still considered eligible. Once the word gets out, he will not be welcome in such homes as this.”
“That’s not true! He is as rich as may be.”
“He is virtually penniless. It must be gambling, though he has not the reputation for it. A strange thing, he was required to sell out. It is usually a gentleman’s last resort, to sell his patrimony. I assume he had already disposed of all other assets. Well, a word to the wise.”
Marie was aware of a strong feeling of disappointment. She didn’t think Sanford was lying, making the story up out of whole cloth. Why should he do so? He was not personally competing with Benson for her, had no reason to invent such a story. She considered this, worried. Those few remarks Sanford had made that morning about Benson being interested in the fortune of his friends—this was what he had meant. And Benson had disliked it very much, had not questioned the remarks, or contradicted them.
There had been tentative hints from Benson that he was interested in herself—the word “competitor” had arisen with regard to Sanford. She fell to wondering if Benson were indeed trying to attach her before his position became known. It was such a low, underhanded thing to do. But she soon dismissed the idea. He was not here because of her at all. He was here as a spy, and his dangling after her was only an excuse. He had not really made up to her at all strenuously. He was only being friendly enough to give the illusion of caring for her, to fool the likes of Sanford, for example, and the illusion must be maintained, to prevent people from guessing his real reason for being here at Bolt Hall.
“Mr. Benson is connected to us, a relative of my mother. My father may accept an offer from him on my behalf despite his poor luck in losing Oakhurst.”
“Estates are not lost by poor luck, Miss Boltwood, but by poor management. Your father will not accept any offer from him once he hears of Benson’s position, and I trust you will tell him, that you not put me in the undesirable position of having to do so.”
She looked, but made no reply. For a moment she wondered if Benson were even Benson. David had said he was not, but then Sanford, a neighbor, recognized him, so of course he was really Mr. Benson.
Soon Sanford was continuing with ideas of his own, dangerously accurate ideas. “Or am I mistaken in thinking he is here because of you? Is there another reason for his presence?”
“There is no other reason, except that he wants to see Bonaparte, of course,” she answered promptly, to change the subject before he should tumble to the truth.
“He has already seen Bonaparte, and not taken much pleasure from the sight, either, to hear him speak.”
“To see all the crowds and commotion, I mean—like yourself.”
“You’ll soon be rid of him then.”
“Do you dislike him so much?”
“I dislike anyone who wishes to see Napoleon killed,” he replied, quite clearly including the present company.
She smiled in derision. “Pity, but you will be in poor shape to thwart any attempt to rescue him all the same.”
“As it is one hundred percent your fault that I am incapacitated, it is only just that you help me. We really want the same thing, for our different reasons. We both want to prevent his being taken off Billy Ruffian. I, because I think he deserves better than a life of hide-and-seek, and you, because you want him beheaded.”
“I don’t! I mean—I would be satisfied to know he is where he can do no harm. I don’t really care whether he is killed. I am not so bloodthirsty.”
“You have an odd way of showing it. No, I don’t refer to your signing Sir Henry's infamous petition, but to my poor battered self. You set me up for that fall, and if you have any right to the name of lady, you will help me. Well?”
“What do you want me to do?” she asked, though it was ninety percent curiosity speaking. She had very little intention of helping him to do anything.
“To talk your father into...” He was interrupted by the reappearance of Biddy with the walking stick.
“Not very elegant, but that little ornamental malacca stick you usually carry isn’t up to your weight, Lord Sanford. This is a sturdy one.”
He looked with grief at a very ugly, knobby stick that was two inches thick at the narrow end, four at the top, more closely resembling a tree trunk than a cane. “Thank you. That looks very serviceable,” he said, standing up to test it, hobbling around the room, and looking with sorrow at his favorite Hessians. He was cautioned not to overdo it, then soon handed over to his valet to be aided upstairs, as it was time to change for the early dinner.
Marie went to do the same, thinking as she went of poor Mr. Benson’s misfortune in losing his home, and of her own hefty dowry, really quite sufficient for two to live comfortably. As she pinned a velvet bow amidst her curls, she realized she was in the paradoxical position of being not at all disinclined to accept any offer from him if he did make one or make up to her in any serious way, but if he was clearly dangling after her in his impecunious position, he was not at all the thing.
His behavior over dinner told her exactly nothing. He was a shade more than polite, and a shade less than lover-like. Behaved, in fact, like the family connection he was, come to see Napoleon and not to court the daughter of the house, on whom he bestowed just the right amount of attention to do credit to her youth and sex without singling her out in particular. And she was disappointed with him. But then, there was really no course open to Benson that could please her.
Such a course was certainly open to Lord Sanford. He had only to leave her alone and she would have been well pleased, but he came to sit beside her as soon as the gentlemen had taken their port, taking up the other half of the sofa she had mentally assigned to Mr. Benson. David was trotting at Benson’s heels like a puppy, leading him from the rear to a private corner to draw out his book on the flag signals, to discuss with his fellow spy how useful a tool this would be to them. He assumed Mr. Benson’s ignorance on the subject was a further part of his cover, and determined to keep a secret his own mastery of the code if he ever got onto it—dashed hard.
Sanford meanwhile took up the other half of Marie’s settee, hoping to avoid Biddy. He thought he had failed when she came running to him with a pillow and footstool, but she only arranged them under his slippered foot, then went to sit beside Henry, to try to pester him into using vast political influence to get her a dozen Hungarian green leeches from Turkey. The best Hungarian leeches, oddly enough, were immigrants to Turkey.
Sanford looked at Marie with a smile of relief at Biddy’s departure. Miss Boltwood looked back with a scowl as black as pitch. “Now what have I done?” he asked. He was not accustomed to such ill usage at the hands of nubile young ladies.
“Nothing,” she answered abruptly, looking across to the other side of the grate, where David was heard to call Mr. Benson Everett. Her brother was making long strides with the spy, while she always got stuck entertaining this lantern-jawed nuisance.
“Ought I to have done something?” he inquired, in an effort to discover the reason for her latest fit of pique. “You will notice I refrained from broaching the subject of Madame Monet at dinner, taking your not so subtle hint that it was none of my business to try to get her here.”
“I suppose you will ask Papa as soon as you can get him alone.”
“No, actually I was about to ask you to do it for me when Biddy interrupted us in the morning parlor earlier. You will recall we were discussing your owing me some help due to having crippled me.”
“That is your interpretation of the matter. I cannot feel I owe you anything because you so clumsily fell off the door.”
“No dice on Madame, eh? N'importe, I have alternative plans for her. I’ll introduce my other request. About the winch and chain...”
“If you bring that subject up again, Papa will invite you to leave!”
“My godfather would take that sorely amiss,” he told her, having a sharp idea what made him tolerable to Sir Henry. “He’ll take back his inkwell. That chain really is a menace. You must see it.”
He explained again briefly his reason for thinking so, and much as she disliked having to agree with him, she was obliged to admit to herself (certainly not to him), that there was some inherent danger in it.
“I'll discuss it with Mr.—my father,” she said. But of course it was the London agent who must make this important decision. Again she looked across the grate to David and Benson, hearing fragments of a conversation in which she was longing to participate. The word Bonaparte was heard—plan—rescue—Madame Monet—all syllables to excite her greatly. And there Lord Sanford sat with his long jaw, waiting to be entertained.
She turned to him with her best smile and asked with an interest wholly feigned, “Your property on the Isle of Wight, do you usually summer there?”
“It was my uncle’s place of retirement. I have often visited it in the past. He died last year and left it to me.”
This brief answer was soon expanded by ingenious questions. Miss Boltwood sat nodding and smiling while a house of stone in the gothic manner was being described to her. “How nice,” she said, then led him on to a description of Paisley Park. He seemed not at all loth to give her a rundown on some pictures recently purchased from his Italian agent, which left her free to try to hear the other conversation in the room while she was told of bargains discovered in unlikely spots, brushwork that suggested Rembrandt, and chiaroscuro that might quite likely denote the work of Caravaggio.
“Isn’t that nice,” she said, when he came to a stop and looked at her as if he expected a comment.
“We should have preferred to find the work was authentic,” he answered, regarding her with astonishment.
“Oh! Oh, yes, indeed, so vexing to find one has been taken in,” she said with a guilty start “But then there is no telling with Rembrandt, is there? I heard somewhere that he had painted about three hundred paintings, and there are seven hundred passing for Rembrandts in England alone, so obviously many collectors must be in the same position as yourself, having works that are not authentic.”
“Very true, but it was the Caravaggio I spoke of,” he told her. He then sat back with his lips closed and regarded her steadfastly, as if he had run across an interesting portrait of doubtful authenticity. His eyes were of a very dark blue—bright, penetrating beneath those half-closed lids. They held a question. She felt too foolish to demand any further details, and after an uncomfortably long silence which he showed no interest in breaking, she forced out a statement.
“I don’t believe I’m acquainted with the work of Caravaggio,” she said.
“We have already discussed Caravaggio, ma’am. Or rather I have discoursed on him. What would you like me to talk about next? My stables? I can run on for hours uninterrupted about my horses. If I pitch my voice low enough, I think my speaking will not interfere with your listening to the more interesting conversation.”
She blushed up to her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said in a rather small voice. “I was preoccupied with something else, you see.” Her eyes darted across the grate to Benson.
“I shouldn’t lose too much sleep over missing out on Benson, if that is what has been distracting you. It can hardly be called a lasting attachment as I am given to understand this is his first visit. Your father will not allow a match, but there can be no harm in your amusing yourself with a flirtation, so long as you know he is ineligible. Like most young ladies, I expect you have your head full of nothing but beaux and balls.”
“I am not a flirt, Lord Sanford, if that is what you mean to imply.”
“I noticed. You can well use a little practice. Shall I try my charms on David and give you equal time with Mr. Benson?”
This conversation, had it been carried on in a joking way, would have surprised Marie, for her companion had no air of frivolity about him. Its being said in a perfectly serious manner threw her for a loss. She hardly knew what answer to make, but wished it to be in the nature of a setdown. “That is not at all necessary,” she replied, and knew she had not succeeded in her wish.
“You are thinking I would have only a poor chance of success, but really it is yourself who is at fault for the dull nature of my conversation till now. Conversation, like a love affair, requires the participation of two parties. I don’t usually rattle off the excellencies of my possessions unless asked specifically about them, preferably by a knowledgeable speaker. Even then I can be diverted by a strong enough show of indifference. It would have been easier on us both had you told me your wish. I’m curious myself to hear what Benson is up to. He don’t seem to have romance on his mind. Not reading your signals at all.”
He proceeded to turn his shoulder on her and sit listening quite shamelessly to the other two, even cupping his hand behind his ear to aid hearing. Bereft of a partner, Marie, too, looked to her brother, and was soon straining her ears to overhear what he said. The talk had taken a turn towards cockfighting. It was redwings and duckwings and Welsh mains that were being discussed.
