Friends and Lovers (25 page)

Menrod had taken the children to Brighton in mid-April, to remain till May, From there, he would go on to London to hear the Court’s decision, then bring the children home, but the precise day of his arrival was uncertain. A subtle questioning of Lady Menrod on one of her visits told us he did not plan to linger in London at all, but was coming straight home.

As the day of the hearing drew near, I found my nerves growing irritable. I checked the red brick house on the Kennet River each Saturday to see if Mrs. Livingstone had returned. When I saw the knocker back on the door, and the shutters off on my last trip, I knew she had been sent home a few days early, to be ready to receive Menrod.

With so little to occupy my mind, I spent, say wasted, considerable time figuring the exact details of his movements. London is approximately forty miles from the Manor. I knew from Mr. Doyle the case was to be heard at ten in the morning. With no opposition, it should be over before noon. They would leave for home shortly after luncheon, to arrive close to dinnertime. He was too polite to arrive at our door at that gauche hour. He would come the next morning. They would all be tired from their exertions.

All my figuring was in vain. They arrived a day early, at three o’clock in the afternoon. The children looked well, their color improved from the sea holiday and their forms filled out somewhat. They ran forward to greet Mama and me. The length of the visit had already caused a change in them. Ralph was less backward, Gwen more subdued. My nephew rattled on excitedly about his sailing, without once mentioning he was not afraid of it, thus convincing me he had overcome his dread of the water. Gwen had ceased collecting things, and spoke instead of social triumphs.

“I met the Prince Regent,” she boasted happily. “He is very fat, but he lives in a beautiful palace, Auntie, nicer than Mr. Everett’s house.”

“Did you indeed meet the Prince Regent?” Mama asked, greatly impressed.

“Yes, and he said I was a pretty little thing,” she answered.

“What is his Pavilion like?” Mama asked them.

“It is the style to say it looks as though St. Paul’s had gone to sea and whelped,” Menrod told her, “but if so, I would claim the Taj Mahal as the sire. The dome is somewhat oriental in flavor. The arches and pillars at the east front owe something to the pavilion on the Court of Lions at the Alhambra, the whole of it covered in white icing and plastered with gilt trim by a French pastry cook. Quite abominable.”

“I loved it,” Gwen said.

“So did I,” Menrod admitted, with a boyish smile, “but it is more sophisticated to find it in poor taste. You would have enjoyed the gardens, Wendy. In the ten acres of grounds, there was hardly a thing in bloom. It quite took me back to your green lean-to. How are your old friends, the plants, progressing? I hope I find them en bonne santé?”

“Fine, the same as usual.”

“I helped Captain Jonker lift the anchor. It was very heavy,” Ralph told us. “He isn’t a real Navy captain, but I call him Captain, and he calls me Admiral.”

“We ran aground near Newhaven,” Gwen said. “It means we got stuck on the bottom of the ocean, on a sandbar.”

“Hush, now, you are only to tell the good things,” Menrod warned, in a playful way. “Your aunt might be interested to hear how you both conquered your
mal
de mer
.”

I was more interested to hear the foreign phrases dropping from his lips, indicating some lack of ease.

“We went to church every Sunday,” Gwen offered. “The weekend Uncle went to London, Miss Enberg took us. She is staying in Brighton till her brother takes her back to India.”

“Miss Enberg is the lady who looked after the children in India last year,” Menrod mentioned.

“Uncle thinks she looked like you, Auntie, but
I
don’t think she does,” Gwen said, scrutinizing my face for a similarity. “She’s younger.”

“Only the good things, if you please,” I reminded her.

“We took Miss Enberg out on our ship,” Ralph said, in a proprietary way. “She wants to get her sea legs back, before she has to go to India.”

“Everett’s men did a good job on the roof, I trust?” Menrod asked. “Did they think to clean the chimney while they were about it? That was the reason for all the catastrophe.”

“They did, and a large bird’s nest was in it,” Mama told him. “It must have been made last summer when we were not using the grate. There were no birds or eggs in it. It was last fall the chimney took to smoking so dreadfully.”

“Would you care for a cup of tea?” I asked the company.

This was greeted with enthusiasm by everyone. “I’ll step outside and look at the new thatching while it is being made, if you will excuse me a moment, ladies,” Menrod said.

I thought he might invite me to go with him, to allow a few private words, but he did not. There was some constraint in the conversation, after the month’s interval.

“So you enjoyed your visit,” Mama said, smiling tenderly on the children. “Did you have lots of sweets, Gwen?”

“We had ices on the Steyne three times. Mrs. Livingstone showed us where the stall is. She lives there.”

“Mrs. Livingstone?” Mama asked, her ears perking at the familiar name. “You never mean she was there!”

“Yes, she lives in Promenade Grove.”

“Did you go to visit her?” Mama asked, scandalized.

“No, we met her sometimes on the Steyne.”

Mama and I exchanged a meaningful look. It was not necessary, or possible, to say anything. Our minds were alike enough that we were both revolted to hear Menrod had presented his mistress to his charges. I should have pressed on to win custody of the children. This was wretched behavior on his part. I did not know what I would say, when he returned.

As we still had the young audience to consider, what I said was, “I am surprised to see you today, Menrod. Is this not the day of the hearing in Chancery?”

“No, it has been delayed a week. Gwen mentioned that I was in London last weekend. When I got news of the delay, I went to try to push it forward on schedule, but a couple of the magistrates have the flu, and all cases are put back. Rather than wait so long at Brighton, we decided to come home and wait here.”

“I didn’t want to come home,” Ralph said clearly, and received a repressive stare from his uncle.

“The children are missing their ponies,” he added.

“I love Brighton,” Gwen insisted. “It was Uncle Menrod who wanted to come home.”

His color was high, his manner flustered. I was not surprised to hear him say, “
Soyez
sages
’’ to the children. Remembering the brass knocker reinstalled on Mrs. Livingstone’s door, I wondered if she had been sent ahead before he heard of the delay of the case.

“No doubt there was a good reason your uncle wanted to return to the country, when the Season is in full swing in London. I would have thought you would prefer to wait out the week in the city.”

Mrs. Pudge came in with the tea tray, to save him from inventing some excuse. “I didn’t expect you today, my dears, or I would have had something special made up for you,” she told the children. “There’s half a dozen of my little tarts left from yesterday. Try some of them.”

The half dozen tarts disappeared rapidly. As soon as they were gone, the children decided they would go out to the swing. “Don’t forget the basket in the carriage, Uncle,” Gwen called as she left.

We looked to learn what the basket might contain. It sounded like a gift, some fruit or fowl from the Manor. We were not accustomed to such perquisites.

“I’ll get it now,” he said. “May I speak to you a moment in private first, Mrs. Harris?” he said to my mother.

My curiosity grew higher. What on earth could be in the basket, that required a private word with Mama? It was more usual for him to seek me out for any private matter, as he knew she was not at ease with him. He could surely see how she stared in consternation at his suggestion.

“I shall be in the conservatory when you are through,” I said.

The conservatory gave me a view of the walk to the stable, where the basket would have to he picked up. For five minutes I stood looking out the window, hidden by the screen of cascading ivies, but Menrod did not pass by. My mind was seething with conjecture.

In the end, I could think of nothing else but that he was going to marry Mrs. Livingstone. He was embarrassed to tell me to my face, and was telling my mother, explaining to her the details. That would be why the children had met her a few times, to see how they all went along together.

Before I saw Menrod, I spotted Gwen running up from the stable with the basket. She gave it to him, and he turned toward my conservatory, planning to enter by that door, where he knew he would find me alone. Was it a plant he had got for me?

At the next instant, Mama was at the other door, staring as though she had run mad. “Wendy, I cannot believe it. He wants to get married! What do you think of that?”

“I am not surprised. I half suspected as much,” I said, my voice loud and clear, my insides shaking.

“Mrs. Livingstone right there in Brighton, seeing him every day. And now he has brought the hussy back here. I am sure I did not say a word that made any sense. He is going to speak to you now. Say whatever you think is best, Wendy,” she told me, then fled as the door from the outside opened to permit Menrod to enter.

I was still in confusion as to what the basket had to do with it. It was a large straw affair, with a lid over it. He opened the lid, to reveal Lady and a litter of six kittens, four black, one white, and one spotted.

“Everett would approve of this one,” he said, laughing. “Six at a crack. He’d fill up his nursery in no time. So did my Tom approve of her, it seems. I doubt the termagant will. Pretty little things, aren’t they?” he asked, lifting the white kitten in his hand to admire it.

“All that caterwauling you were subjected to was worth it. How can making love be wrong, when such beauty results? A baby anything is always beautiful. A kind of miracle, really.”

“Where did you find them?” I asked, hardly listening. I was too overwhelmed at Mama’s news.

“In the hayloft at the Manor. They’re a week or so old, I think. Their eyes are all opened. The kittens are becoming frisky. Lady eloped on you, made a runaway match of it. I like to think they did it legally, over the anvil at the smitty’s shop in Reading. Why should Gretna Green get all our business?”

He was in a frivolous mood, as becomes a groom-to-be. I tried to quell down my rage, to be polite. “I’ll give the basket to Mrs. Pudge,” I offered. Her steps were heard, running toward us.

“Is it true what the kiddies told me? She’s come home?” she asked, running breathless through the door, her topknot completely tumbled to the side of her head.

“Like the human race, she has decided to increase and multiply and fill the earth,” Menrod said, handing her the basket and the one kitten he held in his hand.

She accepted the kitten, held it up till it was about a foot from her nose. “If that isn’t a caution!” she exclaimed. “The image of Lady. Where is her mama?”

She rooted in the basket for the dame, who meowed proudly at her litter. “You’re a bad girl. Yes, you are,” Mrs. Pudge said, but there was no rancor in her. She was won over by the happy family. “What is to be done—six new mouths to feed, and us with not but a quart of milk in the pantry. Pudge!” She turned to flap from the room, then came back to thank Menrod very cordially.

“Here I was afraid she would break my teeth in my mouth, strike me in the hinder parts, purge me with hyssop, and perform those other cordialities proposed against us sinners in her favorite book.” He stopped talking, looked at me closely. “What’s the matter?” he asked suddenly.

“Nothing.”

“When I left, you were ready to blossom. I even fed you with tepid tea before leaving. You ought to be in bloom by now, instead of...”

“Do I look so hagged?”

“No, you look—vulnerable,” he answered, choosing his word with care. “Not so vivacious and capable as I have been remembering you. The setting is not to blame. I most often thought of you here, watering pot in hand, chastising the greenery.”

“Menrod, about Mrs. Livingstone,” I said, cutting into his speech. It was not the sort of introduction I expected to his announcement. His manner was too intimate. There was admiration in the eyes observing me. Oh, if he was going to marry a nobody, why couldn’t it be me?

“Did that curst Gwen tell you we met her at Brighton?”

“She mentioned it.”

“She is there for the Season, with her new patron. Lord Havergal has her under his protection. We met her twice on the Steyne. It was impossible to cut her. We were too good friends for that, in the past. We chatted for five minutes—that’s all. After the second meeting, I was careful to change our hour for walking there.”

“I thought—I thought she was back here,” I said, rapidly revising my intended utterance, as I realized what misunderstanding had occurred. “The shutters are off the brick house.”

“You cannot have thought I sent her back here, at such a time! It has been rented to a doctor from Brighton, a fellow I met, who was moving to the neighborhood. He tended Ralph when he had a bout of sniffles. Nothing serious. But about Mrs. Livingstone —naturally that part of my past must bother you.”

Why should it bother me unless... I had been correct all along. He had gone to Brighton to be cured of hating me, and the cure had not taken.

"There never was a string of ladies, stabled across the country, as you accused me of having. It is your friend Everett who indulges in such excesses. I never had but one at a time, and often none.”

“For how many hours?” I asked, laughing for joy.

"
Weeks
at a time. Even months. Well you know yourself how often I ever visited Mrs. Livingstone. She was more a Platonic friend than anything else. Practically.”

“You poor deprived creature! Here I have gone twenty-five years without a single lover.”

“It’s time we did something about that,” he said, sweeping me into his arms. I had a sensation—it could only have been a memory—of the sweet aroma of the gardenia, heady and exciting, almost intoxicating in its richness, surrounding me, there in the greenhouse. It was a fleeting impression, soon lost in stronger sensations as I felt the bruising pressure of his lips, the close clutch of his arms around me, the increased beat of my heart, and his against it. It was a violent, almost a frightening first brush with love, but his words, and his eyes, were gentle when he released me.