Somerville Farce (21 page)

“No, no, no,” Salty hastened to explain,
“Mama admires good works most excessively, and when Miss
Stourbridge sent a note round this morning, tucked in with
Eugenie’s, hinting that Eugenie shares many of Mama’s concerns for
the wretched poor, and after I ran to Mama and told her the same
things, Mama immediately decided to take Eugenie up with her on her
rounds, to test her, I suppose, although there won’t be any problem
there, as Eugenie is always lamenting the sad fate of the
downtrodden, and all that drivel.

“This afternoon they’re visiting a home for
pregnant prostitutes who have come to see the error of their ways.
Isn’t that just the grandest thing you’ve ever heard? And to
think—just yesterday Mama told me she loathed Eugenie and
threatened to cut me off without a shilling if I mentioned her name
at table again—not that she really would, because I’m her only
child, you know, and she fairly dotes on me.”

“Yes, indeed. How, um, gratifying—all of
what you said,” Harry murmured softly. Eugenie and Mrs. Saltaire
were actually going to visit a household of light-o’-loves? A
young, unmarried, innocent girl? She’d probably faint dead away on
the doorstep! Was Salty out of his mind, to allow this to
happen?

Harry was torn between the desire to laugh
out loud at Salty’s obvious delight and giving in to the urge to
seek Trixy out and gift her with a pithy sermon meant to point out
the pitfalls inherent in attempting to make up for one mistake by
rushing headlong into committing another.

“Yes, it was a brilliant stroke, Harry,”
Salty went on happily, oblivious of Harry’s dark thoughts. “Mama
set me down here and took up Eugenie, and the two of them drove
off, Eugenie already in Mama’s good graces because the dogs liked
her on sight.”

“The... the dogs?” Harry was suddenly quite
tired, and could think of nothing save getting himself upstairs and
into a nice soft bed. “I’ve missed something, haven’t I, Salty?
What dogs? They’re not pregnant, are they?”

Instantly repenting the questions, Harry
held out a hand to stop Salty’s sure-to-be-lengthy as well as
stupefyingly boring explanation. “I don’t wish to appear rude,
Salty, but it has been a long night, what with Helena’s defection
and all. Would you mind terribly if I left you now? You can wait
for Eugenie’s return in the drawing room with Lady Amelia and Miss
Stourbridge, who, I am sure, will be more than delighted to share
in your joy.”

Salty rushed over to the duke and all but
pushed him back into his chair. “No, no! You can’t leave now! I
haven’t asked for Eugenie’s hand in marriage yet, and I must have
her, Harry—truly I must!”

Harry pointedly removed Salty’s hands from
the sleeves of his coat. “Permission granted, Salty, and with my
most grateful thanks,” he allowed brusquely. “We’ll discuss her
portion another time, if you don’t mind.”

Mr. Saltaire stood up very straight. “That’s
it? That’s all? Don’t you want to know if I love her? If I’ll
cherish her above all else? If I’d lay down my very life to protect
her?”

“No,” Harry replied baldly, “I don’t. I most
especially don’t wish to hear anything about your great passion for
the chit. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I care what you do
with her, so long as you promise to take her away. I’ve done enough
penance, I think, for daring to try to revenge myself on Myles
Somerville. I need a rest.”

But Mr. Saltaire wasn’t quite done. Grabbing
at Harry’s hand, he proceeded to pump it up and down with both of
his, launching himself into a lengthy speech about how he would be
willing to contribute toward an allowance for Helena and her
dancing-master husband, and would even go so far as to allow the
eloped couple to live under his roof until such time as Eugenie,
that dear, loving sister, could be convinced that they should be
able to exist on their own.

Thinking that Salty had just blindly
condemned himself to a lifetime living cheek by jowl with both
twins—and some primping, posturing dancing master—Harry once more
gave his blessing to the man and, at long last, convinced him to
join Lady Amelia and Trixy in the drawing room or wherever it was
that the ladies might be congregating at that particular
moment.

It was just as he was making for the doorway
that led to the rear of the house and the servants’
staircase—thinking it might then be possible to make his escape to
his chamber without encountering his aunt or Trixy—that he was
halted in his tracks by the sound of Sir Roderick Hilliard’s hearty
greeting.

“Just been nattering quite happily this
half-hour with your aunt, Harry, waiting for Salty to say his
piece,” Sir Roderick imparted casually, sitting himself down in the
chair recently vacated by Mr. Saltaire and crossing his legs one
over the other as if settling in for a lengthy coze—with Sir
Roderick there existed no such thing as a brief chat.

“I saw him just now in the hallway, grinning
fit to burst. I worried for a moment, I have to own it, believing
he might fall on my neck and kiss me! Good of you to give your
blessing to his suit, you know. How does it feel, at your age, to
be acting the father? I should think it depressing myself, although
it might be fun to watch some suitor squirm while I grilled him
about his prospects. Well, you won’t have that with me, will you,
for you know how deep in the pocket I am. And I’m not cheeseparing
either, you know that too. I’ll not be stingy with her, or keep her
on a strict allowance the way you’ve done. Oh, yes, I’ve heard
about the tantrum you threw over a few paltry modiste bills. I say,
Harry, are you going to sit down, or must I do all my pleading to
your back?”

Harry, who had taken up a resigned position
leaning against the mantelpiece, turned to look at Sir Roderick.
“Are you asking me for permission to court Miss Stourbridge?” he
asked at last, wondering how low he would have to sink before he
would be allowed to drown in his own misery. “I hardly think—”

“No, no, no, Harry!” Sir Roderick
interrupted, rising. “Mustn’t think, my good man—it’s too wearying.
Just say yes, won’t you? This is no surprise to you, I’m sure, as
I’ve been running tame here in Portman Square ever since first
clapping eyes on Trixy. She’s old enough not to need your
permission—and please don’t tell her I said that, as you know how
uppity ladies can be about their ages—not that I believe it usual
to ask an employer for permission, but she holds rather a strange
position in this household, you know. Lady Amelia treats her like a
daughter, and you have allowed her to go about in society, dancing
and all, and let her get rigged out fine as ninepence at your
expense into the bargain, for which I’d be happy to recompense you
if that sticks in your craw. The way I figure it, Harry, Trixy’s as
much your ward as those twins of yours, so I should think it only
civil of me to ask you for her hand.”

Harry—who had become so used to being
considered a closefisted miser, thanks to one brief sermon about
gloves, that the label no longer bothered him—immediately felt
himself gripped in the saw-toothed jaws of a dilemma. Should he
tell Sir Roderick what he knew about Trixy, breaking the besotted
man’s heart—and possibly earning himself a fist to the jaw—or
should he keep silent, allowing the man, who was full-grown and old
enough to make his own mistakes, to topple into matrimony with a
woman who would stoop to blackmail, not to mention allowing men to
kiss her in her bedchamber?

And if he did tell Sir Roderick the truth
about Trixy, and if the man did then cry off, what would happen to
Trixy? Would she retire to some seaside cottage at the end of the
Season, as she said she wished to do, to live out the rest of her
life on the allowance that was the booty of her blackmailing
scheme—so that he would be constantly reminded of her yet would
never see her again, hear her again, touch her again? Was that the
fate he wanted for her, just so he could know that no other man had
what he couldn’t have?

And would that be fair to Trixy? Perhaps she
really loved Roddy. Perhaps the two of them would marry, have a
half-dozen children, and live happily ever after. Harry winced
involuntarily at the thought.

“Roddy,” he began, not really knowing what
he would say, “how well do you know Trixy? I mean, really know
Trixy?”

Sir Roderick relaxed into the chair again,
stroking his small beard. “Oh, so you do intend to grill me like
some doting father. Salty didn’t have it half so bad, but then, I
already sensed that you don’t much care what happens to the
Somerville chits as long as they’re safely out of your house as
soon as possible,” he said, then sighed. “Very well, Harry. I’ll
tell you what I know.

“I know that Trixy’s beloved schoolteacher
father is dead. I know that she has had to support herself for
several years by hiring herself out as a companion to wigeons like
the Somerville twins. I know that she is extremely keen about books
and history and politics and all that sort of drivel—even talks
French and a little Greek, not that I can do more than take her
word for that, seeing as how I don’t know those languages. She’s a
graceful dancer, has a lovely singing voice—or, rather, humming
voice, for she vows she doesn’t sing all that well—dislikes
beetroot, looks best in yellows and greens, and is the kindest,
sweetest, most gentle creature on the face of the earth. Is that
enough, or must I go on?”

Harry’s hands had drawn up into tight fists
as a pain he knew was part guilt, part genuine heartache, grew in
his chest. “You have my permission to ask for Miss Stourbridge’s
hand, Roddy,” he said softly, turning his back to the man, knowing
that Sir Roderick had told him things about Trixy that he, who
believed himself more than half in love with her, did not know.

“Good Old Harry!” Sir Roderick exploded,
crossing the room quickly to clap the duke heavily on the back. “I
knew you wouldn’t let me down. And to think I accused you of being
in love with her yourself! Now... I have your permission. Do I have
your good wishes and blessing as well?”

Harry looked at his friend out of the
corners of his eyes. “My blessing? Don’t push me, Roddy,” he warned
from between clenched teeth before all but stomping from the room,
leaving a confused but blissful Sir Roderick behind to wonder if
his new breeches were up to the task of allowing him to get down on
one knee.

H
arry had no idea
how he was going to get through the next several hours—or the next
fifty years, for that matter.

He had all but raced up to his rooms after
running out on Sir Roderick. He had allowed himself to be shaved,
then had washed quickly at the basin and just as swiftly changed
into fresh clothing before dismissing his valet and collapsing into
a wing chair beside the cold fireplace, his long legs sprawled out
in front of him as he waited in galloping dread for the inevitable
summons from his aunt.

His mind was full of jumbled thoughts, none
of them holding so much as a thimbleful of comfort. He would have
to go downstairs, of course. He would have to offer his
congratulations to Sir Roderick and his best wishes to Trixy. He
would, as the head of the household, be forced to order a toast
drunk to the newly betrothed couple.

He held up his right hand, cradling an
imaginary goblet. “To Sir Roderick Hilliard and his lovely Beatrice
I offer an old Irish toast: ‘May the sons of your sons smile up in
your faces.’ ” His hand fell into his lap. “I can’t do it,” he
mumbled morosely into his cravat. “I just can’t do it.”

No other hands save his should be allowed to
twine themselves through Trixy’s glorious red hair. No other lips
should be permitted to taste the sweetness of her soft rosy mouth.
No nose save his should smell her jasmine perfume, no other eyes
should ever see her lovely, lovable form, or watch her face as she
looked up from the mattress, the true wonder of love as it is
expressed between two people who cherish each other becoming known
to her for the first time.

Harry had told her that he wanted her. He
had insulted her with his offer that she become his mistress—a
blunder for which he would curse himself into his dotage. But no
matter how he had tried to bungle it, Trixy did care for him. He
was sure of it. As a matter of fact, if it hadn’t been for that
miserable Irish maid interrupting them last night with her
incoherent blithering and homespun advice, Trixy might be his right
now, rather than Sir Roderick’s.

“Irish blessing my foot!” he exploded,
rising from his chair. “What I really could use now is a good Irish
curse!”

He walked to the window that gave onto the
square and looked out, suddenly hit with another thought. What if
Sir Roderick, who had believed it necessary to ask him for Trixy’s
hand, also thought it would be following the conventions to have
Harry give the bride away? Harry made a fist of his right hand and
plowed it into the wall beside the window, nearly crippling
himself.