Joan Smith - Regency Masquerade

"A poor gift for a lady, but in this little village, they have not heard of such a thing as marchpane, or sugared cherries."

"You are too kind, Major,” she said, accepting the token. Jonathon loved sugarplums.

Mr. Hartly had another bottle of wine sent to their table.

"We should have used this stunt before,” Jonathon said. “I had no idea ladies and sirs got so many gifts."

"They are not gifts, David; they are bait."

"I thought you and the jewels were the bait."

"That is for our trap. March believes he is setting a trap of his own."

"And Hartly as well?” he asked, looking at the wine.

That brought a frown to her face. Mr. Hartly was an agreeable young gentleman. She was beginning to hope his interest was personal-though there was no getting around the fact that he had been inquiring for Major Stanby when he arrived at the inn.

"Perhaps. Time will tell."

The corkscrew curls had softened to gentle waves by afternoon. Moira arranged them en corbeil and wore the same elaborately feathered bonnet and green sarcenet mantle in which she had arrived at Owl House Inn the day before.

She regretted the overly ornate plumage of the bonnet. She had a keen fashion sense and had enjoyed accumulating her wardrobe. Schooled to practicality, she meant to wear the garments after her role of Lady Crieff was terminated, so the clothing was to her own taste, embellished to vulgarity by gewgaws that could be removed later. The sarcenet mantle was trimmed in gold satin and brass buttons. Excitement lent a sparkle to her eyes and a spring to her step.

Jonathon carried a large wicker basket, bearing an embroidered tablecloth worked by Moira's own hands for Lady Marchbank. She had been kind to the Trevithicks during their difficult period. Small presents of cash were only a part of it; she had provided moral support, and an offer that both Moira and Jonathon were welcome to make their home at Cove House if worst came to worst and they lost the Elms.

Mr. Hartly met them in the lobby. He was no expert on ladies’ toilettes and felt he was out-of-date besides after his stint in Spain, but he knew instinctively that Moira would look prettier without that tower of feathers atop her head. He came forward to greet the youngsters.

"You will have to give me directions to Cove House,” he said, after greeting them.

"Cousin Vera sent us a map. Here it is,” Jonathon said, handing him a hand-drawn map. “P'raps you ought to give it to your groom."

They went outside, where a shining black carriage and bang-up team of bays awaited them.

"I say! That's something like!” Jonathon exclaimed. “Can I sit on the box with John Groom, Mr. Hartly?"

"You will get covered in dust, David,” his sister cautioned.

Hartly smiled at the lad's enthusiasm. “I keep my traveling coat in the carriage. I like to take the reins myself from time to time. You are welcome to wear it, Sir David, if Lady Crieff-"

"Oh, very well,” Moira agreed, although she would have preferred that Jonathon accompany her inside the carriage, to ease what might be a trying trip.

The coat fit as to length. Jonathon placed the basket on the floor of the carriage and leapt up on the perch with John Groom. Hartly was curious about that basket. Did it, by any chance, contain the Crieff jewelry collection? If so, it was an excellent idea to leave it with the Marchbanks, now that word of its existence had got about the inn.

As they drove along, Moira noticed that Hartly's eyes strayed to the basket from time to time.

"A little gift for my cousin Vera,” she mentioned. “I made it myself. You will see it when we arrive-if you are interested in embroidery. I daresay you are not. It took me months to make it."

"Is that how you passed your time in Scotland, Lady Crieff, with needlework?"

"Needlework and Gothic novels. I am a sad, shatter-brained creature,” she replied.

Yet he remembered very well she had been reading a complex article on politics when he interrupted her that morning, and reading it with considerable interest. Her healthy face and lithe body told him she did not spend her entire day warming a sofa. Other than the clothes, she seemed like a genteel provincial, excited by even a simple call on a relative. At times, he felt there were two Lady Crieffs-one a wanton, the other a lady he could easily grow fond of.

She looked out at the passing scenery. “This is horrid countryside, is it not?” she asked. “All those flat marshes, so unlike the lush and rolling hills of-of Scotland,” she said, pulling herself up short.

He noticed her hesitation and wondered at it. No doubt Scotland had lush and rolling hills, but it was more famous for its rocky Highlands. Surely sheep were raised on those rocky bluffs. Lush and rolling hills were more suitable to cattle.

"Take away the water and we could be in parts of Devon,” he replied blandly. “The moors, you know."

"I hear they are desolate and dangerous,” she replied, making conversation.

"It is easy to lose your way, but they are not all desolation. There are villages tucked in along the road. My own estate is not on the moors. Parts of Devon are well cultivated and civilized."

Moira gazed dreamily out the window. “It is strange that a tiny island like Britain has such varied landscapes, is it not? Everything from this"-she gestured to the view beyond the window-"to the Highlands, to the chalk downs, to the beautiful Lake District and London. All we lack is a desert, and we would be a world unto ourselves."

This seemed a rather serious thought for the hoyden Lady Crieff had acted last night. It confirmed his view that the girl was an anomaly. The face of a provincial miss, wearing a lightskirt's bonnet. He made a noncommittal reply.

Moira found the conversational going extremely rough. Not only was she worried that Hartly would make physical advances, she also had to remember to be vulgar, yet not so vulgar as to disgust him, if it turned out he was not a friend of Stanby's.

"You have an excellent team” was her next effort. “David will be enjoying himself immensely."

"He seems a nice lad. Does he give you much trouble?"

"David, trouble? Good Lord, no. I don't know what I should do without him.” Now, why was he frowning like that?

"You will soon find out,” he said. “He is returning to Penworth when you remove to London, is he not?"

"Indeed he is, but I shall have other company once I reach London. I know people there. He has provided good company on a long evening,” she added.

It was a relief when the spires of Cove House appeared before them, soaring into the misty sky. The house was indeed a Gothic heap, complete with moldy stone, pointed windows, and even a pair of flying buttresses. The land around it was so damp and low-lying that it created a sort of moat, unfortunately without a drawbridge. The road had been raised to allow carriages to enter. Hartly thought it a derelict old place, but when he glanced at Lady Crieff, he saw her face was dazed with ecstasy.

"Oh, if I had known it was this lovely, I would have come when Cousin Vera invited us to live here!” she exclaimed.

A quick frown creased Hartly's brow. He had assumed Lady Marchbank was some kin to the Crieffs. Why would she invite Lady Crieff and David to live with her when David had Penworth Hall?

"After your husband's death, do you mean?” he asked.

For a fleeting moment, she stared at him, startled. “Yes, that was my meaning."

"She wanted you and David to live with her?"

"Yes. David was younger then, of course, as I was myself. David has an uncle who is his legal guardian. He would have managed Penworth. Cousin Vera thought we might like a holiday away from home. I did not mean ‘live’ in the sense of move here permanently."

"I see.” Yet she had said “live here,” in no uncertain terms.

Moira was glad when the carriage rattled to a stop and the groom hopped down to open the door. Jonathon was right behind him.

"By Jove, that was something like! Cooper let me take the reins-he held on, too, but I was driving."

"Best take off Mr. Hartly's coat before we go in,” Moira said.

Jonathon did so and picked up the basket. It was clear Lady Marchbank had been awaiting their arrival, for she was at the door herself to greet them. Moira searched her mind in vain for a memory of this relative. She knew Lady Marchbank had visited her parents fifteen years earlier, but there had been many relatives visiting in those days. She was looking at a stranger: a tall, raw-boned elderly lady wearing an old-fashioned lace cap with lappets hanging over her ears. She had a large nose, not unlike Jonathon's, but it seemed more prominent on a lady. Her gray eyes were moist with tears.

She threw her arms around Moira and kissed her on both cheeks. “A beauty! You have grown into a beauty! I knew it would be so when I first laid eyes on you a decade and a half ago.” She turned to Jonathon. “And this is little David,” she said, with a sly eye at Moira, as if to say, “See, I remembered not to call him Jon.” Then she turned to Hartly. “Now this lad I do not remember. Is he your cousin Jeremy, Bonnie?” The journals had not given Lady Crieff's first name. They had selected Bonnie as appropriately Scottish.

"This is Mr. Hartly, a gentleman who is staying at the inn and has given us a drive here,” Moira explained hastily. She should have sent Cousin Vera a note to alert her to this change of plans.

Hartly bowed.

"So kind of you,” Lady Marchbank said to him. “But why are we standing on the doorstep? Come in, come in. I have had Crook prepare us a dandy tea. How is that for a name, eh? My cook is called Crook. I always call her Crook. She hates it.” On this ill-natured speech she emitted a tinny laugh.