Marjorie Farrell (9 page)

“I am not too polite to hold back,” Sam said as he reached for the small triangles of bread and cress and cream cheese, and handed one to Lavinia.

“Would you slice the bread and cheese, Miranda, while I pass around the napkins?”

They were all soon unself
-
consciously licking fingers from the chicken, and reaching for the softened cheese. Jeremy brought up the two bottles of lemonade.

“I brought only two cups,” Nora apologized again, “so we will have to be lost to shame and share. Perhaps the gentlemen will drink theirs from the bottles after pouring.”

Lavinia was torn between her enjoyment of the food and her horror of the way it was being served. A picnic usually meant carriages laden with cutlery and porcelain, servants to spread out tableclothes, glassware for the wine and punch, and a menu equal to that of an indoor supper. How could Jeremy contemplate marriage to the daughter of a woman who calmly discussed sharing drinking cups!

“Why does food always taste better out-of-doors?” Jeremy asked of no one in particular.

“It is the exercise that builds up an appetite,” replied the viscount.

“I hope you still have room for dessert,” Miranda said, as Nora opened the last basket. Inside were fresh strawberries arranged on a bed of mint and decorated with sprigs of heartsease. Next to them were two small earthenware crocks, one with sugar and one with butter-yellow fresh cream. Nora placed the basket in the center and even Lavinia had to ooh and aah at the flowers and fruit.

“Again, we will have to ignore convention and dip our strawberries into a common bowl,” she said. “The cream will get sugary and the sugar creamy, but that is the way they taste best.” And indeed, the sugar and cream soon became indistinguishable and fingers and chins dripped juice and cream as they feasted.

“Exquisite, Mrs. Dillon,” Sam said. “I cannot eat another bite.” He stretched himself out along the rug with a satisfied sigh. They all murmured their contentment. Even Lavinia, after her first moue of distaste, had found the berries irresistible.

“Perhaps we should all move out of the city,” Sam said. “Living in Hampstead has its own pleasures, despite the pigs.”

“Oh, those pigs,” Nora laughed. “They are notorious.”

“What else is notorious here?” Jeremy queried lightly.

“One of the more famous residents of our village, over a century ago, was the well-known Henry Vane. He was executed by Charles II. I did wonder, my lord, if you are in any way related to him.”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” replied the viscount. “He had seven sons and daughters, and our branch of the family goes back to a younger son. I like to think that I carry on his work, since he was a great believer of popular government, as am I.”

Nora looked at him with warm approval and Sam found himself unaccountably pleased. “I have always admired him,” she said, “for he was consistent but not rigid in his beliefs. He refused to have anything to do with the execution of Charles I, and so he alienated Cromwell. And then his persistence in his republicanism was objectionable to the restored king.”

“Lord Erskine, of course, is one of our better-known residents now,” Miranda said.

“Ah, yes, he is a great orator, although I do not always agree with him.”

“He is one of Prinny’s set, isn’t he, Sam?” Lavinia said. “I have met him: an egoist, as all small men seem to be. But witty. And most truly heartbroken at the loss of his wife.”

“He is quite fond of animals, is he not?” Jeremy asked.

Miranda and Nora looked at each other and laughed.

“He has a pet goose,” Miranda said, “that follows him around.”

“And two pet leeches,” Nora added.

“Leeches!” said Lavinia with disgust as Sam laughed at her horror-stricken face.

“Yes,” continued Nora. “He keeps them in a glass vessel and gives them fresh water every day. He claims they saved his life. He even named them after his doctors, Howe and Clive!”

Even Lavinia had to join in the laughter.

“But, Mother, it is not fair to make him out only a figure of fun. He is quite serious in his concern for animals, and I admire him for that.”

“As do I, dear,” Nora replied. “But I could not resist the story.”

“It will certainly make it difficult the next time I meet him socially.” Sam grinned. “All I will be able to picture is his good-mornings to Howe and Clive!”

Lavinia, who had been restored by the rest and the food, thought it was time to ask a few essential questions.

“You seem to know quite a lot about your neighbors, Mrs. Dillon. Have you lived in Hampstead long?”

“We all know something about each other,” Nora replied, “for it is a small community. And yes, I have lived here quite a few years.”

“And where do you come from originally?” Lavinia was determined to get some specifics out of Mrs. Dillon, preferably facts which would confirm her daughter’s unsuitability.

“Why, I come originally from Northumberland, Lady Lavinia,” Nora smiled.

“Do you still have family there?” queried Lavinia.

“Not as far as I know,” Nora replied, and Sam, who was curious himself, saw a flicker of something in her eyes. “I left to get married many years go, and never returned.”

“And so you came here with Mr. Dillon?”

“No. We first went to Scotland. I came south only after he was killed.”

“Killed?”

“Yes, in a naval engagement.” Nora’s replies were as close to curt as politeness would allow, and would have discouraged anyone else, but Lavinia persisted.

“How dreadful for you. And you have been raising your daughter alone all these years?”

“Yes. Although I have been supported along the way by many good friends.”

“Did you ever wish to return to Northumberland?”

“Never,” Nora said shortly, beginning to pick up the crumpled napkins and repack the baskets. She had had enough interrogation for one afternoon
—and much good it had done Lady Whitford, for she knew little more about Miranda’s background than she had before.

Sam, who had been growing more and more uncomfortable with Lavinia’s grilling, even though it did serve their purpose, stood up quickly and said: “Come, Jeremy, let us shake out the rugs and ready ourselves for the walk back.” He offered Lavinia his hand, and she stood up, quite happy to be interrupted, for she had gotten no real information and had only succeeded in putting a damper on the whole party.

And that is what I set out to do, Lavinia thought, so why do I feel so guilty about it. Jeremy must be made to see that he cannot marry a girl of no background whatsoever. And this Mrs. Dillon had proved quite elusive, which should make him wonder a bit.

The walk back only added to her sense of discomfort. They went slowly, but Lavinia could feel all the old bruises, plus a new blister coming. By the time they reached the cottage, between her physical pains and her irrational qualms about spoiling a party she had wanted to spoil, she was at her least charming. The querulous tone had returned to her voice and she refused all further refreshment, declaring she only wanted to get back to London and rest her feet.

Jeremy glanced helplessly at Miranda, and she smiled a bit wistfully. They had had no time together during the day and would have to wait until the morrow to discuss and decide whether the picnic could be considered a success or a fiasco.

Sam helped Lavinia into the chaise and turned to the Dillons. “It was lovely to meet you, my dear,” he said to Miranda. “And thank you for the delightful afternoon, Mrs. Dillon.”

“You’re welcome, my lord. I believe it was enjoyable for all of us.”

* * * *

Miranda and Nora watched the party drive off and turned back to the house. They were tired, for the strain of keeping Lady Lavinia comfortable had told on both of them.

“What did you think, Mother?”

“You know how I care for Jeremy.”

“But what about his mother?”

“Well, she is still a very attractive woman, and the viscount seems to be very much as Jeremy described him. I think he has been lucky to have him as a godfather.”

Miranda seemed to accept these statements at face value, but later that evening she stopped in her mother’s bedroom on her way to bed, as she had been doing since she was small. She sat on the edge of the bed and received her good-night hug, and said, in her open, spontaneous way, “Oh, Mother, I am so glad you’re my mother.”

Nora smiled. “And I am so glad that you are my daughter. But why this sudden delight?” she teased.

“You know I feel that way. I am only rather sad for Jeremy, that he doesn’t have a mother like you.”

“Lady Whitford strikes me as a responsible parent.”

“Oh, I am sure she is. But she is not natural or warm or even very intelligent… I feel disloyal to Jeremy, in some way, but I could not help but compare her to you.”

“Well, you are a bit prejudiced, my dear. And used to my ways. But we have lived a very different life from those in society, Miranda, and you will be meeting many more Lady Whitfords, should you marry Jeremy. How do you think you will get on?”

“I don’t know,” Miranda answered truthfully. “But I know I love Jeremy and that he loves me as I am. I don’t think he will want me to change. I will just have to learn to playact a little, is all. Good night, Mother.”

“Good night, ‘ma wearie dearie,’ ” Nora replied, rolling her R’s, with the phrase that had sent Miranda to sleep over the years.

“Don’t ever stop saying that,” Miranda whispered into her ear, and whisked off to bed.

* * * *

Nora sat there, her book lying unopened on her lap. Those were the words she had used over the years, to soothe and say good-night with. Those, and “my ain wee bonnie lassie.” Somehow the lilting quality of the dialect expressed for her the inexpressible love she felt for her daughter. For eighteen years her life had revolved around the rituals of morning and evening greeting. No matter what hardships she had had to face, Miranda was the fulcrum of her life, and kept her centered. And now it was all changing. Although Miranda could not marry the Earl of Alverstone, she would, in a year or two, marry someone. And no longer be Nora’s “dearie,” but someone else’s. And then what? Nora would be free of a responsibility she had joyously assumed many years ago. “Free.” For what? For more writing, surely. Perhaps she would be able to attempt the serious novel she had always wanted to write. She had good friends. But she had been so caught up in living day-to-day, supporting them, raising Miranda, that she had never thought about a future without her. And the future was now taking shape and it seemed to her she was facing emptiness.

My God, I can let her go because it is right, and because I must. But how will I live without her? How did this come about without my even realizing it? She turned down the lamp and slipped under the sheets. Her sleep that night was fitful and she awoke from a dream, the first in years, in which she was crying for her mother, who was driving off and leaving her
—only in this dream, her mother had Miranda’s face.

When Jeremy called on him the day after the picnic, Sam found he was quite sincere in his approval of Miranda and her mother. This disturbed him, for if, on the first meeting, he was favorably impressed, then what, precisely, were his objections to the match? He did, of course, believe in not marrying outside one’s class, but was not so rigid as to be termed a snob. He found himself curious about Nora Dillon: was she a lady who had married beneath herself and been forced to live simply because of her widowhood and lack of property and family? Or had she alienated herself from her family by an inappropriate marriage? Perhaps the latter, since she seemed so convinced that separating the young people by force would lead to an elopement.

She was an attractive woman, however, and Sam was pleased he would have the opportunity to see her again. In fact, discussing the next opportunity was what Jeremy had come for.

“What is the best way to introduce Miranda to our friends, Sam?” he asked.

The best way, from one point of view, thought the viscount, would be to have a small, informal outing. In that way, Miranda would not be faced with too many members of the
ton
and be forced to endure their usual inquiries about family background. But since he did not approve of this match, and Mrs. Dillon certainly didn’t, he suggested just the sort of gathering that would highlight all of Miranda’s disadvantages: a dinner or a musicale.

Jeremy looked dubious. “There are some people whom I want her to meet who have already left town. And don’t you think it would be scary for her to meet so many strangers all at once?”

“She seems quite a capable girl to me,” Sam replied. “I’m sure she’d be up to the challenge. And it is precisely because it is the end of the Season that I suggest it. There is no time to put together a series of smaller parties.”

“You are right. And this way, I have to ask Mother to put herself out only once. How do you think yesterday went? It was hard to tell, between Mama’s sore feet and her rudeness.”

“Oh, Lavinia wasn’t that bad.” Sam smiled. “I thought it went as well as could be expected, for a first acquaintance.”

“She will like the Dillons better and better as she gets to know them,” Jeremy said, with an air of determination.

After he had gone, Sam busied himself with his research, distracted occasionally by his memory of Mrs. Dillon’s strawberry-stained fingers folding napkins. He decided that after his ride in the park, he would stop at Lavinia’s and see how she was feeling.

* * * *

Lavinia, while she did feel some ambivalence, was less conflicted than Sam. Neither mother nor daughter was as bad as she had pictured, but she did not approve of or trust them. She had liked Miranda
—who could not like such a thoughtful, pretty girl? But liking was beside the point. And her mother…? Lavinia had found out nothing about her family background, and had no way to even make an inquiry. Mrs. Dillon might be speaking the truth about Northumberland, but without a maiden name, how could anyone know where she was born and from what kind of family she had come? She could be a farmer’s daughter, for all we know, thought Lavinia.