The Arrangement (2 page)

So the couple had stayed, but Mr. Macintosh had become severely depressed by his uselessness. It was his wife who had suggested that he assist her by taking on the cooking.

The man had proved to be a genius. The simple soup that he was serving this evening would be hearty, filling, and have such a symphony of flavors that you would dream about it as you drifted off to sleep. I almost wept with joy as I inhaled the aroma coming from the stove.

“I hope you don’t mind being saddled with these extra mouths to feed, Mr. Macintosh,” I said.

“Of course not, lassie. Janet tells me that we have a lord come to dinner?”

“The Earl of Savile. He’ll eat in the dining room, of course, but I’m afraid that you and Mrs. Macintosh are going to be graced with the company of his coachman.”

“That is no a trouble, lassie. The gentlemen may be accustomed to fancier fare, but there is plenty of soup and bread to fill their stomachs.”

I looked at his narrow, dark, intelligent Scottish face. “They will dine like kings, and you know it,” I retorted.

He smiled.

The kitchen door opened and John Grove stepped inside. “I hope I am in the right place?” he asked apologetically.

“Come in, man, come in,” Mr. Macintosh said hospitably, and I left the two men to get acquainted and went on down the hall to the drawing room.

How to describe my drawing room?

Once, more years ago than I care to contemplate, the drapes had been yellow. Once the upholstery had not been threadbare and the stuffing had not poked out of it in unfortunately strategic places. It is true that the walls were freshly painted, but tonight the warm golden color I had thought so pretty seemed only to point up more sharply the travesty of the furnishings.

Most of the time I did not notice the defects of the room quite so vividly. Perhaps I was conscious of them tonight because they contrasted so strongly with the tall, slim figure of the Earl of Savile, who was standing before the blazing fire dressed in pantaloons and a long-tailed coat of fine blue cloth, with a pristine white necktie arranged around his throat. This costume was morning dress, not evening dress, of course, but he looked as out of place in my decayed room as a Thoroughbred would look in a pigsty.

I looked at my decidedly out-of-fashion afternoon gown and thought gloomily that I probably looked as drab and unattractive as my surroundings.

Nicky had preceded me and was standing next to the earl in front of the fire, talking animatedly about his pony. He looked very neat and I was thankful to see that he had put on his church clothes.

“There you are, Mama!” he said when he spied me standing at the door. “I have been telling his lordship all about Squirt.”

“That is nice, Nicky,” I said. “I believe dinner is ready.”

“Oh good,” Nicky said happily. “Shall I go and help Mrs. Macintosh?”

“Yes, sweetheart, if you please.”

I glanced quickly at the earl and said, “If you will come with me, my lord?”

We walked out of the drawing room and progressed, side by side but not touching, to the room that lay directly next to it off the central hall of the house. As soon as we walked in the door I noticed that Mrs. Macintosh had put out wineglasses. I never had wine with my meal.

I gestured the earl to the seat at the head of the small table and sat down. Nicky came into the dining room carrying a bottle of wine.

“Mrs. Macintosh found some old wine of Papa’s,” he said brightly as he set the bottle on the table in front of Savile. He turned his beautiful little boy’s face to the earl and said blithely, “Won’t that be nice?”

“Very nice,” the earl said in his deep and courteous voice. “I shall appreciate a glass of wine after a day spent fighting the snow.”

Mrs. Macintosh appeared carrying a tureen of soup, which she placed in front of me. As she returned to the kitchen to fetch the bread, Nicky came to stand beside me so that he could carry the bowl of soup I was filling to our guest. Then he returned for his own bowl.

Mrs. Macintosh returned with the bread as I was filling my soup bowl. Nicky looked at me, waiting expectantly. I folded my hands, bowed my head, and said, “Thank you, Lord, for your gifts of the day and for this food which we are about to eat.”

“And thank you for bringing our guests safely through the snowstorm,” added my kindhearted son.

The earl’s voice joined ours as we said, “Amen.”

I always said a prayer of thanksgiving before meals.

There had been a time when I was not certain from one day to the next if a meal was going to be on the table at all.

Prayers finished, Nicky picked up his spoon and applied himself to his soup. I picked up my spoon, but before I began to eat, I took a deep breath and made myself look across the table, directly into the face of my enemy.

Savile’s dark gold, beautifully cut hair glowed in the candlelight. His eyes looked as if they were light brown. His facial bones were long and cleanly chiseled.

I had been right in my earlier assessment, I thought. He was a Thoroughbred all right.

He tasted a spoonful of the soup and his eyes flew up to meet mine.

I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. “Not bad, is it?”

“Not bad?” He took another spoonful. “It’s ambrosia!”

“I know about ambrosia,” Nicky said. “I learned about it from Mr. Ludgate. It is the food of the gods.”

“Very good,” the earl said approvingly. Nicky beamed.

I didn’t know whether to be pleased that Savile was being kind to Nicky or annoyed that my son’s presence had failed to annoy him.

“Who is your cook?” Savile asked me.

I told him a little about the Macintoshes.

“I have a garden in the summer and Mr. Macintosh saves all the vegetables to use in his winter cooking,” Nicky said.

“How splendid,” the earl replied with a friendly smile. “There are not many boys responsible enough to help their mama with the gardening.”

“Nicky doesn’t help me,” I said coolly. “I don’t garden; I haven’t the time. He does the garden all by himself.”

The earl had finished his soup. He poured himself a glass of wine.

“Would you like some more soup, sir?” Nicky asked.

He added proudly, “All
of
the vegetables in it are from my garden.”

I said, “I feel that I must explain to you, my lord, that the soup is the dinner. There is plenty more of it, however.”

“In that case, I will have another bowl,” the earl said.

Nicky jumped up from his seat and went to do the honors.

As dinner consisted of only two courses, the soup and a pudding for dessert, we were not at the table for very long. When the meal was over, I sent Nicky upstairs to do his studying and invited the earl to join me in the drawing room for a glass of the sherry I kept for Mr. Ludgate when he came to visit.

I even took a glass of sherry myself. Unfortunately, there was no way to avoid hearing what had brought Savile to see me, and I thought that I was likely going to need all the fortification I could get.

The two least dilapidated of my grayish drawing-room chairs were placed on opposite sides of the fireplace and I invited Savile to take one. I sat in the other, drank half of my sherry, and placed the glass on an old walnut table within my reach.

For ten long seconds we regarded each other in silence across the tattered rug.

Then, “You’re not what I expected,” he said abruptly.

I lifted my chin. “I cannot imagine what your lordship means.”

“Can you not?” He took a sip of his drink and watched me over the rim of the glass. That was when I realized that his eyes weren’t an ordinary light brown at all, but amber-gold, like the sherry.

I looked away from him, into the leaping flames of the fire. “No, I can’t,” I said. My muscles were tensed against the blow I feared was coming. I struggled to keep my face expressionless.

He lowered his wineglass. “I have come here to Surrey directly from Devane Hall, Mrs. Saunders,” he said. “I am afraid that I bring you the news that Lord Devane is dead.”

It was not what I had expected to hear. I kept my face carefully guarded and very still, and after a moment I asked, “Why should you think I would care about that?”

“I think you might care very much when you learn that your son is named in Lord Devane’s will,” Savile returned. I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was leaning back in his chair, watching me.

I shut my eyes.

Finally, “How is Nicky named?” I asked desperately.

“I don’t know precisely what is written in George’s will,” the earl answered. “All I know for certain is that my cousin left him some money.”

I stared despairingly into the fire. “Tell me about it.”

I could feel Savile looking at my averted face. “It happened less than a week ago. George overturned his phaeton and was caught under one of the wheels. It crushed his chest.”

He paused, as if expecting some response from me.

“How sad,” I said, my eyes still fixed upon the fire.

“Indeed it was,” Savile replied. “My cousin was not yet dead, however, when they carried him into the house.”

Too bad,
I thought grimly.

“We put him into his bed and sent for the doctor,” Savile went on. “Lady Devane fainted when we carried George in, so it was left to me to stay with him as we waited for the doctor to arrive.”

The earl picked up his glass and took another sip of sherry. “I had thought he was unconscious, but when we were alone his eyes opened and fixed themselves upon me with such an expression of pained urgency…”

Oh damn, I
thought.
Damn, damn, damn.

“He said my name,” Savile continued. “It was hard to understand him, because when he talked, blood and saliva bubbled from his mouth, but he kept repeating my name.”

The fire I was watching snapped and crackled, and I wanted to hold up my hands to push away what I was afraid was coming next, but there was nothing I could do.

Savile continued his tale. “ ‘Yes, George,’ I said, leaning close to him. ‘I’m here. What can I do for you?’ ”

I saw the earl turning more toward me as he got closer to the revelation I did not want to hear.

Savile went on, “ ‘Find the boy,’ George said, with those desperately urgent eyes still glued to my face. ‘You must…find the boy.’ ”

“ ‘What boy, George?’ ” I asked.

I was gripping my hands together so tightly that they ached.
Here it comes,
I thought.
Oh God, here it comes.

“ ‘In my will,’ George said. ‘He must have the money I’ve left him in my will.’ ”

“I took my cousin’s hand in mine and his grip was astonishingly strong. I said, ‘How shall I find this boy, George?’ ”

Savile stopped. When finally I could stand it no longer and turned my head to look at him, he continued quietly, “He told me to ‘find Gail.’ ”

Our eyes held. I didn’t say anything.

“He begged me, Mrs. Saunders,” Savile said. “ ‘Promise me, Raoul,’ he said. ‘Promise me that you will find the boy.’ ”

I tore my eyes away from his. I forced myself to breathe deeply and slowly and tried to keep my face expressionless.

“I promised him, of course,” Savile said, “and less than five minutes later, he was dead.”

His voice ceased, and for what seemed a long time the only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock on the mantel.

I had hated George Melville for many years and had often wished him dead, and now it seemed that even in dying he had managed to cause me trouble.

Savile said soberly, “He was thirty-one—a year younger than I am.”

I tried to organize my thoughts. It could have been worse, I thought. George had not told Savile everything.

“How did you find me?” I finally asked.

“Through your aunt, Miss Longworth.”

I nodded. It was the answer I had expected. I had always remained in communication with Aunt Margaret.

“So now you know why I have sought you out, Mrs. Saunders,” the earl said. “Clearly, your son, Nicholas, is the boy my cousin was referring to. I am the executor of Devane’s will and it is to be read at Savile Castle, my home in Kent. I have come to escort you there so that you may be present when the will is made public.”

My mind was in a whirl as I considered the implications of this bequest. “Why isn’t the will being read at Devane Hall?” I asked, playing for time.

“Under the circumstances, I thought you might prefer not to return to Hatfield,” Savile said quietly. “I understood from your aunt that you have not returned home since your marriage.”

The village of Hatfield had never been home to me. It was just the place where Deborah and I had been forced to live after our parents had died. I cared not the snap of my fingers what they thought about me in Hatfield.

This, however, was not something I was about to discuss with the Earl of Savile.

I had made up my mind about what I should do, and I said in an extremely calm voice, “As there is absolutely no reason for Lord Devane to have made any financial provisions for my son, I see little point in my being present for the reading of this will.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Savile said forcefully. He leaned forward in his chair, as if he would persuade me by sheer masculine force. “My cousin told me that he had left a sum of money to your son, Mrs. Saunders, and from what I can judge of your situation, you need it.”

His eyes flicked insultingly around my shabby drawing room.

I clenched my hands and said fiercely, “My house may not be elegant, but I can assure you that Nicky does not lack for any of the important things in life!
My lord
,” I added with deliberate disdain.

His golden eyes were inscrutable. “I believe I know more about your financial situation than you realize, Mrs. Saunders,” he said. “When I was still in Hatfield I had a talk with your late husband’s mother, and she informed me that you had inherited nothing from him. Nor, according to the same source, have you ever possessed any money of your own.”

I lifted my chin. Lady Saunders had hated it when Tommy married me. He was her youngest son, and her favorite, and she had wanted him to marry a lady who had money. To her mind, I had qualified under neither of those categories.