The Merry Month of May

By Joan Smith

Sara Wood had not been heartbroken when her fiancé disappeared six years ago, though no one would have guessed it. And she wasn’t delighted when Peter showed up again—as a widower with two young sons and his vulgar sister-in-law. Peter’s brother, Lord Haldiman, insisted that his brother do the right thing this time. But both Sara and Haldiman had moved on and seen new possibilities… Regency Romance by Joan Smith

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belgrave House
• Release date: Oct 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781610847919

Joan Smith

Joan Alison Smith (born 27 August 1953, London) is an English novelist, journalist and human rights activist, who is a former chair of the Writers in Prison committee in the English section of International PEN. Smith was educated at a state school before reading Latin at the University of Reading in the early 1970s. After a spell as a journalist in local radio in Manchester, she joined the staff of the Sunday Times in 1979 and stayed at the newspaper until 1984. She has had a regular column in the Guardian Weekend supplement, also freelancing for the newspaper and in recent years has contributed to The Independent, the Independent on Sunday, and the New Statesman. In her non-fiction Smith displays a commitment to atheism, feminism and republicanism; she has travelled extensively and this is reflected in her articles. In 2003 she was offered the MBE for her services to PEN, but refused the award. She is a supporter of the political organisation, Republic and an Honorary Associate of the National Secular Society. In November 2011 she gave evidence to the Leveson Inquiry into press and media standards following the telephone hacking practiced by the News of the World. She testified that she considered celebrities thought they could control press content if they put themselves into the public domain when, in reality the opposite was more likely. She repeated a claim that she has persistently adhered to in her writings that the press is misogynistic.

Book preview

Smith

Chapter One

Here comes Idle down the lane, Mrs. Wood said to her daughters. Prepare your ears for a farrago of nonsense.

It was mid-May, and the Wood ladies made a pretty picture as they sat at their needlework in the garden. The sun’s rays, filtered through a mulberry tree, dappled their shoulders with dancing light. From a little distance the mother looked of an age with her daughters. At closer range one could see threads of silver in her chestnut hair, and the incipient lines that ran across her forehead. Her eyes, though, were still bright and her figure trim.

The three ladies surveyed the apparition meandering toward them, stopping to smell a flower and pick an occasional bloom as it advanced. It was strange that the arrival of the second most eligible gentleman in the neighborhood caused no excitement in a household burdened with two nubile daughters. The daughters considered Idle too outré to provide a lady a husband, and the mother knew him to be too elusive.

Sir Swithin Idle was wealthy, intelligent, of good character, and not particularly ugly. In fact, he would be the first to point out that he was a pretty fellow. A cap of tawny curls was arranged artistically around his delicate face. Arrived hot from London, he was outfitted in the highest kick of fashion in a jacket of Bath cloth carefully selected to match his blue eyes. The Swithin cravat worn with it was famous in that small circle that believed the arrangement of a cravat to be of equal importance with affairs of state.

Good day, Idle, Mrs. Wood said civilly. Her daughters smiled a polite welcome.

Sir Swithin handed Mrs. Wood a bouquet culled from her own garden, and said, My heart leaps up when I behold beauty in full array. With my apologies to Wordsworth for freedom with his lyrics. He lifted the tails of his jacket and sat beside Mrs. Wood. As he crossed one small knee over the other, she felt a twinge of envy for the delicacy of his foot. Not many ladies could boast such a dainty one, with the instep so well arched, and an ankle as thin as a soup bone. Sir Swithin would not be caught dead in buckskins and top boots. Even in the country, he went about ready for a party.

Idle lifted his quizzing glass and examined the daughters in a leisurely manner. The younger, Mary, had blossomed into womanhood since last he had seen her. Her coppery hair was now pulled away from her cheeks, revealing a generous breadth of face. Such ruddy, buxom girls held no interest for him. He felt they would break some fragile bone in his body if it came to a tussle, and he did love a tussle. Always polite in intention at least, he said, Well, Miss Mary, I observe that Mother Nature and her accomplice, Father Time, have been busy turning you into an incomparable while my back was turned. I daresay this lovely creature has found herself a beau by now, Mrs. Wood?

Not yet, but it is not for lack of looking, the mother replied.

And Miss Wood—Sara, Sir Swithin continued, turning his glass to the more interesting lady, and noticing that she did not object to the familiarity of her first name. You confute every axiom and become more lovely with the passing of time. There is nothing like heartbreak to bring out that sadly haunting light in a lady’s eyes.

Sara’s less robust charms were very much in Idle’s preferred style. He admired her pale cheeks, with interesting hollows at the back. In her dove-gray eyes he imagined there lurked the residue of old grief. With the sun bonnet shadowing her upper face, she was a perfect model of mystery.

The light that flashed in Sara’s eyes was more frustrated than haunted. All that is ancient history, Sir Swithin, she said coolly.

"Time is relative, n’est-ce pas? The past years seem to me to have flown by on gilded wings. To you, I daresay they have seemed an endless desert waste. But this is sorry stuff for a lovely afternoon in May."

"Yes, do tell us all the on-dits from London," Miss Mary urged.

This subject held about as much interest for Mrs. Wood as the solving of an algebraic equation. She gathered up her embroidery and said, I must speak to Cook. I’ll have some wine sent out. Can you stay for dinner, Sir Swithin?

Would that I could, but I have just returned, and Mama is having the fatted calf killed—metaphorically speaking. I fear it is actually a porker that will provide dinner. He shuddered gently. Another time, madam.

No fear of impropriety troubled Mrs. Wood at leaving her daughters unchaperoned with this acknowledged man milliner. They would be safe from everything except boredom. The wine duly arrived and the ladies set aside their embroidery.

London is dead, Idle announced solemnly. No new drama, no art worth the name, and the balls have all degenerated into squeezes. I left two weeks before the Season’s demise, to teach London a lesson.

"But a ball should be a squeeze!" Mary pointed out.

No, my pretty pet, a rout may be a squeeze. A ball ought to be carried out with decorum. I believe I shall throw a proper ball at Heron Hall while I am home and invite all the hostesses whose balls I disliked, to show them how it ought to be done.

Oh, would you? Mary asked, eyes glowing.

Probably not, but I should. No, I have come home for some serious work.

What are you working on at the moment, Sir Swithin? Miss Wood asked. It was not estate matters that would have brought him home. The only fields of interest to him were artistic fields.

It is all painting with me this season, he informed her, warming to the topic. Prose and drama are well enough for winter, but when nature swells the darling buds of May, my spirit craves three things: poetry, painting, and love. Euterpe, the muse of lyrical poetry, has abandoned me, fickle wretch. I shall paint in the garden, where no doubt a poem will simultaneously bubble up to accompany it. It is the vexation of we few overly talented spirits, that inspiration—like sorrow—comes not single spies, but in battalions.

You will paint flowers then? Miss Wood asked politely.

This wanton encouragement fanned Idle’s interest. Dare I hope I will be allowed to paint the brightest flower of them all, yourself, Sara?

Oh no! she exclaimed. I—I would not make a good subject at all. Paint Mary. She is the brighter bloom now.

In my excitement I used the wrong adjective. I did not mean brightest, but most beautiful. I do not see you as a gaudy rose or daffodil, but as a lily, drooping over a—grave, perhaps, he suggested warily.

The whole picture popped into his head in one swoop. Sara, that lovely swanlike neck gently drooping as she gazed sadly at the gravestone of Peter. Except that there actually was no known gravestone. Peter was believed to have drowned at sea. There must be a swelling ocean in the back ground. Would it be too blatant to give some impression of Peter’s face in the waves? He abhorred the obvious.

When Idle awoke from his reverie, he saw that Sara’s eyes were flashing dangerously and demmed attractively. And pray why would I be drooping over a grave, Sir Swithin? she demanded in a thin voice.

I have wounded you with my clumsiness. Do forgive me, Sara. It was the farthest thing from my mind.

That was six years ago, she said sternly. I have forgotten it. I wish the rest of the world would.

Tragedy lingers, he said simply. "There is some mythical quality in blighted young love. The greatest love stories are all tragedies. Romeo and Juliet, Pyramus and Thisbe, Troilus and Cressida—the list goes on ad infinitum. Last but by no means least, Prinny’s love affair with himself. Was there ever such a comical tragedy in all of literature? It would be more in keeping with the truly great love stories if you had thrown yourself into the foam when you learned of Peter’s death, but pray do not take that as a criticism. It is only a comment."

Don’t be such a noodle, Idle, Mary tsk’d.

Sara’s face was stained pink. She picked up her embroidery and excused herself. I shall send out Perkins to sit with you, she said before leaving.

Sir Swithin was foaming with apologies. Do forgive me, Miss Wood. It was thoughtless, nay, it was barbaric of me.

It’s quite all right. Good day, Sir Swithin. It was nice to see you again.

She ran into the house, and Idle turned his apologies to Miss Mary. I had no idea she was still affected after all this time. Six years! Theirs must have been one of the great passions. How I envy her.

You don’t understand at all, Mary scowled. If she knew for certain that Peter had drowned, she would have got over it eventually. It’s the uncertainty. His body never was found, you know.

But my dear child, it was eons ago. If he had been shanghaied onto a ship, as I collect you are hinting, he would have been back here now. And really, you know, the press gangs would hardly have gotten away with Lord Peter Deverel. His brother would have had heads rolling from here to Whitehall if that had happened. Surely Lord Haldiman looked into it?

There was a ship leaving for America that night, Mary said pensively. Haldiman said they didn’t use the press gang, but they might have taken Peter, hidden when they learned he was so important. I mean that his brother was so important, for, of course, Lord Peter was only a younger son.

Even the younger son of the Haldiman family was considered a great catch for Sara Wood. Lord Peter had been extremely handsome, too. Oh, she will never get over it, Sir Swithin. I pray you do not mention it again when Sara is about.

Perkins arrived and added her unnecessary presence to the scene.

Then we shall talk about you, Sir Swithin decided. I notice you have your hair up and your skirts down, hiding what I personally consider the finest set of ankles in the parish. He cast a glance at them. Beef to the heels, like a Meunster heifer. I expect that means you are now permitted to decorate the local assemblies? How many suitors do you have? Mama is gone now. You can tell me.

Mary daringly lifted her skirt and examined her ankles. No serious ones, she said, but Aunt Cloe is nearly eighty, and she has told Mama she is leaving her money to me, so no doubt I shall soon be the belle of the balls.

Sir Swithin shook his head sadly. The young ought not be so cynical. That is a privilege that should be earned by experience. How much will you inherit? he asked.

Fifteen thousand. I shall be a better catch than Sara. She has only ten.

Both dots were large enough to generate interest in the provinces. Sir Swithin, with a large fortune of his own and access to the mightier dowries of London, was not impressed. Of greater interest to him was Sara’s romantic history. Then, too, the summer would be long, since he had left London early. A man required a flirt, and a flirt who had no real interest in marriage was always Sir Swithin’s preferred sort.

You shall have a handle to your name, if you wish it, my pet. I shall see what I can do in the way of putting you forward.

Will you have your ball?

"Perhaps. But first you must do a little something for me. I wish to paint Sara. I have been devoured by an exquisite idea for a painting. I envisage the misty glow of Botticelli at his apogee. I refer to the Birth of Venus, of course. My fingers itch to ply my brush. Will you help me convince her?"

Mary pursed her lips and frowned. I will if you’ll have a ball and invite all the London smarts and swells.

A haggler! You sound like a London merchant, Miss Mary.

She flounced her shoulders. I don’t care if I do.

Fair enough. Clap hands and a bargain. She gripped his delicate fingers in her strong ones and squeezed. He winced. Mind you don’t tell your sister I’m bribing you.

She may not do it, Mary warned. We’ll need some incentive.

"A mild flirtation, of the à suivie sort, perhaps?" Idle mused, touching his finger to his chin.

"Sara doesn’t flirt. I could tell her I’m interested in you, but she’d never believe it."

Sir Swithin’s blue eyes narrowed perceptibly. One does not look for discrimination in the young. You are much too raw to appreciate my style. Use what persuasions you like, but convince her, if you want that ball. Now ‘Drink, pretty creature, drink.’ That too is Wordsworth—to a lamb, if memory serves.

He finished his own wine and took his leave. The bouquet of flowers remained on the table, wilting in the sun. Perkins tossed it under the table. Mary darted into the house. Where’s Sara, Mama? she asked excitedly.

She went to the orchard to gather some blossoms. Leave her alone, Mary. That wretched Idle has got her thinking of Peter again. It is always the worst in May, just the season when Peter— The wedding was to be on the nineteenth. It will be six years tomorrow.

Mary bit her lip. I’ll speak to her later, she said, and went out to romp with the dogs. Her mother, watching from the window, realized that Mary was only grown up on the outside. Beneath her curls she was still ten years old.

* * * *

In the orchard Sara wandered beneath the trees. The blossoms were mostly on the ground now, perfuming the air with the cloying sweetness of flowers in decay. The fallen petals gave the illusion of walking through snow. She and Peter had walked here the day before their wedding. How tumultuously excited she had been, wondering if she dare tell him. And in the end, she hadn’t, of course.

How did you tell a man, on the very eve of your nuptials, that you didn’t want to marry him? Had Peter sensed it? Is that why he had left? No, he hadn’t suspected anything. He wasn’t a sensitive man. Oh, Polly! She is only a servant. That doesn’t mean anything, he had told her in a huffy way, and she had been too shy and uncertain to cancel the wedding. Why had she ever accepted an offer from him? Of course, he was damnably handsome, with the Haldiman dark good looks. Much more handsome than his older brother. And he was a nobleman. Everyone had been so amazed at her fortune, Mama and especially Papa.

Heady with the success of having captured a handsome nobleman, she had really accepted him because her father had been so thrilled at the offer. And within two years, Papa was dead. If she had accepted to please him, his pleasure would have been short-lived, but she would have been stuck with Peter for the rest of her life.

A shiver of relief trembled up her spine. She felt horrid, having everyone think she was grieving when Peter disappeared. Eventually they assumed he had drowned. Her primary emotion had been relief, then sorrow for Peter’s death, then guilt. When had the guilt crept in? Wishing she had the courage to break off with him hadn’t killed him. That was irrational. And really, what was the point in telling anyone the truth after Peter was gone? It was easier on everyone, including herself, to just let the world go on thinking she was heartbroken.

Peter would have made a wretched husband. He used his good looks and good

Reviews for The Merry Month of May

[quibee · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

A woman's fiance disappeared 6 years before, much to her relief. Then he comes back and everyone expects her to accept him again.