"A lady has no need to apologize for marrying well, Lady Crieff. It is no new thing under the sun. May and December do not jog along together. That, too, is old history. December should realize it if May does not."
Yet he was annoyed that Lady Crieff had married an old man for money. She was young, with a young woman's passion. With her beauty, she could have married a young and wealthy gentleman. It seemed obscene to think of her in the arms of a gouty old laird. But of course she had assumed this veneer of gentility, which still slipped upon occasion, when she married her husband. As it was none of his concern, he soon spoke of other things.
When David returned, she rose. “Will two o'clock be convenient for our drive, Mr. Hartly?” she asked.
"Fine. I look forward to it."
Moira and Jonathon went upstairs. As soon as they were beyond hearing, she said, “What are they saying about us in the taproom?"
"Ponsonby used the term cream-pot love. They think you married Crieff for his blunt."
"But do they know about the jewelry?” she asked.
"I believe so. They lowered their voices when I was nearby, but I heard Ponsonby say to Stanby, ‘Where do you think she has them?’ I am sure they were talking about the jewelry."
"Good! And it all happened without our saying a word. That is the best way."
Jonathon sat looking out the window, the picture of youthful restlessness. “I wish we had brought our mounts. P'raps Cousin Vera can lend us a pair of prads. It is damned tedious sitting about all day."
"You brought your Latin reader,” she reminded him.
He groaned when she put the book in his hands and took up her embroidery to sit with him and make sure he worked. The morning passed in this quiet fashion.
At luncheon, Ponsonby flirted with Moira across the room, ostentatiously holding up his glass of water to toast her each time he caught her eye. The major stopped and gave her a box of sugarplums.
"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."
Chapter Seven
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.