Sweet and Twenty

Sir Gerald Monteith performed one act in his life not motivated entirely by self-interest—he married a penniless girl. Reviewing this misdeed in his maturer years, he blamed it on his sensibilities, of which he had not a jot. Melanie Herbert had been the loveliest vision ever formed by nature, hardly a woman at all, but an angel come to earth to wreak havoc among mankind, and her major havoc had been wrought on his own ambitions. A younger son, his duty was to marry a fortune, but at the crucial period of his life when the choice was to be made, he fell in love. Over the decades he had worked hard to make up for this one lapse, taming his small estate, New Moon, into a fairly thriving and profitable one. But he was not a rich man, and not a happy one.

Melanie’s beauty faded fast; her ripe charms reached their apogee when she was twenty-one and decayed rather swiftly. The vacant blue eyes which seemed at eighteen to hold promise of bliss held, at twenty-eight, no more than regret. She was pleasingly plump at twenty-five, stout at thirty, and fat at thirty-five. The charming innocence of eighteen stood revealed in later years as ignorance, and the sweet compliance of temperament as sloth.

At forty-five, Sir Gerald found himself hobbled with a fat, stupid, lazy spouse whose only strength was her constitution. She was as healthy as a horse. She hadn’t even given her husband a son, but a daughter who bid fair at seventeen to become a replica of herself. Sir Gerald marshaled his resources and determined “to wrest from the wreck of his life some profit.

Sara, his daughter, had all the physical attractions that had been her mother’s. This beautiful bloom was cultivated, nurtured, and tended with all the care given a rare orchid. Her manners were groomed to please the highest-ranking suitors; her face and form were tended with oils and exercise respectively, for no excess of fat must be allowed to build up on that celestial body till she was profitably disposed of in marriage. It was fairly well forgotten that under those golden curls there was a brain that might also have welcomed a little nourishment. No matter weightier than the weather was ever discussed with Sara, for fear of bringing a wrinkle to her perfect brow or a crow’s-foot to the corner of that incomparable eye.

But Fate had a cruel trick in store for Sir Gerald. In that same autumn before he planned to present Sara to society, he was stricken down with a heart seizure and died, without having a chance to give his wife instructions as to how to dispose of their daughter. Lady Monteith was left a widow with no more notion of how to keep house than her beautiful and near-witless daughter. Clearly they would sink into disaster if they didn’t find a new protector.

Indeed, the idea of getting along without a man in the house to look after them frightened them both out of their wits. Who would speak to bailiffs and butlers, who would give them their allowance? Who would tell them whether they could have a new gown, and advise them as to whether the sofa wanted upholstering and about the dozens of other matters that were as far beyond their own ken as the stock market?

Life would surely become a series of calamities. Lady Monteith had neither the energy nor the inclination, nor any longer the looks, to find
another husband herself, but it eventually dawned on her, at about the time the period of six-months’
deep mourning was up, that every gentleman they met on the street turned to stare at Sara. There seemed always to be a man there to help them out of their various difficulties, and within another month this needle-witted woman tumbled to it that it was Sara’s beauty that was the cause of attraction. Before too long she put two and two together and calculated that it was Sara and not herself who would find them a protector.

She took no action to bring any union about, but this soon proved unnecessary. Sir Gerald’s sister descended on them that fall for a visit, and from then on all she had to do was say, ‘Yes indeed, Martha. The very thing.’
It was almost as good, or as bad, as having Gerald back with them.

Martha was a spinster, not of the meek, submissive, and impoverished sort, but having a great deal of money in her own right, This was inherited from an uncle who had never seen her, and therefore had no cause to hate her. She devoted her life to helping those relatives whom she imagined to be in need of her services.

A tall, sharp-nosed, dark-eyed woman whose face was often likened to a hatchet, she ruled her relatives with an iron hand. She had taken on her sister’s daughter three years previously when she was orphaned, and Miss Watters had been brought along to New Moon with her, as she was not the sort of girl one dared leave alone. Not that she was bad or wild, but she had a mind of her own, which was a good deal worse in Miss Monteith’s view.

Neither was Lillian an ill-favored girl—she was fairly attractive in appearance —and Martha could have got her married off years ago if only she did as she was told. But without ever giving the least appearance of pertness or disobedience, Lillian managed to go pretty well her own way. Martha didn’t know whether she loved her or hated her but she knew she had met her match.

Lady Monteith was a different matter. She’d get her and her daughter settled up in the twinkling of an eye, and go back to Barnsley in Yorkshire and continue to pursue Mr. Thorstein for Lillian.

“Now, Melanie, what we must do is find a good match for your daughter,”
she decreed within a quarter of an hour of her arrival at New Moon.

“Yes indeed, Martha, just what I thought myself.”

“Who have you in mind?”

“I’m sure any of the gentlemen in the neighborhood would be happy to have her. They all dangle after her in the most marked way when we go to the village.”

“I don’t like the sound of that! She’ll soon be known as a flirt if she isn’t already. Let us have the names and the circumstances of them.”

“There is Harvey Osmond, so very dashing and handsome. He is always trying to set up a flirtation with Sara.”

“What are his circumstances?”

“He’s ever so handsome, always happy to carry a parcel or open a door or hold the horses.”

“Peagoose! Who is he?”

“He is Squire Osmond’s son. They have seven sons. Such a fine family as they are!”

“And Harvey is the eldest?”

“No, no. He is the youngest.”

Miss Monteith stared at her sister-in-law. “The
youngest?
Melanie Monteith, you’re a fool. What good is a youngest son to us? Not a square foot of ground to call his own, I daresay, and no prospects."

“His papa is trying to get him a position with some Member of Parliament—something of the sort. He is very clever, they say, though he didn’t go up to university. The youngest, you know ...”

“Do you wish to see your only daughter marry a clerk? Your wits have gone begging, woman,”
Martha snapped.

Melanie blinked her blue eyes twice slowly and smoothed a wrinkle on her gown. After a deal of cogitating she added, “There is Lord Ericson, but he
,
you know, is married.”

“He
will clearly do us a lot of good! Who else have you in
mind?”

At the moment, Melanie hadn’t a thing in her mind but a glass of ratafia, but she was just a little intimidated by Miss Monteith, who was so very like Gerald, so she bestirred herself to answer. “Any of the local beaux will be glad to have her. There will be no problem to finding her a husband now that we are out of mourning.”

“Who lives in the fine place—I think it was an abbey—I passed two or three miles down the road? Big wrought-iron gates with a swan worked into them?”

“Saint Christopher’s Abbey,”
Melanie told her.

“Who lives at St. Christopher’s Abbey?”
Martha asked, reining in her temper.

“A man called Anthony Fellows lives there.”

“Has he a son who is not taken yet?”

“No, indeed, he has no son at all. He is a bachelor.”

Martha could scarcely credit her ears. The next-door neighbor a bachelor of apparent affluence, and the ninnyhammer had never thought to consider him. His age, temperament, preference for a wife with a brain in her head—all were details. “He’ll do, then.”

“Gerald never liked him.”

“It will no doubt come as news to you, Melanie, but Gerald is dead. Dead and buried this twelvemonth. His plan of presenting Sara in London is gone with the wind; there isn’t money enough for that with the cost of settling the mortgage, and don’t think I mean to do it for you, for I don’t.”

This was a great injustice. Melanie had never given the matter much thought, save to sigh with relief that she would not have to go to London herself after Gerald passed away. A tear oozed out of her big eyes, not at the mention of her husband’s death, but at the sharp tone. She hated to be shouted at.

Unmoved, Martha forged on. “Tell me about this
Fellows. Well-to-do, I take it from the looks of the
place?”

“Yes, very well off. He always seems to have money for everything.”

“How large is the estate?”

“Very large.”
There was clearly no point in expecting a figure from this near-moron and Martha knew it, but she tried for a few more rough details that even Melanie might possibly know. “He has a good character?”

“Very good. No one ever says a word against him.”

It was a mere detail, but Martha decided to ask it. “What of his person—his age, appearance?”

“He’s youngish,”
Melanie said with a great yawn, only partially concealed behind her pudgy hand.

Martha was forty and Melanie not far behind her.

They both considered themselves youngish, and Martha, while she had no great objection to a gentleman in his forties, was curious enough to  inquire more closely.

“About our age?”

“Younger.”

“How young? Old enough to marry?”

“Oh my, yes, not that young, though he isn’t much interested in girls. He is about thirty.”

Miss Monteith would have preferred a slightly older gentleman. Thirty sounded young enough still to have a wild oat or so in him, and she was interested in propriety. “Well, I hope he is a good, solid, sensible sort of a man.”

“Very sensible. Quite serious.”

Coming from Melanie, it was a virtually useless statement. Unless he were a raving lunatic he would seem sensible to her. But Martha had heard enough. The very gentleman for Sara had been sitting under her nose forever, and she had done nothing to nab him. It was vexing in the extreme to have had this trip for nothing, just when Mr. Thorstein was on the verge of offering for Lillian. He was in the line of manufacturing, unfortunately, but very well to do, and he spoke of selling out and moving to his estate very soon. In the interim, Martha had access to woolen goods at a very good price—the usual price being a meal. He came to dinner as often as he was asked, and never empty-handed.

“We will call on Mr. Fellows tomorrow,”
Miss Monteith announced, and rose. “I am going to my
room now. I keep country hours.”

“So do we,”
Melanie said, happy at this coincidence. She considered it in no other light. One or the other of them having to shift her life habits about did not occur to her.

“Dinner at five,”
Martha added.

“That’s when we eat too,”
Melanie said, smiling, and poured herself a glass of ratafia as soon as she was left alone.

Sara Monteith and Lillian Watters had been allowed to stray into the garden to become acquainted, for Martha did not consider it any of the younger girl’s business what man should be chosen for her to marry. Though the garden was past its prime, it being the very end of September, a few roses and other flowers were to be seen, forming a pretty background for the girls. From a little distance, they both looked young and pretty and amused at each other’s company, but a closer inspection would have revealed an inequality in both appearance and amusement.

Miss Monteith had all the advantages. She
was the more attractive in appearance and was certainly more amused than her less well-endowed cousin, for it took very little to entertain her. She was content to sit gazing at a flower or a canary for half an hour at a stretch, and a person of very little conversation could hold her captivated endlessly. In fact, she preferred people who didn’t talk too much to those who asked hard questions.

She liked Cousin Lillian, although at first glance she had been a little frightened of her. She was old, for one thing—even older than twenty, and therefore an old maid. It always made her nervous, to see nature go so wrong and leave a poor woman with no man to cling to.

Then too she had those sharp black eyes that looked as though they knew things. She was afraid Cousin Lillian would be the kind of lady who asked her what books she liked, and whether she played whist, and even what she thought about Napoleon and Wellington or some of those soldiers who were always fighting wars in countries with funny names. The war had been over since June, but Sara had not yet discovered it. She was very happy to live in England where there were no wars, and never had been as far as she knew.

But her cousin had only asked one or two questions, and as soon as she had told her how much she enjoyed reading
Peter Pepper’s Perfect Day,
she hadn’t bothered her with any more talk of a hard kind. She had read
Peter Pepper’s Perfect Day
six times—once a year ever since she was eleven—and intended to plow through it again before Christmas. It was the best book ever written, and she often wished
she
could have such a perfect day. So clever the way the writer could think of hundreds of words all starting with a P. “Peter put pepper on his potato,”
and “Peter played a pipe,”
and “Peter pelted pips at people”—dozens of P’s on every single page. There was never another book like it. After she had told Cousin Lillian all about the book and offered to lend it to her, she had become very nice indeed, and for the past ten minutes they had been getting acquainted by silently looking at the leaves together and smiling.