“High praise indeed. Why not make it a portly dame and have done with it?”
“Not for another ten years. I have aged you with my poor praise, is that it? But you surely need no reassurance as to your appearance. You and your cousin are the fairest flowers in the room. It is hard to tell which is the more beautiful specimen.”
“Most people have no trouble telling which is the more beautiful,”
she replied. “It is quite clear, I think.”
He compared them judiciously. “You’re right. You have the definite edge, but it is unbecoming in you to say so yourself,”
he said with a smile.
“I didn’t mean that! You know she is much prettier. In fact, it is no comparison at all. I am plain and I know it.”
“Another bad trait—putting yourself down to worm more compliments out of me. But I’m not so stingy that you need resort to tricks. The fairest of them all, as usual.”
“Don’t be absurd,”
she answered, flustered at the flattery. “Everyone knows Sara is beautiful.”
“Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder.”
“You are indebted to Mr. Fellows for that striking truism, I assume. A pity he hadn’t remembered comparisons are odious. When the beholder’s eye becomes so purblind as yours seems to be, it is time he looked into a pair of spectacles.”
“Or better, through them, but my eyes aren’t that far gone yet. Oh, they blur out the crow’s foot and the spots, no doubt.”
“They must also deprive you of the sight of a dimple, must they not?”
“Have you a dimple, Miss Watters? You should try a smile once in a while to show it.”
“We thin, sour females have no truck with smiles.”
“Don’t lay Fellows’s compliments at my door. Vent your ill humor on him, if you are determined to be nasty. I came in peace and charity.”
“You may keep your charity.”
“But not, it seems, the peace. I perceive a frost setting in, and here it is only October.”
“I’m surprised if you
do perceive it. I hadn’t thought you were perceiving anything beyond the set of dashers you have brought in to liven up your little party.”
He looked at her in a knowing way that infuriated her. “So that’s it! Tell me, is it their presence or my attendance on them that has you in the boughs?”
“I am not in the boughs.”
“I beg to differ. Right up there in the branches with the jays and crows and other bird-witted creatures.”
“If you want the truth, then, I think it was a perfectly scandalous thing to do, bringing in loose females to—to influence men’s voting.”
“They would stare to hear you describe their activities so euphemistically.”
“Yes—well, the less said about how they mean to do it, the better in polite company, but that is why they’re here, isn’t it?”
“Their main aim is to fill their pockets, and they will certainly do it in that manner too low to be mentioned in polite company. If they can swing a few votes in the process, well, that is only incidental.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself. I’m ashamed for you.”
“You owe me an apology, for once. I do draw the line at whore-mongering, believe it or not. It was Reising who brought them in. There are limits to how low I will sink, even for the party.”
“It is you who is chummying up to them. But perhaps it has nothing to do with politics.”
“Wrong again! It has only to do with politics. Since they are here, I don’t want them upsetting the applecart. This stunt does more harm than good. No man is going to be swayed to vote for anyone only on a—er—female’s suggestion. I merely pointed out to them the Tories with the deepest pockets. Once they have frisked the squires of a pony or so and bolted back to London, I wonder whether their gents won’t be eager to vote against the dashers’
advice. Tell me now, do I reason wrongly?”
“Not you, Machiavelli!”
she charged. “Never a wrong step.”
“Why does that sound so awfully like an insult, I wonder?”
“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”
“At least it is an old insult. If that is the worst you have to say of my conduct, or lack of it, I don’t despair. We may see a little St. Martin’s summer yet before the evening is out.”
He saw no signs of it in Miss Watters’s direction, however, and commented to himself that despite his reputation, he seemed to have made some wrong step.
Miss Watters turned her head quite in the opposite direction, and there was a silence between them till the music struck up.
“Well, Beanpole,”
he said unceremoniously, “there is a waltz striking up and you’ve let Sara walk away with Fellows right under your nose. You are stuck to jig with me. A fine dancer—only two left feet, of course, and no sense of rhythm.”
“If you’re sure the London molls can spare you,”
she answered, cajoled into a brief smile.
“Oh, I didn’t dance with them. I am too top-lofty for that. Just gave ‘em a little advice to make sure they didn’t go interfering with my Whigs.”
He led her to the floor, where his two left feet contrived rather well to follow the music. “Why didn’t you dance with Fellows when I asked you to?”
he inquired.
“You didn’t ask me, you
told
me. I am not in your employ, like the flash culls.”
“I would have been happy to pay you,”
he said, smiling and refusing to take offense at her continuing pique. “You know how free I make with other people’s money. You might have earned yourself a good sum. Why should the dashers be the only ones to profit from this little shindig?”
“There isn’t enough money in all the Whig coffers to make me go along with your stunts.”
“You have gone along with them without a penny till now. Has Alistair perverted your reason? Are you turning Tory on me? I noticed you two laughing it up. Bad enough he has snatched Sara on us; don’t you succumb to his blandishments too.”
“Till after the election, you mean.”
“Not ever I mean, Sourpuss.”
“I think you should limit the number of your flirtations, Mr. Hudson. Not even you, with all your light-fingered skills, can juggle so many of us at one time.”
“Bungled, have I?”
he asked humbly. “I hope I have not dropped the important ball.”
“Miss Ratchett seems to be in good spirits still,”
she assured him.
“I never thought you’d be the jealous type,”
he answered, remaining unoffended. She felt a perfect fool to be made to feel jealous by a man who had not distinguished her by any more attention than he had shown to other girls in the community.
“I have nothing to be jealous of.”
“I am glad you realize it,”
he told her, his dulcet tone removing any ambiguity from the words. The look that accompanied this speech confirmed his meaning.
“As if I would be jealous of a man who came here to bribe and corrupt and tear down barn doors and flirt with—with dashers!”
“And rich Cit’s daughters. Don’t leave out Miss Ratchett. I have a notion she is offense number one. Dare I suggest even the
casus belli
between us? The very
sine qua non
of our little misunderstanding, for I refuse to believe you are foolish enough to be jealous of dashers. But Tony’s latest scholarly acquisition—and it will be my last detour into Latin, I promise you—gives me some hope.
Amor omnia vincit.”
“I don’t understand Latin,”
she said a little mendaciously, for she knew at least this phrase well enough.
“I won’t bore you with a translation. I have an idea you’re determined not to understand English tonight either, as spoken by me. Well, it is a great pity, for there was something I was particularly looking forward to telling you.”
“What is it?”
she asked, curious and also somewhat mollified by his cajolery.
“Oh no, I don’t mean to reward you for all your hard words, Miss Watters. I have learned not to practice my bribery and corruption on
you.
Let us by all means keep pure Watters pure. You must wait and read it in the papers tomorrow, like everyone else.”
“But what is it?”
“Try a little bribery of your own. You well know I’m corruptible. Very.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it,”
he said teasingly, and laughed. “What would a pretty young girl—or even a fine figure of a woman—use to bribe a man?”
“Money, of course,”
she answered with a studied obtuseness.
“Just for that, I really won’t tell you. I can be a stubborn oaf too,”
he said, and refused to be talked around.
The dance was over too soon, and Miss Watters was at too high a tide of jealousy to put
forth her best efforts at bribery, and so she never found out. She knew perfectly well Mr. Hudson was making fun of her, the more so as he went directly from her to Miss Ratchett and sent her a mocking smile across the room. He was obviously an incorrigible flirt, and she an irreclaimable idiot to lose as much as a minute’s composure over him.
For the remaining quarter of an hour allowed her at the dance she didn’t look at a soul but Mr. Alistair causing Sara to think her cousin was not really so nice as she had come to imagine. The party had reached such a rowdy level by this time that even the presence of Lord Allingham could not induce Martha to remain. There was some little confabulation then, as it was not desirable for the ladies’
escorts to leave the field to the Tories, yet they must have one gentleman, at least, to see them home.
A successful solution was for Lord Allingham to take them, and with unhappy hearts Sara and Lillian were taken away, leaving behind Mr. Alistair and Mr. Hudson to make up to all the fortunate females (including Miss Ratchett), who were not too high-born to stay at such a wild frolic as the harvest ball was becoming.
Miss Martha Monteith slept ill the night after the ball. Having learned from Lord Allingham that Mr. Hudson was not only heir to a barony, but a very rich gentleman, in his own right, as well as a man of huge consequence in the party, she lay awake for two hours trying to decide what to do with him. It seemed to her he had shown a marked preference for Sara’s company, taking her to dinner and standing up first with her.
On the other hand, there was Mr. Fellows residing so wonderfully close to New Moon. It would be very handy for Melanie to have Sara married on her own doorstep. Then, too, there was the little detail of Sara being a fool, whereas Mr. Hudson was a clever man who might possibly require a sharp wife to help him in his party doings. That pointed to Lillian, but there back in Yorkshire was Mr. Thorstein and his fine estate, his fortune, and his shelves full of lovely woolen goods.
It was a new problem to have too many beaux to go around, and she dickered with herself as to which of them was expendable. She passed over Mr. Alistair entirely—not that she had failed to observe his interest in Sara, she wasn’t that blind—but only because four beaux for two girls was too much. His being a Tory would not in the normal way have been any impediment, but in the midst of a heated-up campaign it served as an excuse to eliminate him and get the number down to manageable proportions. The problem was still unresolved when she arose in the morning in a cross mood as a result of her lack of sleep.
Martha had a chance to gauge Mr. Hudson’s preference in the matter of a bride very soon after arising, for he had relented during the past hours and decided to inform his cohorts of his news before it was made public in the papers. He and Fellows came to call on their way to the village.
“We are just on our way to Crockett to meet Mr. Telford,”
Mr. Fellows told the four ladies.
“Indeed, and who might Mr. Telford be?”
Martha inquired eagerly, wondering if she had yet another possible husband to dispose of.
“He builds canals,”
Fellows told her.
“And bridges, Tony,”
Hudson reminded him.
“Has it to do with a bridge for the river?”
Lillian asked,
“Yes, by Jove. If those Tories think to keep all the treats for their own ridings, Matt and I will have Telford throw a bridge across the Severn for us Whigs to use.”
It was necessary for Mr. Hudson to explain the nature of the plan. “The Tories promise a bridge every election, but they have not delivered it yet, and there is no reason to think they will do so this time. We have been in touch with Mr. Telford, a marvelous engineer who has constructed many canals and harbors and bridges, and have got him interested in trying out a new sort of bridge that was erected in America fifteen years ago. It’s called a suspension bridge. Towers are built on either side of the river. Chains are laid across with hanger-rods suspending, and a roadway is held by the rods. It sounds precarious enough, but it is a very solid sort of construction, actually, if it is engineered properly, and Telford is the best.”
“It sounds awfully risky,”
Sara said, picturing a road swaying in the breeze suspended from a couple of chains.
“It is a novel and very ingenious idea, I think,”
Hudson told her. “Telford is very excited about it.”
“Who will pay for it?”
Martha asked.
“The people who use it,”
Hudson replied.
“Mr. Hudson, you cannot think that will get you any votes,”
Lillian said feelingly. “The cost would be enormous. You’ll lose even your Whig votes if you go ahead with this.”
“Already told you, I ain’t paying a penny!”
Fellows reminded him with a wounded countenance. “Dipped into my own pocket to the tune of five hundred pounds already. Had no notion it was so dear to become an M.P.”
“How will it be financed, exactly?”
Martha asked.
“The money has been raised locally from wealthy citizens. The cost is not so great as you might think, for Telford is mainly interested in the welfare of the people and in trying a new technique, so he doesn’t look to make much profit from it. The incentive for the builders to use their own money is that it is a private bridge—they have bought the land on either side of the river where the bridge will begin and end, and they will charge a toll for using it.”
“The Tories wouldn’t make us pay no toll,”
Fellows grouched.
“The toll will only be levied on carriages and perhaps mounted riders. We haven’t worked out all the details, but foot-passengers—the poor, in other words—will not be required to pay. The revenue will come out of the pockets of those who can well afford it, and they won’t all be local people by any means. Over the years the cost will be paid off, and it will provide a good return on the investment of the builders. It is bound to lead to an improvement in the roads with the traffic it will bring, but the Tories can foot the bill for that.”