Something Wonderful (Sequels 2)

"Then act like a nice girl and mind your tongue!" Sarah snapped.

Alexandra sighed as the full weight of her responsibility for this household settled around her again and drove away all thoughts of forty-five-course dinners. "I'll go and speak to Uncle Monty," she told Mary. "I'm sure he won't do it again," and then with smiling candor, she added, "At least, he won't do it if you don't bend over within his reach. Sir Montague is something of a… well… a connoisseur of the female anatomy, and when a female has a particularly well-rounded bottom, he tends to show his approval with a pat—rather like a horseman who pats the flank of a particularly fine thoroughbred."

This speech had the effect of flattering and subduing the peasant girl, since despite Montague Marsh's ungentlemanly behavior, he was nevertheless a knight of the realm.

When everyone had left, Sarah glowered gloomily at the empty room with the Gazette left upon the bed. "Something wonderful," she snorted, thinking with bitter sorrow of the seventeen-year-old girl who was trying, without complaint, to carry the burden of a bizarre household whose only servants were a stooped, elderly butler who was too proud to admit he was going deaf and a hopelessly nearsighted footman. Alexandra's family was as much a burden to her as her servants, Sarah thought with disgust. Her great-uncle Montague Marsh, although good-natured, was rarely sober, while never drunk enough to overlook any opportunity to show his amorous attention to anyone wearing skirts. Mrs. Lawrence, Alexandra's mother, who should have taken charge after Mr. Lawrence died, had abdicated all responsibility for the running of Lawrence House to Alexandra, and was the greatest of Alex's burdens.

"Uncle Monty," Alexandra said in a mildly exasperated voice to her father's uncle, who'd come to live with them two years ago when none of his closer relatives would have him.

The portly gentleman was seated before the feeble fire, his gouty leg propped upon a footstool, his expression soulful. "I suppose you've come to ring a peal over me about that girl," he muttered, eyeing her with baleful, red-rimmed eyes.

He looked so much like a chastened, elderly child that Alexandra was unable to maintain a suitably stern demeanor. "Yes," she admitted with a reluctant little smile, "and also to discover where you've hidden that bottle of contraband Madeira your friend Mr. Watterly brought here yesterday."

Uncle Monty reacted with a poor imitation of righteous indignation. "And who, may I ask, dared to presume there is such a bottle present in these rooms?"

He watched askance as Alexandra ignored him and began methodically and efficiently searching his favorite hiding places—beneath the cushion of the settee, under his mattress, and up the chimney. After trying a half-dozen other places, she walked over to his chair and held out her hand good-naturedly. "Give it over, Uncle Monty."

"What?" he asked blankly, shifting uneasily as the bottle of Madeira beneath him poked him in one side of his ample rear end.

Alexandra saw him shift and chuckled. "The bottle of Madeira you're sitting upon, that's what."

"You mean my medicine," he corrected. "As to that, Dr. Beetle told me I'm to use it for its curative benefits, whenever my old war wound kicks up."

Alexandra studied his bloodshot eyes and rosy cheeks, assessing the extent of his inebriation with the expertise that came from two years of dealing with her reckless, irresponsible, but lovable old uncle. Stretching her hand nearer to him, she insisted, "Give over, Uncle. Mama is expecting the squire and his wife to supper, and she wants you there, too. You'll need to be as sober as a—"

"I'll need to be foxed in order to endure that pompous pair. I tell you, Alex m'gel, the two o' them give me the shudders. Piety is for saints and saints aren't fit company for a flesh-and-blood man." When Alexandra continued to hold out her hand, the old man sighed resignedly, lifted his hip and withdrew the half-empty bottle of Madeira from beneath him.

"That's a good fellow," Alexandra praised, giving him a comradely pat on the shoulder. "If you're still up when I return, we'll have a cozy game of whist and—"

"When you return?" Sir Montague uttered in alarm. "You don't mean to go off and leave me alone with your mama and her insufferable guests!"

"I do indeed," Alexandra said gaily, already heading off. She blew him a kiss and closed the door on his mutterings about "expiring from boredom" and "being cast into eternal gloom."

She was passing her mother's bedchambers when Felicia Lawrence called out in a frail but imperious voice, "Alexandra! Alexandra, is that you?"

The angry note in her mother's plaintive voice made Alex pause and mentally brace herself for what was bound to be another unpleasant confrontation with her mother over Will Helmsley. Squaring her thin shoulders, she stepped into her mother's room. Mrs. Lawrence was seated before a dressing table, wearing an old mended wrapper, frowning at her reflection in the mirror. The three years since her husband's death had added decades to her mother's once-beautiful face, Alex thought sadly. The vivacious sparkle that had once lit her mother's eyes and enlivened her voice had faded, along with the rich mahogany color of her hair. Now it was dull brown, streaked with grey. It wasn't just grief that had ravaged her mother's face, Alex knew. It was also anger.

Three weeks after George Lawrence's death, a splendid carriage had drawn up at their house. In it was Alex's beloved father's "other family"—the wife and daughter he'd been living with in London for over twelve years. He had kept his legitimate family tucked away in near-poverty in Morsham, while he lived with his illegitimate one in grand style. Even now, Alex winced with pain as she recalled that devastating day when she'd unexpectedly come face to face with her half-sister in this very house. The girl's name was Rose, and she was excessively pretty. But that didn't hurt Alex nearly so much as the beautiful gold locket Rose was wearing around her slender white throat. George Lawrence had given it to her, just as he had given one to Alex. But Alex's was made of tin.

The tin locket, and the fact that he had chosen to live with the lovely little blond girl, made her father's opinion of Alex and her mother eloquently clear.

Only in one area had he treated both his families equally—and that was in the matter of estate: He had died without a shilling to his name, leaving both families equally penniless.

For her mother's sake, Alex had buried the pain of his betrayal in her heart and tried to behave normally, but her mother's grief had turned to rage. Mrs. Lawrence had retired permanently to her rooms to nurse her fury, leaving everything else to Alex to handle. For two and a half years, Mrs. Lawrence had taken no interest in her household or her grieving daughter. When she spoke, it was only to rail about the injustice of her fate and her husband's treachery.