by Sheila Walsh
‘But, Miss Charis, they’re ruined for sure!’ wailed Meg, uncertain whether or not to put down her own parcels in order to help.
‘Perhaps so, but that is no excuse for … for being too poor-spirited to own to one’s carelessness.’
She knew this for an unbearably smug pronouncement, an opinion confirmed by the gentleman’s quizzical look as he applauded her intention, congratulated Meg upon her good fortune in having a mistress possessed of such high ethical principles, and took the books from her, cradling them with the air of one performing the supreme sacrifice.
‘Pray allow me to find you a hack,’ he said solicitously.
The rain had now all but stopped. ‘Thank you,’ said Charis, ‘but that won’t be necessary. I live only a step from here.’ She held out her hands imperiously for the books, but he clasped them to his chest with equal determination.
‘Then I will carry them for you. No,’ he insisted magnanimously, ‘it is the very least I can do.’
If her appearance was indecent, his was incongruous to say the least ‒ his elegant clothes quite ruined by the deluge, his shoulders hunched a little against the knowledge. For a second it was all she could do not to giggle.
‘Very well.’ Charis turned and began to walk with as much indifference to her state as could be managed in squelching slippers. He fell easily into step beside her and Meg’s hurrying feet brought up the rear. She made no attempt to converse further and he seemed preoccupied. They came presently to a quiet, genteel street ‒ one of the many that clung with impecunious tenacity to the fringes of fashionable London ‒ and after a few steps Charis halted before a pleasant house with a gleaming brass doorknob, and faced about.
She was not accustomed to being dwarfed by a man. Her brother and his friends were mostly of a size, being perhaps one or two inches taller than herself, no more. With a conscious determination not to be overwhelmed by his sheer physical presence, she drew herself up to her full five feet eight inches, prepared as a final gesture to be gracious.
‘It is good of you to have taken so much trouble,’ she said politely. ‘This is where I live, so I will take the books now.’
‘You don’t think it would be better if I carried them right up to the door?’
His blue eyes were creased against a blinding shaft of sunlight as it pierced the gloom, so that she could not tell whether or not he was quizzing her. The faint movement of a curtain in the house opposite recalled her to her sorry state and how very singular it must appear, and quite suddenly she could not wait to run indoors.
‘Thank you, but no,’ she said hastily. ‘I can manage perfectly well.’
‘I feared you might be of that mind.’ As he surrendered the books, he contrived an exaggerated sigh. ‘Am I to go without even knowing who you are?’
‘I can’t see that it would be of any use for you to know,’ she retorted firmly, evading the issue and turning a little pink.
‘You don’t wish to pursue the acquaintance?’ he said regretfully. ‘Well, it is no more than I deserve. I dare say I was much too coming, though at the time the temptation was irresistible, believe me.’ His sleepy eyelids lifted hopefully. ‘You don’t suppose I might yet redeem myself?’
His idiocy was infectious and she was in grave danger of behaving in a quite improper manner. Her dimple quivered and was sternly suppressed.
‘I think not,’ she said firmly. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Such a final word,’ he murmured, still showing a maddening disinclination to leave. ‘I confess I had hoped … after so intriguing a beginning.’
Oh dear, this really would not do. She had made the mistake of looking at him, and an unwilling spurt of laughter escaped her.
‘My dear sir, life is full of little disappointments. You must strive to give your thoughts a higher direction!’
She thought there was an answering echo of a chuckle, low and deep.
‘You leave me little choice, fair divinity. I shall return to my lonely garret room to meditate upon my shortcomings.’
On this note of mock humility he bowed, tipped his hat, and went on his way with easy, loping strides. Charis watched him for a moment and then hurried up the path. Behind her, Meg sighed. ‘Oh, ma’am!’
Charis whirled round, with crimson flags flying in her cheeks. ‘Not a word!’ she charged urgently. ‘Especially to Emily!’
But if Charis had hoped to gain the sanctuary of her room undiscovered and uncensured, her hopes were dashed upon finding her way to the stairs barred by a small, elderly woman who waited like a plump, inquisitive blackbird, hands folded ominously across her rustling bombazine skirts.
‘Well, it’s a fine pair you make, to be sure!’ she said.
Charis met Emily MacGrath’s bright, roving eyes with a defiance betokening guilt.
‘We were caught in the storm, Em.’
‘I can see that, right enough,’ came the pithy reply. ‘Meg, there is hot water on the stove. When you have carried it up to your mistress’s room, you had best attend to yourself. Hurry now, child. We want no chills or inflammations of the lungs.’
The maid set the parcels down on the hall table, and with a swift, speaking glance at Charis, scurried to obey. The door to the kitchen slammed behind her and the sound died away into silence.
Charis waited for the inevitable reprimand. Mrs Emily MacGrath’s somewhat singular position in the Winslade household had from time to time vexed the minds of unsuspecting newcomers to the little house in Newsholme Terrace; too familiar by far to be dismissed as a mere servant, she yet lacked that veneer of gentility which would comfortably consign her to the role of ex-govemess or companion, thus giving rise to the dreadful uncertainty as to how one ought to address her or indeed respond to her forthright manners. If the newcomer happened to be one of her brother Tristram’s more pompous acquaintances, Charis was not above deriving a degree of innocent amusement from prolonging their uncertainty for as long as possible.
The simple truth was that Emily MacGrath had brought the twins ‒ for twins she and Tristram were ‒ into the world, more than twenty years ago, and when their mother’s frail hold on life had proved inadequate, their distraught father had begged Mrs MacGrath to remain and care for them. Widowed some years previously and with her own children grown and off her hands, she had been pleased to agree. Long before her charges had outgrown their need of a nurse, she had become an indispensable member of the family. In due time she advanced to fulfil with equal ease the duties of housekeeper and unofficial guardian of their behaviour and morals. And with the untimely death of Mr Winslade just over two years since (‘taken before his time, God rest him!’ as she confided to her bosom-bow, Mrs Arbuthnot ‒ ‘and leaving behind him a parcel of debts fit to make a rich man quail!’), it was in this last capacity that she saw her true vocation.
‘As for yourself, Miss Charis,’ she said now, making her mouth prim, ‘if you’ve come through the streets looking like that, it’s to be hoped that the good Lord took it upon himself to shield you from the lewd stares of the hoi polloi ‒ to say nothing of your giving that Mrs Huyton-Forbes opposite a nasty turn!’
The recollection of recent events caused Charis to flush bright crimson, but Emily’s interest had already taken a different direction so that she scarcely heeded the indistinguishable reply.
‘And what in the name of all that’s holy is it that you have there?’ she demanded.
Charis realised that she was still clutching the sodden bundle protectively to her breast.
‘They are … or rather, were library books, Em. I’m afraid I dropped them.’
‘Tch! Could you not have left them outside? Dripping all over my clean floor ‒ and that dress ruined, I shouldn’t wonder, with the colours all running down! Here, give them to me.’
Charis thrust the books at her and fled, thankful to have escaped a more gruelling inquisition. In the safety of her room, she closed the door softly and leaned back against it, striving to assemble her disordered thoughts
.
To be sure, the gentleman had behaved with shocking impropriety, but ‒ she caught her breath on the thought ‒ how must she have appeared in his eyes? She bit her lip, remembering that one crazy instant when she had known herself to be irresistibly drawn to him. Had he perhaps sensed that momentary lapse? If so, it might account for his having used her so … outrageously!
A sudden shiver recalled Charis to the present. With a discomforture that was not wholly physical, she moved away from the door, suddenly eager to be rid of all reminders of her foolishness, and in passing the dressing-table mirror, caught a glimpse of herself.
Oh, good God! She looked like some dreadful demirep with her muslins deliberately damped down in order to make them cling! If that was how he had seen her, small wonder that he thought … Here she pulled up short, her imagination boggling at the probable trend of his thoughts. She stripped off the offending garment with fingers that trembled, crumpled it into a ball, and flung it into the furthest corner of the room.
How could she have allowed herself to become embroiled in such a compromising situation? It was useless to plead innocence. She was far from being a green girl, for in her two and twenty years she had been about a great deal (though sadly not of late), and with her brother’s friends forever in and out of the house she was well used to dealing with young men ‒ except, she amended with scrupulous honesty, that none of Tristram’s friends would dream of treating her with such a ruthless disregard of her sensibilities. But then, the traitorous little voice at the back of her mind came again to taunt her, would she have felt that peculiar surge of exhilaration if they had? The unhappy truth had to be owned ‒ she would not.
Charis was deeply shocked by this revelation of her own shortcomings. A gently nurtured young lady ‒ his description, she ruefully recalled ‒ must surely have swooned away, or at the very least have suffered an intense agitation of the spirit upon being forcibly kissed by a strange man.
Not quite knowing what this made of her, she fudged the issue and proceeded to rub herself down with a briskness that left her pink and glowing. By the time Meg panted upstairs with the hot water, she had donned a fresh gown and coaxed her hair into some kind of order. Her normally ebullient disposition was in a fair way to being restored and she had managed to convince herself that it would be foolish indeed to refine too much upon a trivial incident that would be much better forgotten.
The decision was easily made, but less easily accomplished with the experience echoing over and over in her head. And then Tristram arrived home with a piece of news that drove all else from her mind.
Continue reading Improper Acquaintances by Sheila Walsh.
Read Improper Acquaintances now from Amazon UK
Read Improper Acquaintances now from Amazon.com
Read Improper Acquaintances now from Amazon AUS