Eliza turned over in the lumpy bed at the White Ball Inn and pulled the covers over her shoulder. She could hardly keep her eyes open. Yet the moment she closed them, she saw a pair of haunting blue eyes. A frustrated, gurgling sound issued from her throat. It should be Julian’s dark eyes she was seeing. After all, he was the man she loved.
The Beau might be handsome, but she knew better than to be swayed by his good looks. A rake like the Beau might be tantalizing and intriguing. But scandal married to scandal? Utterly ridiculous.
Eliza needed—wanted—intended to marry a man of honesty and character, a paragon of propriety, someone steadfast and reliable who would keep both her and Aunt Lavinia safe from care and worry. The Beau flunked that test, while Julian passed with flying colors.
Nevertheless, Eliza was grateful for Captain Wharton’s offer of escort. She had not been precisely sure of the way to London. Now she could make her journey with all good speed.
She pictured Julian in his hussar’s uniform and herself beside him holding a wedding bouquet of wildflowers, and with a seraphic smile, fell sound asleep.
Chapter 4
“Do you think we should wake her up?” becky asked.
Reggie stepped up to the iron-railed bed where Miss Sheringham lay sprawled sideways, sound asleep. “Uncle Marcus said Miss Sheringham was quite insistent last night that we leave at dawn. That is why he sent us up here so early with her traveling bag. He was sure she would need it to dress.”
Becky glanced out the window. “It is still dark outside. Maybe we could wait—”
Reggie dropped the cloth bag onto the hardwood floor beside the bed. “Uncle Marcus said we cannot have breakfast until we change our clothes and have Miss Sheringham comb our hair. And she cannot comb our hair while she is sleeping.”
Miss Sheringham yawned and stretched.
“She’s waking up,” Becky whispered.
The lady in question merely rolled over, pulled a pillow over her head, and lay still.
“Maybe we should go get Uncle Marcus,” Becky suggested. “He will know what to do.”
Reggie gave her sister a pitiful look. “I can handle this.” She leaned close to Miss Sheringham’s ear and shouted, “Wake up, Miss Sheringham! It is time to dress!”
Miss Sheringham bolted upright as though she were attached to a spring. She stared at Reggie in confusion, then glanced at Becky as though she were seeing double. She blinked her eyes, groaned, and said, “How did you two get in here?”
“The innkeeper has another key,” Reggie said. “Uncle Marcus told him to let us in.” Reggie thought it was a good thing Uncle Marcus had not come with them. Miss Sheringham did not look pleased.
“Uncle Marcus said you would not mind helping us change our clothes,” Becky said. She put a hand to the rat’s nest of straw and hair on her head and added, “And he was sure you would be glad to fix our hair for us.”
“He was, was he,” Eliza muttered, crossing her arms and staring daggers at the closed door.
Reggie knew very well when she was not wanted. Who needed her to comb their hair, anyway. “Come on, Becky. We should leave Miss Sheringham alone to dress.” She had to grab Becky’s hand and practically drag her away. “Come on,” she insisted. “Let’s go.”
“Wait,” Miss Sheringham said.
When Reggie looked back, Miss Sheringham’s arms were uncrossed. She stepped barefoot onto the hardwood floor and immediately tripped over the traveling bag Reggie had dropped beside the bed.
“What corkbrain put that there?” she yelped.
Reggie cringed.
Miss Sheringham’s arms windmilled to keep her enormous height upright. There was so much of her, Reggie was certain she would lose the contest and fall.
Miss Sheringham surprised her with an agile hop over the bag, a shoulder slam against the wall, and a bounce right back to the bedstead, where she stubbed her toe. The foot came up, and Miss Sheringham grabbed her toe and hopped around muttering “Ow, ow, ow.”
Reggie could not help it. She laughed.
Becky looked appalled. “Are you all right, Miss Sheringham?”
Miss Sheringham let her foot go and limped in a circle, testing her toe. “I believe I am.”
Reggie stared at the curious mixture of underclothing Miss Sheringham was wearing. The chemise was identifiable, but she could only guess at the other garment. “Are those men’s smalls?” she asked incredulously.
Miss Sheringham glanced down and grinned. “They are. My pantalets had too many frills to wear beneath a pair of breeches. Lumps,” she explained.
Reggie was fascinated, but wary of Miss Sheringham’s sudden return to friendliness. She reached for the doorknob.
“Don’t go,” Miss Sheringham said. “Please. I would be glad to help you change your clothes and fix your hair.”
“I would like that very much,” Becky said. She yanked herself free of Reggie’s hand and trotted back to Miss Sheringham.
Reggie’s lips puckered in disgust. Becky was a sap for a smile. Her sister was so gullible! Reggie knew better. Miss Sheringham did not really want anything to do with them. She merely wanted to impress Uncle Marcus. Ladies always did.
“I hope you will call me Eliza,” Miss Sheringham said. “I want us to be friends.”
Eliza wanted to impress Uncle Marcus, all right. “Sure,” Reggie said, her tone snide. “We’ll be glad to call you Liza.”
“Eliza,” Miss Sheringham corrected.
“Eliza,” Becky dutifully repeated with a smile.
Reggie stared, saying nothing. Good old Eliza was not going to whip her into line. Reggie had confronted the best governesses London had to offer, taken everything they doled out, and come out on top. Eliza was not going to find Lady Regina as big a flat as her sister.
Miss Sheringham turned away, apparently conceding the battle even before they drew arms. Reggie smirked in triumph.
But no one was looking.
“Where are the clothes you wish to change into?” Miss Sheringham asked Becky.
Becky pointed to a leather valise by the door.
“Would you bring it here, please, Reggie?” Miss Sheringham said.
“How do you know I am Reggie?” Reggie asked. “We are identical twins. No one can tell us apart.”
“I cheated,” Miss Sheringham admitted.
Reggie arched an inquiring brow.
“You have a hole in the knee of your stocking.”
Reggie admired cleverness. And Miss Sheringham appeared to have her share of it. Reggie picked up the valise with both hands. It bounced against her knee as she carted it over and hefted it onto the foot of the bed. “I do not see why we have to change. We will just be putting on a shift exactly like the one we already have on.”
Miss Sheringham opened the leather valise and rooted through it. “I see what you mean, Reggie,” she said. “Every one of these shifts is exactly the same. What do you suggest?”
Reggie looked down at her white shift and found a spot of cherry tart, another of gravy, and several more that were just plain dirt. “I suppose it will not hurt to start the day in something clean,” she conceded.
Reggie watched attentively as Miss Sheringham stripped Becky bare.
“We will all have to wait for a bath until we reach London,” Miss Sheringham said. “But there is no reason why we cannot freshen our faces.” She took a cloth, dampened it with water from the pitcher on the dry sink, and wiped Becky’s face clean.
Reggie watched as her sister closed her eyes and tilted her face up for Miss Sheringham’s ministrations. Becky acted like the water was warm and the cloth was velvet dipped in violet-scented soap. They were no such thing. Just cold water on a raggedy cloth.
Miss Sheringham had placed Becky right in front of her—not facing her, like every governess they had ever had—but with Becky’s back against Miss Sheringham’s front. Then Miss Sheringham bent over, her arms surrounding Becky, and held the pantalets for Becky to step into them.
> Before slipping the chemise over Becky’s head, Miss Sheringham said, “Arms up!” She crouched down and turned Becky to face her, tying the pink satin ribbons to close the front. She then rose and picked up a shift from the bed.
“That one’s mine,” Reggie said.
Miss Sheringham compared it to the other she had taken from the valise. “How can you tell?”
“The sleeve is torn.”
“So I see,” Miss Sheringham said. “What a clever way of marking what is yours, Reggie. It must always be a problem to identify what belongs to you, when you and your twin are always wearing exactly the same thing.”
Reggie had not even realized that was what she was doing. Now that she thought about it, everything she owned was ripped or torn or spotted. Which was how she knew it belonged to her.
“Now, let us see what we can do with this hair,” Miss Sheringham said to Becky. She had taken the silver-handled brush and comb set from the valise. She sat down on the bed, her legs spread wide—a posture Reggie might have used to incense her governess—and pulled Becky back between them.
“I will try to be careful,” Miss Sheringham said. “But if I hurt you, just yell.”
Becky glanced at Reggie from the corner of her eye, and Reggie shrugged. No governess had ever encouraged them to yell. Not even when they were truly hurt.
Reggie found herself crossing to the foot of the bed, where she could be closer to Miss Sheringham. She watched intently as Miss Sheringham brushed out all the tangles, making jokes as she pulled straw from Becky’s hair, about how it would have made a wonderful nest for the kittens.
Reggie was sure Becky would yell at least once.
But Miss Sheringham never pulled at the tangles. She stopped and worked them out. “I used to have the same knots and snarls when I was your age,” she said. “Do you know how my mother solved the problem?”
“How?” Becky asked, peering over her shoulder at Miss Sheringham.
“Braids.”
“Father would not approve,” Reggie said in her best stern-governess-imitation voice, which was not nearly so good as Becky’s.
“Father isn’t here,” Becky pointed out. “I would love to have braids, Miss Sheringham.”
“Uncle Marcus won’t like it either,” Reggie said stubbornly.
“Since your uncle asked me to fix your hair, he will have to accept the way I do it,” Miss Sheringham replied with a smile. “Or do it himself the next time.”
“Uncle Marcus does not know how to comb a lady’s hair!” Becky protested.
Miss Sheringham grinned. “My point exactly.”
By then, Miss Sheringham had plaited two braids down either side of Becky’s head and gathered them into a single braid at her nape, which she then tied with the bow that had previously hung from the crown of Becky’s head.
Miss Sheringham sent Becky over to the looking glass above the dry sink to inspect herself. “What do you think?”
Becky’s face beamed when she turned around. “Oh, Eliza, my braids are beautiful. I love them!”
To Reggie’s amazement, Miss Sheringham held her arms wide, and Becky turned and nearly threw herself across the room, right into them.
Reggie felt betrayed. If only she was as trusting as Becky, she might be the one being hugged right now. She watched her sister enviously. Perhaps Becky was not such a cabbage-head after all.
“Your turn, Reggie,” Miss Sheringham said, releasing Becky at last.
“I can dress myself,” Reggie heard herself reply sullenly. Nothing had changed really. Miss Sheringham had a motive for being nice. All the tenderness, even the hug, did not mean anything. They were done for a purpose.
“Of course you can dress yourself,” Miss Sheringham said. “So can Becky. But it is so much easier when one has help, do you not agree?”
Reggie nodded. She wondered how Miss Sheringham had figured out that Reggie would never go to her, and whether that was why Miss Sheringham walked over to take her hand. Reggie was surprised that she let herself be led back toward the bed.
Miss Sheringham wet the cloth again and wrung it out, then sat on the bed and pulled Reggie between her legs to wash her face.
“You have a scar I never noticed. Near your lip,” Miss Sheringham observed. “Now I will be able to tell you apart even without clothes,” she teased.
Reggie stared wide-eyed at Miss Sheringham. Not one governess had noticed the scar, though it had been there for as long as Reggie could remember.
She did not feel as embarrassed as she had thought she would when Miss Sheringham stripped off her clothes. She realized, now that she was the one within those encircling arms, that she felt protected by them,
Reggie stepped into the clean pantalets and felt Miss Sheringham’s warm breath on her cheek as she leaned down to pull them up. Reggie caught herself watching Miss Sheringham chew on her lower lip as she studiously tied the pink bow on Reggie’s chemise. She asked Miss Sheringham to help her put on her stockings and half boots before the shift went over her head and was buttoned up the back.
Then it was time for her hair.
“Let me know if I tug too hard,” Miss Sheringham said.
Reggie held her breath, waiting for the quick, no-nonsense brushing she was used to.
Miss Sheringham took her time. She picked at the straw, her head bobbing around every so often to look into Reggie’s eyes and make sure she was not just pretending it did not hurt.
Reggie had never felt anything so wonderful in her life. The slow, steady brush strokes made her feel weak in the knees. She wanted the brushing to go on forever.
She waited for Miss Sheringham to ask her if she wanted braids. She wanted them, all right. But if Miss Sheringham asked, she would be forced to deny herself, because she was the one who had pointed out how both Father and Uncle Marcus would disapprove.
To tell the truth, she was not at all certain Uncle Marcus would disapprove. He liked to do a lot of things that Father thought were wrong.
Reggie swallowed past the lump of misery in her throat. Miss Sheringham would be asking any moment now.
“There. All done. Go see how you like yourself in braids.” Miss Sheringham gave her a nudge toward the looking glass.
Reggie felt her heart thumping madly. She had braids? She reached up to touch. She had braids!
She walked over to the looking glass and studied the image reflected back at her. While she had been daydreaming, Miss Sheringham had produced braids exactly like Becky’s, even down to the bow at her nape. She loved them.
“Thank you, Miss Sheringham.” Drat! She should have called her Eliza.
“You’re welcome, Reggie. Anytime.”
Reggie was almost afraid to turn around, afraid Miss Sheringham’s arms would not be opened wide for her. But then she saw what she was looking for in the glass. Miss Sheringham’s gentle smile. And her welcoming arms waiting for a second little girl to turn and fly into them.
Reggie tried not to need it so much. Tried not to want it so much. Tried to slow herself down, so she did not look as foolishly exuberant as her sister had, leaping into Miss Sheringham’s arms.
Reggie pressed herself close, hid her face against Miss Sheringham’s chemise, and waited for those welcoming arms to fold around her. When they did, Reggie closed her eyes and exulted in the warm, lovely feeling.
Thank you, thank you, Eliza.
* * *
Marcus could not believe he had agreed to, even insisted upon, escorting a single, eligible young lady from an inn near her home to someplace she had no business going. Especially when the only chaperons in sight were a crusty old soldier and a pair of eight-year-old girls. He doubted whether they would satisfy the highest sticklers, but he did not want to involve anyone else in this escapade. The fewer people who knew about Miss Sheringham’s adventure, the better.
He should be taking her back to Ravenwood. But that would mean admitting he knew who she was. For reasons he did not care to examine, he was not willing to
do that.
He glanced at the upstairs window where the twins had disappeared. He had wanted very much to deliver Miss Sheringham’s traveling bag himself. Griggs had intercepted him and suggested the twins do it instead. Marcus had frowned at having his plans for an early morning tryst foiled. But Griggs had pointed out, quite reasonably, that if the twins took her bag upstairs, Miss Sheringham might be willing to do something with their hair.
Marcus had smiled ruefully and handed over the bag.
While he was standing on the porch of the White Ball Inn twiddling his thumbs, the twins came tramping down the outside stairway. He was pleased to see they were neat and clean and—wearing braids?
He grinned as they skipped up to him. “You look very different this morning, ladies.”
“We have braids!” Becky exulted.
“Eliza insisted,” Reggie said. Her expression turned mulish, and she settled her hands on her hips. “Eliza said if you don’t like them, you can fix our hair next time yourself!”
Miss Sheringham must know he would never venture into such deep waters. “I like them. I like them,” he said, laughing, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender.
“Oh, so do I,” Reggie said with a dreamy look. She ran her hand softly over her hair. “Eliza was careful not to pull our hair. I thought at first she was only being nice to impress you, Uncle Marcus. But no one could like you that much,” she finished ingenuously.
“I suppose not,” he agreed, his mouth twisting wryly. “I assume Miss Sheringham gave you permission to address her familiarly.”
The twins nodded vigorously.
“Eliza wants to be our friend,” Becky said. “I like her, Uncle Marcus.”
“I do, too,” Reggie said.
“Then we are unanimous,” Marcus said. “I like her, too.”
Reggie’s stomach growled. “I’m hungry, Uncle Marcus. Can we have breakfast now?”
“Where is Miss Sheringham?” he asked.
“She is still getting dressed,” Becky said. “She said for us to go ahead without her. She will get something when she comes downstairs to eat along the way.”
After the Kiss Page 6