Madcap Miss

by Joan Smith

  “Wouldn’t you know it,” Whewett said with a shake of his head as he and Grace hurried upstairs. “I knew we wouldn’t get away without that woman spotting us together.”

  “She didn’t believe a word of it!” Grace warned him.

  “Nosey old bint. It will keep her busy trying to figure it out. This is Mary’s room, “ he said, and tapped on the door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A less harried perusal of Lady Dewitt showed Grace a pretty brunette matron in her late twenties. There was a resemblance to Whewett, particularly around the eyes. Those gray eyes were full of mischief at the moment. “I am bursting with curiosity to hear all about it. Did you pull it off?” Lady Dewitt demanded, drawing them into the chamber.

  “Do you take us for amateurs, Sis?” Whewett asked, laughing. “Of course we pulled it off. Miss Farnsworth is a famous actress. She speaks of tackling Covent Garden next season.”

  “Do be serious,” Mary chided.

  “Where’s Gussie?” was his next question.

  “I had Invers take her out so we would have some privacy. You mentioned Grace—Miss Farnsworth would want to change her clothes. Charming, Miss Farnsworth,” she added, with a smile at the bowed tails of her hair. “You make an excellent child.”

  “An excellent lady, too,” Whewett added.

  Lady Dewitt showed Grace into the next room to change into the garments contained in a bandbox. “Where did you find such a good replica of Doll?” she asked her brother when the door was safely closed.

  “You noticed it, too. Quite a striking resemblance, particularly when she lets her hair down.”

  “A telling speech!”

  “I mean that literally, Mary. How the deuce did you find out about Doll?”

  “It was no secret, dear heart. When the local lord takes up with a dashing article like Dolly, everyone knows about it, even innocent young sisters. It was a scandal. Irene only dead six months, too. We were shocked and horrified you would marry the chit in a fit of lonesomeness or stupidity.”

  “I wasn’t that stupid. I was lonesome, though, and she was a taking little thing, Doll.”

  “All the gentlemen thought so. Took up with anyone who came along and took anything they offered, too. How could you have been such a clunch, Alfred?”

  “You wouldn’t understand. I felt half-dead myself when Irene died so young. There seemed no point in anything. Doll was warm and full of fun and alive, and, oh—what’s the use? It is ancient history. I never intended to marry her. She was just a woman.”

  “Mistress, I believe, is the usual term, to differentiate her from the less amusing of us.”

  “It is as good a word as any. Grace is actually nothing like her. There is some slight physical resemblance that strikes one at first. It is perhaps what first attracted me to her—” He stopped suddenly, as he realized he was being drawn on to say more than he intended. “Are you all packed up and ready to leave?” he asked, to terminate the subject.

  “Not till I squeeze an answer out of you. Is she decent, Alfred? This whole affair reeks most outrageously of impropriety. What, for instance, were the sleeping arrangements at Willowcrest?”

  “Highly unsatisfactory. We had separate rooms. She is a lady, Sis. A very proper young lady, who happened to be in a desperate situation. She still is.”

  “Desperate enough to accept the offer you obviously intend making?”

  “We shall see. Hush, she’s coming.”

  Grace walked in, transformed into her more mature self. “I don’t know what you must think of me, Lady Dewitt,” she said with a beseeching smile.

  “My brother has told me what I am to think,” Mary answered playfully. Upon receiving a heavy frown from Whewett, she added, “He tells me you are a superb governess.”

  “So she is, but mind, she don’t like to get up too early in the mornings,” he said.

  “Whewett!” Grace exclaimed, looking to him in alarm.

  “After she has been up all night with the children,” he added to his sister.

  “I should hope not indeed,” Mary said, mystified. There was an awkward moment’s silence, after which Mary resumed speaking. “I must tell you the story I have told Augusta. I said the girl at Lady Healy’s is my governess’s younger sister, in case she notices the resemblance. The young sister has gone to relatives far away. Augusta is too young yet to wonder what my governess’s sister was doing at Willowcrest.”

  “So much deception,” Grace said unhappily.

  “It will not be more than mentioned,” Whewett said.

  “You will want Gussie in the carriage with you, Alfred,” Mary continued, settling the details of their trip. “Shall Miss Farnsworth come with me?”

  “No!” he answered without a second’s hesitation. “It will be an opportunity for Grace and Gussie to become a little acquainted. Grace will come with us.”

  Grace looked apologetically to Lady Dewitt, knowing it would make more sense for her to become acquainted with her new employer. She mentioned it, but was quickly overridden.

  “You will have plenty of time to know me better at Downsfield before we leave for Ireland,” Mary mentioned. “Invers will bear me company on the trip.”

  They were interrupted by the return of Invers and Augusta. Formal introductions were made. Invers, Grace thought, was rather like her Miss Thomas. She must write dear Thomas a note after she reached Downsfield to tell her the end of the adventure. Lady Augusta was shy, quiet, and very curious. She kept looking at Grace but never ventured from her father’s side.

  Just before they left, she took a timid step toward Grace. “I am sorry your sister could not come with us to Downsfield, Miss Farnsworth. I hope I can meet her sometime. She looks very much like you, but not quite so pretty.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Whewett said. “I thought her sister was charming.”

  “He is teasing, Miss Farnsworth,” Augusta explained, blushing for his poor manners. “Papa is a wicked tease.”

  “Out of the mouths of babes!” Mary laughed. “Shall we be off? I have had the bags stowed on the carriage and settled up the bill earlier to save a few minutes. We can be home by this evening if we get an early start.”

  They rose to leave. “There is a present for you in the carriage,” Whewett told his daughter. “A doll, from your grandmother.”

  “I thought she hated me! And she was always so nice in her letters.”

  “She is nice,” Whewett said. “She was not feeling well. All the bother of selling Willowcrest, you know. She liked you very much. You would like her, too, if you knew her better.”

  “I don’t want to know her better, Papa. I think she is horrid. She looks like a witch.”

  Mrs. Sempleton readied herself for action when she espied the party coming out of the inn. As the footman opened the carriage door, she bounded from her post at the shop window next to the inn. “Where is Miss Jones?” she asked. Her eyes skimmed over Augusta, over Grace, and Lady Dewitt. “What have you done with her?” she demanded of Whewett. Her eyes skewed back to Grace. She had seen that blue serge suit before, and those bold brown eyes. Her face clenched into a fist of suspicion. “You’re Miss Jones!” she proclaimed loudly in an accusing voice.

  “I?” Grace asked, assuming an astonished face and employing her mature voice.

  “This is Miss Farnsworth,” Augusta volunteered.

  “May I know who you are?” Grace asked haughtily, “and what interest any of us are to you?”

  “You know who I am right enough. Don’t go with him, missie. He’s a depraved lunatic and not a lord at all, as he’s trying to con you, he is.” Her eyes slid to the lozenge on his carriage door, causing a pang of alarm.

  Grace looked to Whewett, her lips trembling. “What have you been up to, Whewett, to give this good woman such a low opinion of you?”

  “He’s deceiving you!” Mrs. Sempleton insisted. “I’ll call the constable. Don’t get into his rig, or you’ll never get out alive.”

 
“Yes, pray call the constable,” Whewett said politely. “I want to have you arrested for being a common scold. Dunking, like a witch, is the traditional punishment. Good day, Mrs. Sempleton. Hop in, Grace,” he said, turning to his companion.

  Grace was not tardy to escape into the carriage, with Gussie and Whewett right after her. The door was closed, and with Mrs. Sempleton still looking on in disgusted rapture, they were off.

  “I knew it,” Grace said. “We should have given the poor soul some explanation.” She noticed Augusta’s curious look and fell silent.

  “It was inevitable,” Whewett agreed. He looked out the window and waved at the woman. She was so distraught, she waved back before she thought what she was about. In lieu of going to the constable, she took the story to her husband. He was so well accustomed to her imaginings that he paid very little heed.

  “Who was that woman, Papa?” Augusta asked.

  “Just the village lunatic. She is mistaking Miss Farnsworth with her young sister. Pay her no heed,” he answered, then was struck with the happy idea of diverting Gussie with the doll.

  “Grandma had a skipping rope for you, too,” Grace told her, “but we carelessly left it behind.”

  “Good,” Augusta said with great feeling.

  The journey passed happily with chatter of Augusta’s trip to Ireland, and a game of “bury all your horses.” They stopped for a change of team and luncheon with Lady Dewitt at an inn in Maidstone and again just past Ashford for fresh horses and dinner. It was a long day’s drive. Darkness had fallen on the last lap from Ashford to Dover. Augusta rested her head on her father’s shoulder and fell into a doze. Grace, too, was tired, but found sleep impossible in a jostling carriage.

  “Whewett, are you asleep?” she asked softly.

  “No, I thought you were. It isn’t much farther. There—Gussie is snoring. She’s tuckered out.”

  “Was it a horrid thing we did, keeping Lady Healy from knowing her granddaughter?”

  “I feel some slight regret, but they would not have hit it off. Grandma has a young relative to think and dream of in her declining days. The fortune was always meant for Gussie, so there is no crime or sin in it. Are you having qualms of conscience?”

  “Yes. I miss the old harpy, too.”

  “So do I,” he answered, but in a dreamy way that suggested his mind was elsewhere. They sank into silence.

  It was late when they arrived. Grace saw no more of Downsfield than a long facade of pale stone and an impressive carved oak doorway. A few windows in the lower story showed light. “We’re home,” Whewett said with a certain proud satisfaction.

  Augusta was awakened to enter the house, rubbing her eyes sleepily. Grace looked at a vast expanse of marble hallway, with a view of an elegant saloon off to the right and a graceful staircase curving upward. Before she had time to examine anything in detail, there was a flurry of running servants, of lighting more lamps, of ordering food, and arranging rooms for Miss Farnsworth and for Lady Dewitt, whose carriage was following not far behind them.

  “The blue suite for Miss Farnsworth,” Whewett said, and a maid took her upstairs.

  Grace looked around the well-appointed chamber, with blue velvet window hangings and a pale ivory carpet spangled with gold roses and greenery. Mahogany furnishings reflected the gold of lamplight in their cherry depths.

  An adjoining door gave her a glimpse of a private drawing room. This was obviously one of the better guest rooms, not the sort of accommodation a governess would expect. A canopied bed in the corner invited her to recline, but she must freshen herself to go below and meet Lady Dewitt when she arrived. They were all to have a late supper.

  As she brushed out her curls, she was aware of her pale cheeks and drooping eyelids. She was hungry and felt that bread and meat might revive her to a more pleasing appearance. A light tap sounded at the door. Was she being called downstairs already? Lady Dewitt had not been that close behind them.

  “Are you decent?” Whewett’s voice called.

  “More or less. Come in,” she answered, before remembering the new proprieties that must now be exercised between them. The door opened, and Whewett stepped in.

  After a shave and a change of shirt, Whewett looked as fresh as a new penny. “Actually I am indecently frazzled,” Grace said, unhappy with the contrast between them. “I look like an unmade bed, with my skirts all rumpled.”

  Whewett displayed a very proper disinterest in all her dishevelment. “You look good to me,” he said with a glowing eye. “Is your room satisfactory? Have you got everything you need—hot water, towels?”

  “I am wallowing in the very lap of luxury. I will be spoiled with all this pampering.”

  He handed her a check. “Here is your payment, to begin the process.”

  “Thank you,” she said and accepted it without demur. “Is your sister here yet?”

  “No, I wanted to speak to you before she arrives. We should go downstairs, I expect, but between us two disreputable thespians, one more rendezvous in your bedchamber can hardly matter.”

  “What is it you want to discuss?” She saw the air of uncertainty that had settled over Whewett and felt he was about to suggest some further payment for her chore.

  “I made a very stupid, awkward proposal to you before, Grace,” he said. Her pulse raced, and her breathing accelerated to light, shallow breaths. “I have been rehearsing it these few days in order to perform better this time. I am not looking for a mother to Augusta, and not for a marriage of convenience, either. Your reputation will recover from our escapade, for no one knows of it but Mrs. Townsend, and I don’t believe she knows any of your friends. You would be well treated and happy with Mary in Ireland.”

  Her pulse slowed, and a droop of disappointment settled on her shoulders. This did not sound like the hoped-for proposal, but a rationalization for withdrawing his offer. Yet he wore the tense air of a man on the edge of a momentous speech. “Yes,” she agreed in confusion.

  “All this is by way of making clear what I am about. What you behold before you is a foolish romantic, trying to tell you he loves you. Please don’t mention age. You are not one second too young for me. Am I too old—”

  “No!” she exclaimed swiftly. “Don’t be foolish, Whewett.” She looked, and through the eyes of love, she beheld a handsome, dashing young gentleman. “Oh, but you can’t marry me. I am a governess, and not a very good one, either.”

  “You are the most delightful, enchanting, madcap governess I have ever met, and you will make a superb Lady Whewett.”

  She looked at him hopefully, with wonder in her heart that he could love her. “Do you think Augusta will like me, though?”

  He grasped her hands. “I love you, Grace. I love you to distraction, and if you love me, that is all that really matters, for I cannot conceive of your being a wicked stepmother to Augusta. Gussie has opened her heart to modistes and clerks’ daughters. She will love you.”

  “We haven’t really known each other very long," she said doubtfully. “You and I, I mean.” His fingers tightened convulsively on hers, and his expression warmed.

  “Not long, but well, and under peculiarly intimate circumstances. What other couple was ever pitched together as we were? Why, I have seen you grow from an awkward adolescent to a ravishing young lady, right before my very eyes—in about two minutes, in my carriage.”

  She was reassured by the compliment but said, “I am not ravishing, Whewett.”

  “I think you are. You ravish me. In pinafores and in pigtails, in shiny suit and dashing bonnet, for better or worse, in sprained ankle and in health.” His voice assumed a husky burr as he spoke.

  His arms closed around her, crushing her against him for a long, heart-pounding moment. “Are you sure?” she asked.

  He tipped her head back from his shoulder and gazed at her, his eyes glowing, while a smile hovered on his lips. “I was never so certain of anything in my life. Right in there with death and taxes,” he said, before he lowered
his head to kiss her.

  Even on tiptoe, she had to stretch to get her arms around his neck. In frustration, he lifted her up from the ground, with his hands around her waist, and his lips clinging hungrily to hers.

  “You can put me down now,” she said, after a long kiss. Sense returned when her feet were again on the floor. “Oh! What about Mary? I am supposed to be working for her,” she remembered.

  “No, for me, you lazy little squab. Now get to work.”

  She resumed the first duties of a new fiancée, and her performance caused no doubt that she would provide an even more satisfactory wife than she had a daughter.

  Copyright © 1990 by Joan Smith

  Originally published by Fawcett Crest (ISBN 978-0449216958)

  Electronically published in 2015 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

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  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is

  coincidental.