A HELPING HAND
Captain Stanfield halted in the doorway. For a moment he thought he must have taken a wrong turn, for he did not recognize the fashionable young lady who sat with her back to the door.
“Pardon me,” he said, coming forward. “Are you lost? May I be of assistance?”
It was only when she turned around and he noticed her spectacles that William realized he was looking at Ariel. He must have said her name aloud, and with some astonishment, for she answered with some asperity.
“You needn’t say it as though you find my appearance so incredible or ridiculous.”
He moved forward a trifle more quickly than usual and found himself a chair to draw up next to hers.
“I think you look wonderful,” William said. “I was taken by surprise, only because I had not seen the lovely young woman behind the bun fastened at the back of your neck, the ink-stained fingers, the spectacles, and the old-fashioned dresses you wore. And my fingers itch to remove your spectacles and undo the bun, perhaps even to gather your hair up into a topknot, so that the curls would fall about your face.”
Miss Tibbles Interferes
April Kihlstrom
This book is dedicated to the memory of my father-in-law, Israel Gerver. I will always be grateful that he was part of my life. Among the things I am grateful for is the depth and breadth of his intellectual interests. It was in the personal and professional library he left behind that I found much of the information I needed for this book.
1
Ariel Hawthorne stared at her father. “All of this?” she asked bewildered. “How are you going to organize all of this on your own, Papa?”
The Honorable Mr. Richard Hawthorne waved a hand in the general direction of the unexpected largess. “Oh, I shall manage. It must be done, you know. The trustees are talking about building a new building, one with far more room, and they will expect everything to be cataloged by then. And you know that everyone else is busy with other responsibilities. No, no, we must do this ourselves.”
Ariel sighed and settled her spectacles more firmly on her nose. She loved her father; she really did. But he was the most impractical figure imaginable, a circumstance her mother had lamented until the day she died and consigned her husband to her daughter’s care. Ariel tried again.
“Why don’t you ask some of the soldiers who served in the war to help you catalog what is here?”
He paused and looked at her, then slowly smiled. “What a splendid notion. You are brilliant, Ariel, absolutely brilliant! That is precisely what I shall do! I shall go and write to my old friend Merriweather. We were friends at school together. He was a colonel in the Peninsula, you know. He will know what all these things are and where they came from. He may even have been present when some of them were collected!”
As her father hurried away to his office at the museum, Ariel stared at the piles of objects that had been brought here. Spoils of war, she thought, and not happily. She despised war. And however necessary it might sometimes be, she could not like the notion of celebrating something that had caused so much sorrow and death.
So intent was she on her thoughts that Ariel was completely unaware of the presence of any other person in the hall until that person cleared his throat.
Startled, Ariel turned to see a young man, one arm in a sling, leaning on a cane and staring at her. She took a step toward him, for he looked so pale that she feared he might collapse at any moment.
“I am very sorry, sir,” she said, “but this part of the museum is not open to visitors just yet. You must have gotten lost. If you will sit for a moment, I shall find someone who can take you back to the main hall.”
He waved her away. “I am not here to view the exhibits. My name is Stanfield, Captain William Stanfield, and I was sent here to help with the artifacts his lordship, Wellington I mean, has presented to the museum.” He hesitated, then added, “I served with him in the Peninsula.”
“Yes, but you ought to sit,” Ariel insisted. She grabbed the nearest straight-back chair and started toward him with it. “You look dreadfully pale. Are you certain that you are well enough to be here?”
“Yes, of course I am,” he said.
Captain Stanfield seemed to draw himself to his full height, and Ariel could not help but wish to smooth down his unruly dark blond curls or straighten the jacket that was slightly disarranged by the sling that cradled his arm. A sling, she realized with some surprise and amusement, that had been embroidered with lots of tiny flowers. But he was not smiling, and Ariel found herself wanting to ease the pain she thought she saw in his blue eyes, despite his claims to the contrary.
“I am here, and I shall do as I have been asked to do,” Captain Stanfield told her in an austere voice. “If
you will find Mr. Hawthorne and tell him I am here, I should be grateful, Miss—?”
“Miss Hawthorne,” she said with a smile. “And I shall go fetch my father straightaway, but only if you promise to sit in this chair until I return. I will not have you collapsing on me, as my father has done upon occasion!” For a moment he hesitated, then bowed slightly. “As you wish,” he said. “I should much dislike to be the cause of worry or distress for you.”
And with that parting shot, he sat on the chair she had pushed toward him. Ariel blinked, then turned on her heel and marched down the hall to her father’s office. She could not imagine what there was about the fellow that should overset her in such a way. She was, after all, accustomed to dealing with all sorts of men; so why should one injured soldier set her pulse racing in such a tumultuous way? And why on earth, she wondered, did he have flowers embroidered on his sling?
Captain William Stanfield stared after Miss Hawthorne. He had not expected or wanted to find a woman here at the British Museum. Granted, she seemed a sensible sort. She wore serviceable clothing and spectacles, and her blond hair had been drawn back into an unfashionable but practical knot at the base of her neck. Clearly she was here to work.
Stanfield sighed. He ought to be thinking about his assignment, not Hawthorne’s daughter. She was an unexpected complication, but surely one he could ignore. It was just, he thought, that there was a kindness and a quiet competence about her that he found attractive. He had been alone—and happy that way—for so long that he found the sensation rather disconcerting.
At that moment, the young woman returned with her father. Mr. Hawthorne was positively rubbing his hands together with glee as he came forward.
“Captain Stanfield! My daughter tells me you were an officer in the Peninsular wars and are here to help me with these artifacts. I am delighted, absolutely delighted! Welcome. Welcome!”
Mr. Hawthorne paused and peered through spectacles much like the ones his daughter wore. In a somewhat anxious voice he said, “You are well enough to help, are you not? You look a trifle pale.”
William rose to his feet, his voice resolute as he replied, “Hello, Mr. Hawthorne. I am happy to be here and perfectly capable of assisting you, sir. I simply fell from a horse and reopened an old injury a month or so ago. I am pale from having been kept indoors while I convalesced, not from any current weakness, I assure you.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Mr. Hawthorne said briskly. “I cannot deny that some help with these artifacts would be most welcome.” He paused and turned to his daughter. “Ariel, my dear, we shall still need someone with strong shoulders to help us move about some of the larger objects. If you could go fetch Tom, it would be of the greatest use to us.”
“Of course, Papa.”
When Miss Hawthorne was gone, Mr. Hawthorne looked at William and there was shrewdness in his eyes, a hint of steel in his voice, that had not been so evident before. “My daughter is an e
xcellent assistant, and I have great respect for her abilities. I should be most displeased, Captain, if anyone were to show her the least disrespect!”
“I should not dream of doing so,” William said, taken aback.
The older man relaxed. He even smiled at Stanfield. “Good. Then we understand each other. I know that ladies often have a fondness for uniforms, so I am grateful that you did not wear yours today. I trust you will continue to show such discretion in the future.”
With a bitterness William had not realized he still felt, he said, “I am no longer an active soldier, sir. My injuries put paid to that. I had to sell out after I took a ball in the arm and another in my leg. The title of captain is, these days, a courtesy one.”
“I, er, yes, of course,” Mr. Hawthorne mumbled, clearly taken aback.
“Forgive me, sir,” William said, knowing he was getting off to a bad start. “I did not mean to vent upon you my bad humor. Simply tell me where you wish to begin.” Oddly enough, Hawthorne seemed to understand. He took off his spectacles and polished them. “Too many of you came back injured. And even if you had not, I make no doubt that England would seem tame and perhaps even frivolous to you, these days. A man ought to have a purpose. What is yours, now that you can no longer be a soldier?”
William stared back. “To do what good I can.”
That seemed to reassure the older man, and he nodded. “Well, you may certainly do some good here. Your help is very much needed. Perhaps we can begin with the largest pieces first. Once we have determined how and where they ought to be displayed and we have written out their provenances, we can then move on to the smaller objects.”
William nodded. “And that will clear this floor faster, so that we have room to work,” he suggested.
Mr. Hawthorne smiled. “Ah, you’ve a head on your shoulders and some common sense. Good! Can’t abide a man who has none. Yes, yes, you are absolutely right. Now, come over here and tell me what this object is. That way, when my daughter returns with Tom we can have it moved into the far end of the room where it will be seen the moment anyone enters. And Ariel can take notes as we discuss the history of each piece.”
William rose to his feet and came forward. When he was close to Mr. Hawthorne, he paused and shifted his cane to the hand in the sling. Then he reached into his pocket. “This might help,” he told Mr. Hawthorne. “Wellington had a list drawn up of what he remembered to be here and what he knew of the object. He said he
could not absolutely vouch for everything he recollects, but at least it is a starting point. I was given the list to give to you.”
The other man’s eyes positively gleamed with excitement. “Indeed, it is an excellent starting point,” Mr. Hawthorne said as he took the pages of Wellington’s list. “The moment my daughter returns, I shall set her to matching the descriptions on here to the objects.”
“I thought you meant for her to take notes as we talk,” William said with some amusement.
The older man waved a hand carelessly. “Oh, Ariel may do both! She is a very talented young woman, you know.”
Stanfield did not have long to wonder what Miss Hawthorne would think of her father’s plans for her, for she returned just then with a large man whose broad shoulders argued a strong back as well. She introduced Tom, then listened with perfect equanimity to her father’s plans for her.
“Very well, Papa,” she said. “Just let me fetch my writing tools.”
She was back in a very short time, carrying a small writing table that had ink and quills and paper all cunningly kept secure in special places in the desk. Miss Hawthorne set it by the wall, so that she would be out of their way as they moved about, but still close enough to the two men to overhear everything that was said.
She took the fist from her father and began to peruse it swiftly. It took her only a moment or two to find the description that she thought matched the object with which her father wished to begin. Captain Stanfield disagreed. He was certain it was a different object entirely. They entered into a spirited debate upon the matter, which bemused her father and upset Tom and wasted half of that first morning.
It was two days later that Mrs. Merriweather, the former governess once known as Miss Tibbles, smiled at her husband over the breakfast table. To be sure, she often did so, for Marian truly adored her Colonel Merri- weather. He was the kindest of men and made her feel, she often thought, twenty years younger.
At this precise moment. Colonel Merriweather was reading a letter and Mrs. Merriweather waited with some impatience for him to tell her what it said. To be sure, it was his letter, but the exclamations of surprise and delight with which he was reading it made her unable to ignore its importance.
“Well, sir?” she said, when he finally set the letter aside and picked up his fork to continue eating his ham.
Colonel Merriweather looked at his wife and smiled, his gaze far away as he said, “I’ve been invited to come to London to help organize a collection at the British Museum, m’dear.”
“You?” Mrs. Merriweather blinked. “But what do you know of museum artifacts?”
The colonel bristled. “A great deal, in this case. The artifacts are from the Peninsula, from Wellington's campaigns, and you must know that I have as much experience as anyone with what was collected there. My old friend Mr. Hawthorne has written to ask me to come and help him.”
“I see.”
“You would like to go to London, wouldn’t you, Marian dear?” Colonel Merriweather asked in a coaxing voice. “And we could bring little Elizabeth with us. My aunt is in residence in her town house and would be delighted, I am certain, to have us come for a visit.”
“I see.”
“Now, now, dear. I know she opposed our marriage, but you know she has been kind ever since it became a fait accompli,” the colonel said, correctly gauging the cause of his wife’s displeasure.
Still, Mrs. Merriweather hesitated. The colonel reached across the table and took his wife’s hand in his. He turned it over and lifted it up so that he could place a kiss in her palm. Then he smiled at her, an intimate smile she knew very well and loved very much.
“It will be fun,” he said. “You can shop and visit friends, perhaps even some of your former charges, and I can be of service to my country.”
He knew her well. Marian had begun to bristle at the suggestion that she would like filling her days with visits to shops. But the reminder that some of her former charges, from the days when she had been a governess, might be in London, and the suggestion that he could be of service to his country, were more than enough to sway her. As he knew they would be.
“Very well,” she said, somewhat mollified. “Perhaps it would be a good notion to go. I just wish we need not stay with Lady Merriweather.”
The colonel waved away her objections. “We need scarcely see my aunt! But Hawthorne wishes me to come at once, and there is no time to find a house for us to hire while we are in London. In any event, it is the height of the Season right now. There will not be a decent house to be had!”
Marian grumbled, but she could not deny the truth of what he said. Instead she rose to her feet and set down her napkin. “I shall go advise the staff. When do you wish to leave, my dear?”
The colonel hesitated a moment, then said briskly, “I shall send a message straight off to my aunt telling her to expect us at once. We shall leave in the morning and go by easy stages, to arrive the day after.”
“And thus give Lady Merriweather no chance to refuse to house us?” Marian hazarded shrewdly.
He laughed as if she had spoken nonsense, but the red color that crept up his cheeks betrayed the truth of her words. Well, it was all the same to Marian. If Lady Merriweather refused to house them, they would just have to hire a house or stay in a hotel until they could find one. And it would not distress her in the very least to have to do so!
2
Ariel stared at Captain Stanfield. It bothered her that he smiled in such an animated way when he talke
d with her father, but seemed so stiff and formal when he spoke with her. It was not that she was unaccustomed to such treatment, but she found herself wishing for better from him. She could not have said why she was so drawn to the captain, but she was. She wished he would unbend sufficiently with her so that she could ask him about the places he had been and the things he had seen. But that seemed impossible.
It was almost, Ariel thought indignantly, as if Captain Stanfield resented her presence here. And yet the two men would be lost without her. Neither her father nor Captain Stanfield ever took time to make notes about the objects they were sorting out. That work they were quite content to leave to her. But still they treated Ariel as if she were irrelevant to them. That rankled more than she could say.
She tried to be kind to the young gentleman. She always made certain that he had a chair near to hand, in case he should grow tired. And he often used it. But he seemed to resent rather than be grateful for her kindness!
As if to prove her point, Captain Stanfield looked up at her and scowled. Her father, to make matters worse, looked up as well and said in a disapproving voice, “Are you woolgathering again, Ariel? We’ve no time for that! Read me back the last notes you took of what we were saying, for I think it likely you missed something important.”
The appalling thing was that when she read back her notes, Ariel discovered her father was right. She had missed the essential information that the particularly ugly object they were inspecting had come from a Spanish home that had been in itself an object of great interest, having as it did a history of Jewish and Muslim, as well as French and then British, occupation.
Miss Tibbles Interferes Page 1