by Mayhem
At the top, she swung round, held out her bonnet, and hissed accusingly, “You squashed my hat!"
There was indeed a dent in the back of the crown. “My humble apologies,” he said, “but I expect it will steam out. Besides, I saved your gown from ruination in the dirt."
"I would not have fallen if your feet had not been in the way."
"You would not have fallen over my feet if you had stayed on the path. Let us not quarrel, when we can easily blame the whole incident on Mudge."
Her lips twitched. “He is a handy scapegoat,” she agreed reluctantly, turning to the next flight of stairs, “though you can scarcely hold him responsible for ... but no matter! Come, you shall have the blue chamber. Just ring for hot water. I expect Lady Wiston will invite you to stay for a few days. Shall you accept? If so, I must tell Mrs. Lowenstein to have the maids make up the bed."
"Yes, I cannot rush away after being reunited at last with my only relative."
On the tip of his tongue was a rueful admission that he had nowhere to rush to, nor any funds to procure lodging. He bit it back. That was a subject best saved for his aunt's ears, not for the companion who already disapproved of him.
* * * *
Miranda went back down to her chamber on the first floor, next to Lady Wiston's. Swiftly she changed into a rose-pink mull muslin—her employer refused to let her wear the browns and greys generally considered suitable for a hired companion.
"Those dull colours are dreadfully depressing to the spirits,” she had said adamantly when she offered Miranda the position. “Naturally I shall pay for new gowns. You cannot be expected to change your wardrobe at your own expense just to cater to an old lady's whim."
At first, her ladyship's odd whims had surprised and dismayed Miranda. She soon grew so accustomed to eccentricity that her previous life, even the alarms and starts of life with her happy-go-lucky, debt-ridden father, seemed woefully dull in comparison. The future no longer stretched ahead as a bleak desert of fetching shawls, sorting embroidery silks, and retiring to her room when there was company unless needed to make up numbers.
Moreover, Lady Wiston's kindness and generosity quickly won her affectionate regard. If such a lovable lady chose to wear unconventional clothes, hold unconventional views, and entertain unconventional acquaintances, her behaviour harmed no one. Not even herself, for she was as shrewd as any barrow-woman, by no means easy prey for leeches hoping to take advantage of her liberality.
Even Mudge was bearable, Miranda felt, since her employer, far from doting on him, loathed the little beast quite as much as she did.
She wished, though, that the pug's escapade had not caused her to fall into Peter Daviot's arms. All too aware of the dangerous charm allied with his frivolous manner, she was going to find it difficult to remain properly aloof after such an introduction. To have him staying in the house for several days as a welcome guest promised to be awkward, to say the least.
The less she saw of him the better. Nonetheless, she felt obliged to minister to his bitten hand. His teasing had confused her as to whether Mudge had actually inflicted a gash or a mere graze.
Pushing a hairpin more firmly into her topknot, she tidied the curls on her forehead and donned a lace-trimmed cap—when she insisted on wearing caps, as was only proper to her age and position, Lady Wiston had insisted on buying her pretty ones. With a final glance in the looking-glass, she went back up to the blue chamber.
She knocked.
"Come in,” called Mr. Daviot.
Miranda opened the door. He was standing by the washstand in his shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbows, and stockinged feet, his face buried in a towel.
"Good gracious,” she exclaimed, hastily shutting the door again. How dare he ask her in when he was not decently clad! Was the wretched man quite determined to put her to the blush? From her brief acquaintance with him, she would not put it past him.
Before she could turn away, the door re-opened and he appeared before her, waistcoatless, his shirt open at the neck to display a triangle of tanned chest. Instantly dropping her gaze, she found herself staring at a big toe poking out through a hole in his hose. She covered her eyes.
"I thought you were the footman bringing back my boots."
"I just came to look at your hand,” she said crossly.
"You can't see it with your hands over your eyes."
"You are not dressed!"
"The important bits are covered.” He sounded as if he was grinning. “I didn't mean to shock you, though. You didn't blink at Aunt Artemis's costume."
"That is different. Is your hand mangled or not?"
"I'm badly injured,” he said in a failing voice. “I claimed it was only a scratch so as not to distress my aunt."
Not for a second did she believe him. “Wash it well,” she advised, “and come down to Sir Bernard's study."
She went down to the small room at the back of the house, its window opening onto a garden full of roses. The walls were sea-green, the coffered ceiling blue. Over the mantel hung a large painting of Nelson's Victory at the Battle of Trafalgar, and on one wall a map of the world with Admiral Sir Bernard Wiston's voyages traced upon it.
Furnished with a large roll-top desk, two comfortable chairs, and several bookshelves, the late Admiral's study now served a multitude of purposes.
Beside each chair stood a workbasket, seldom used as neither Miranda nor Lady Wiston enjoyed needlework. Her ladyship justified her aversion by saying that stitchery, if one could afford to pay someone to sew for one, was taking bread from the mouths of the poor. She and Miranda were far more likely to pass a cosy evening with the backgammon set or a novel from Hookham's Circulating Library. Both were to be found on a card table by the fireside.
One shelf held a small chest with a variety of common medicaments, court-plasters, and bandages. Lady Wiston required her companion rather than her housekeeper, as was more usual, to treat her servants’ minor ailments. On learning her duties, Miranda had sorted out the muddled contents of the chest, neatly relabelling the porcelain pots and coloured glass bottles and ranging them alphabetically.
She lifted down the chest, unlocked and opened it, pleased with the orderly array of jars and vials. There was the basilicum, in its place next to the Balm of Gilead.
Spreading a clean white napkin over an occasional table, she set the pot of basilicum on it. From their separate compartments in the chest she took a pair of scissors, a roll of pale pink silk impregnated with isinglass, and a small notebook.
As she fetched the ladderback, cane-seated chair from the desk, Mr. Daviot came in, shaven and respectably if not fashionably dressed.
"Let me do that,” he said, taking the chair from her. “Good gad, you're all set up for a major operation. You're not going to amputate, are you, doctor?"
"I like to do things properly in the first place, to avert the need for amputation. Did you wash the wound well, or shall I send for water?"
"Clean as a whistle,” he said meekly, placing a second chair opposite the first. As Miranda sat down, he glanced about the room. “By Jove, this is perfect!"
"It is a pleasant room,” she responded, surprised and a trifle suspicious of his enthusiasm. “The Admiral preferred to sit here in the evenings when they had no guests, and Lady Wiston has kept up the habit. Do take your seat, sir. I daresay you are as ready for your breakfast as I am for mine."
"More so, I expect. I didn't dine last night."
He sat down and held out his hand, like himself long and lean but strong-looking, as sun-browned as his face. Across the back Mudge's eyetooth had slashed a groove, less than a gash though more than a scratch. Miranda applied basilicum.
"Would you like a court-plaster?” she asked, picking up the pink silk and the scissors. “On the whole minor wounds heal as well without if they are kept clean. It should be covered if you decide to sleep in the garden again."
"Not me! No, I'll do without a plaster, thank you. Plaguey things, always falling of
f. What are you writing?"
She looked up from her notebook. “I keep a record of every medicine I dispense to see which are effective. I have already discarded James's Powders and Hervey-Ward's Pills from my pharmacopoeia, and Daffy's Elixir is on the way out. I find the more varied ills they claim to cure, the less efficacious they prove for any."
"Jove!” He took the book from her and studied it. “You ought to be a physician, bedamned if you oughtn't. More sense than half the quacks with their favourite nostrums, I shouldn't wonder."
Miranda was torn between annoyance at his improper language and gratification at his compliment. “More sense, perhaps, but little learning,” she said. “I have not even such ladylike accomplishments as French and music and the use of the globes, or I should have sought employment as a governess, not a companion. All I can do is read and write and figure a little."
"Damned...” Glancing up with a considering look, he caught her frown and changed the offending word. “Dashed neat hand you write, every letter clear as day. That's a more useful accomplishment than any number of globes."
Though she smiled, Miranda had a distinct feeling that he was buttering her up for his own purposes. His helpfulness in lifting the chest back onto its shelf did not alter by one whit her resolve to reserve judgement on Mr. Peter Daviot.
She led the way to the dining parlour.
Lady Wiston was spreading a hot muffin with strawberry jam. “I simply could not wait, my dears,” she said, waving them to the laden sideboard.
Miranda saw that cold meats, ale, and coffee had joined the usual eggs, muffins, tea, and chocolate. Mr. Daviot piled high his plate.
As they took their places at the table, Lady Wiston said, “Now, Peter, while you eat, I trust you will tell us what you have been doing all these years since you left to seek your fortune."
"Not making my fortune, alas,” he said ruefully, cutting into a thick slice of York ham.
Miranda had guessed as much. He had slept in the open after going without his dinner, though the inns of the greatest city in the world never closed their doors. His pockets were undoubtedly to let. She suspected he hoped to hang on his aunt's sleeve.
He would find Lady Wiston less easy to impose upon than he expected. And if a sentimental attachment to her sister's son, her only living relative, overbore her capacity to resist undeserving spongers, she had Miranda to protect her.
"What a pity,” said her ladyship, her sympathy all too obvious. “I daresay it was impossible for an Englishman to grow rich in America while we were fighting the colonists again."
"I certainly chose the wrong moment to cross the Atlantic!” he agreed. “Within a month of my arrival, the Yankees declared war. I thought it wisest to make for Canada. Canada, Miss Carmichael, is a name for British North America, which lies to the north of the United States."
"I know!” Miranda said indignantly. “I am not absolutely ignorant of geography, in spite of never being taught the use of the globes."
"Nor was I,” said Lady Wiston, “and when Sir Bernard tried to explain to me I must confess I utterly failed to comprehend the connection between the celestial and terrestrial globes. I gather they keep moving in relation to each other in the most confusing fashion. As for lines of longitude and latitude—my dear, it seems they are quite imaginary! How they can have assisted him in navigation I cannot think. So you went to Canada, Peter?"
"Not quite. Before I came to the frontier, I fell in with a band of Iroquois Indians."
"Gracious heavens!” his aunt gasped. “My dear boy, how did you escape?"
"Oh, they didn't take me prisoner. Most of them fought with the British in the American Revolution, you know. Many fled to Canada, and those who remain in the United States are in general still favourably disposed towards us. They welcomed me and took me to their village, and there I stayed until I heard a few months since that peace was made at last."
"That must have been interesting,” said Miranda. In a severe tone, she added, “But when the peace freed you to make your fortune, why did you rush back to England?"
"I decided my new scheme had a better chance of reaping rich rewards here, because of the larger population, a greater choice of publishers, and any number of wealthy patrons of the arts. You see, if I can only find a patron, I mean to write a thrilling popular account of my life among the Iroquois."
"What a splendid notion, dear,” Lady Wiston exclaimed, surrendering without a fight. “You will live here, of course, while you are writing."
With a quizzical glance at Miranda which told her he was well aware of her dismayed disapproval, Mr. Daviot smiled and said, “Thank you, Aunt Artemis, I shall be delighted."
Chapter 3
"That is all settled, then,” said Lady Wiston, beaming.
"I shall move out of my chamber as quickly as I can,” Miranda said resignedly.
"Good gracious, dear, whatever for?"
"It is the second best chamber, ma'am. Your nephew—"
"I shouldn't dream of dispossessing you, Miss Carmichael,” Mr. Daviot protested. “The blue chamber is perfectly comfortable."
"Quite right,” his aunt agreed. “You are all settled, Miranda, and there is not the least occasion to uproot yourself. The Admiral's study will be perfect for your work, Peter. Miranda, pray order plenty of paper and pens and ink."
"I shall go by the stationer's this morning on my way to do the marketing.” Miranda was determined to make sure he had no excuse not to keep his nose to the grindstone. “How much paper do you suppose you will require, Mr. Daviot?"
"Oh, a ream I suppose will do the trick. Or do I mean a quire?"
"I have not the least notion."
"Perhaps I had best go with you. I'll be glad to carry your basket."
"Thank you, sir, but that is not necessary.” She was not going to succumb to his blandishments. “I take one of the footmen, and in any case all the tradesmen deliver to the house."
Lady Wiston's mind had moved on to the marketing. “Miranda, if the greengrocer has good red and black currants, pray order plenty. Cook shall bake tarts for my at-home this afternoon and put up the rest for the winter."
"You expect callers this afternoon, Aunt?” Mr. Daviot enquired. “As I recall, London is generally rather thin of company at this season."
"The Ton may go off to their country houses, but they are a very small proportion of the population. London still abounds in interesting people. Only last week, when we visited St. Bartholomew's Hospital, we met a Lascar seaman, a charming gentleman."
"A Lascar seaman a gentleman!"
"I find,” said Lady Wiston with some severity, “that if one treats common men and women as ladies and gentlemen, they almost invariably strive to live up to one's expectations. I gave Sagaranu my card. I hope he will come today. The name was Sagaranu, was it not, Miranda?"
"Something of the sort, Lady Wiston. I wrote it down in my notebook. I shall check before he arrives."
"What an excellent secretary you are, my dear."
Miranda smiled at her affectionately. “If I am to be a good marketer also, I must be on my way, or all the best currants will be sold.” She finished off her cup of tea and folded her napkin.
"Don't forget to go by the bookseller's and tell them we did not receive the latest Examiner. I shall be sadly disappointed if the Hunts close down the paper and cease to bedevil the government now they are out of prison at last."
"Yes, indeed! What should we discuss over our Sunday breakfast?"
Miranda went upstairs to put on her bonnet and shawl. When she came downstairs a few minutes later, she was surprised to find Mr. Daviot waiting for her in the hall, gloves and well-brushed top-hat in hand.
"I told Ethan I shall accompany you in his place, Miss Carmichael,” he said.
"I am quite capable of ordering paper and pens for you, sir."
"Of that I have no doubt. You strike me as a singularly capable female. That is why I wish to consult you."
"Oh?�
� said Miranda coldly, sure he thought to win her over by flattery and enlist her aid in fleecing Lady Wiston. Only a fear of being overheard in the house could explain his choosing to consult her in the street.
He said no more until they were outside. The square was quiet, devoid of its usual bustling traffic. Most of the houses were shut up, only caretakers in residence, the knockers removed from front doors for the summer. Miranda and her unwanted escort turned south towards Oxford Street.
"I am a little concerned about Aunt Artemis,” said Mr. Daviot, a supportive hand beneath her elbow as they crossed the cobbled street. “As you know, I have been absent for several years. I don't recall her being so freakish when I left."
"Freakish! Lady Wiston is an original, perhaps even a trifle eccentric, but I would not call her freakish."
"What, when she reads seditious newspapers, invites ramshackle sailors to her at-home, visits hospitals—"
"And orphanages,” said Miranda, not without relish, “and prisons."
"Prisons!"
"We were at Newgate recently with Mrs. Elizabeth Fry, the prison reformer—we met her a fortnight ago, when we attended a Quaker meeting."
"Aunt Artemis doesn't go to Church?"
"The Church of England? Sometimes, but she likes to try a different place of worship every Sunday. She says each sect is quite convinced it possesses the only truth, and since they cannot all be right, it behooves every individual—"
"Yes, yes, I see her point. But what's all this about visiting prisons?"
"Lady Wiston believes one ought to see conditions for oneself so as best to direct how one's alms are employed. Besides, she thoroughly enjoys delivering little comforts to the unfortunates confined in such places, and we make the acquaintance, as she told you, of the most fascinating people."
"But to invite them to call upon her!” Mr. Daviot said feebly.
Miranda stopped and turned to face him. “Your aunt happens to be remarkably lively and interested in the world about her,” she asserted, “unlike all too many old ladies whose only concern is their ailments. She gives many people a good deal of harmless pleasure, and injures no one."