by Mayhem
"Not even you? I'd have thought a well-brought-up young lady must find it trying to be obliged by her position to assist in such activities."
"Not even me."
"You don't find shopping for household necessities demeaning? Is that not commonly regarded as part of a housekeeper's duties?"
"Yes, but Mrs. Lowenstein speaks very little English. She is a refugee from Poland, you see, where Jews are much persecuted."
"I suppose you met her when you attended a Synagogue!"
"As a matter of fact, yes.” Miranda regarded his stunned face with amusement. “Though she communicates very well with the maids—indeed, no one could complain of their slacking at their work—dealing with shopkeepers is beyond her at present, while I don't mind in the least."
"You are an exceptional woman, Miss Carmichael."
"Not I. Did you not say yourself that you conceived all hired companions to be grey, mousy creatures? I was well on the way to becoming just another such until Lady Wiston engaged me. I can never be sufficiently grateful."
"You grey and mousy?” He shook his head with a smile. “Inconceivable. Well, you defend Aunt Artemis so ably that I have not another word to say on the subject. In fact, I confess I begin to look forward to this afternoon's outlandish at-home."
Chuckling, Miranda pointed out, “After living among Iroquois Indians for several years, you are unlikely to find the occasion excessively outlandish."
"Touché! Say rather that I anticipate no little amusement from meeting my aunt's acquaintance."
His smile really was alarmingly attractive, Miranda reflected as they continued on their way. She was going to have to make an effort to remain on her guard.
* * * *
As hostess, Aunt Artemis wore a gown for once, in a dazzling vermilion sarcenet which made her look, Peter thought, like a plump, cheerful robin redbreast. He wondered whether her companion had had to persuade her to abandon her comfortable trousers for the nonce.
"Is Mudge safely shut up?” she asked.
"Yes, Lady Wiston, at a large cost in comfits for bribery."
"He does enjoy them so, as I trust our visitors will enjoy this spread.” Aunt Artemis regarded the laden table with a contented sigh. “Plum cake, seed cake, bread-and-butter, currant tarts and Bakewell tarts, Shrewsbury biscuits, macaroons—excellent. I'm sure you are right, dear, about the bowl of cherries. So difficult even in the best company to deal politely with the stones."
"Very wise, Miss Carmichael,” Peter agreed gravely. “One cannot wish to force one's guests to choose between swallowing the stones and spitting them into the fireplace."
Miss Carmichael appeared to be trying not to smile at his bald statement of the possible alternatives. “It seems sensible not to face people with that quandary,” she said.
As Lady Wiston trotted through to the drawing room to take her place behind the tea-table, Peter continued in a low voice, “I must say I'm surprised my aunt doesn't provide more substantial victuals, hams and barons of beef and such. Surely some of those she invites seldom eat well?"
"True,” she said, favouring him with an almost approving look. “Lady Wiston regards these at-homes as purely social affairs, like those to which she invites her fashionable acquaintance during the Season. She finds plenty of other opportunities for charity, and you may be sure none of her friends goes hungry. Ah, there goes the door knocker. You are about to make the acquaintance of Daylight Danny—he is always the first to arrive."
"Daylight Danny?” he asked, bemused, following her through to the other room.
She threw a mischievous glance over her shoulder. “Do ask him how he came by his name. Lady Wiston,” she addressed her employer severely, “I wish you will let me pour. Last week your wrist ached for two days from lifting heavy teapots."
"I shall call for help before it grows tired,” Aunt Artemis promised. “Ah, here they come."
The tap-tap of the butler's peg-leg was heard in the hall. Twitchell was an ex-Chief Petty officer who had sailed with the Admiral and lost his leg at the Battle of the Nile. He had been with the Wistons ever since, an excellent if unique butler. Eccentricity was nothing new in this household, Peter reflected.
The door opened. His leathery face impassive, Twitchell announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Potts, my lady."
Behind him loomed a hulking, villainous fellow with a low brow, a squashed nose, two cauliflower ears, and a broken-toothed grin. Peter sprang forward, his immediate reaction that the butler must have run mad to admit a prize-fighter to his mistress's drawing room. Then, recalling the Lascar seaman, he hesitated.
Twitchell stepped aside, revealing a neat little woman at the bruiser's side. Perfectly self-possessed, she advanced into the room. “How do, my lady, miss?” she said with a curtsy.
Her mountainous husband bowed awkwardly. “Here I be, m'lady,” he said, his slow country voice overlaid with a touch of Cockney, “but it do seem today there's another forrarder nor I.” The glare he turned on Peter was a fearsome sight.
"Good day to you both,” said Aunt Artemis. “This is my nephew, Mr. Daviot, come home from America to live with me for a while. Peter, Daylight Danny and Mrs. Potts."
Daylight Danny apologized to Peter for taking his presence amiss. “I likes to be here first, you see, sir,” he said in a confidential whisper. “There bain't no knowing what sort o’ rum custermers her la'ship'll take into her noddle to arst into her house, bless her heart. She needs summun to look out for her at these here at-homes, she do."
"I must be grateful to you for taking on the task,” Peter assured him, somehow contriving not to smile. His own coat, he had to acknowledge, was quite shabby enough to mislead the man into doubting his respectability.
"Lor’ bless you, sir, ‘tis nowt. My Mary and me, we'd do a mortal sight more'n that for your auntie arter what she done for us."
"What was that?"
"Why, she set us up in business, didn't she. In the hospital I were, being took mortal bad arter me last bout in the ring. You'll have mebbe guessed as I were a boxer?"
"You do have the look of a pugilist."
"Pugilist! Ay, ‘tis a grand word for a nasty business. Well, I arst you, sir, is it a decent trade for a cove to go bashing another cove wi’ his fives, all for a few quid?"
"You have a point,” Peter admitted.
"My Mary, she didn't never like it, but the Fancy were the only trade I knowed to keep body and soul together. Not that I were ever one o’ the best, neither, not like Mendoza or Gentleman Jackson. Daylight Danny they call me, acos there weren't never a fight where I didn't come out wi’ both me daylights darkened."
"So you wanted to leave the Fancy?"
"Aye, but there's not many'll hire a cove as looks like me, not for honest work. Even on the markets and down the docks, they've only to set their glims on me to think I must be too quick wi’ me fives. The which I bain't, being a peaceable cove."
"You met my aunt in the hospital?"
"She come visiting, her and the long-faced gentry mort she had afore this un.” Danny cast an appraising glance from Peter to Miss Carmichael, which seemed to afford him some obscure satisfaction. “This un's a prime article, sir, mark my word."
"Now, Danny.” The diminutive Mrs. Potts appeared at their elbows. “Don't you go talking the ear off the gent. There's others come he'll be wanting a word with and you haven't barely spoke to my lady."
"Yes, Mary,” said the giant obediently.
"I'm happy to make your aquaintance, Mr. Potts.” Peter offered his hand rather gingerly, but it was engulfed in an almost delicate clasp. “I'll see you again later, no doubt."
"Right, sir.” The bruiser beamed. “Call me Danny, do."
He went off to the tea-table, now surrounded by a motley crew. Miss Carmichael was talking to a dark-skinned man in a turban who must be the Lascar seaman. Peter turned to Mrs. Potts.
"I like your husband, ma'am."
"He's a good fellow at heart, sir, and no mistake."
"He told me my aunt helped you set up in business. I didn't get around to asking what business you are in?"
"Hot pies, sir. I bake ‘em, he takes ‘em, selling out in the streets, like. My Danny's not fast like the Flying Pieman you've maybe seen, but he can carry four times the load and we do well enough. And we've paid back every penny to my lady, not that she asked, but someone else needs it more nor we do now."
"I'm glad she was able to help you,” Peter said sincerely, feeling a trifle less guilty about his intention of sponging off Aunt Artemis. It wasn't as if he meant to do so for ever, only until his book made his fortune, and besides, he was truly fond of the old dear.
"I've brought you a cup of tea, Mr. Daviot.” Miss Carmichael arrived, accompanied by the Lascar. “May I present Mr. Sagaranathu? He comes from the East Indies."
Sagaranathu spoke surprisingly good English. In fact, he was an educated man by his country's standards, and had visited Bart's Hospital not as a patient but to study Western notions of medicine.
He had become a sailor, he explained, because it was the only way open to him to see the world. Living frugally on his pay, he was able to spend several months in each port he visited. Peter had an interesting discussion with him about the Hindoo and Iroquois mythologies.
In the meantime, Miss Carmichael had gone to take his aunt's place at the tea-table. As he talked, he watched her dealing in the friendliest manner with all the disparate guests. Aunt Artemis had been lucky to find her, he thought. From various snippets, he gathered the previous companion was far less satisfactory, easily overset by her employer's oddities.
Aunt Artemis came over. “Go and meet some of the others,” she ordered, and whisked Sagaranathu away to a corner for a private cose.
Peter obeyed. Among others, he met a market-woman, a Chinese pedlar, a barrel-organ grinder with his monkey on his shoulder, and the seamstress who created her ladyship's unusual costumes. He found it was easy to tell which were regular visitors and which had never come before. The latter gazed wide-eyed at their surroundings, hardly believing they had been invited to call upon a real lady.
The drawing room was an elegant apartment in Robert Adam's unmistakable style. White walls and ceiling with plaster mouldings picked out in gilt and blue were complemented by blue brocade curtains and chairs upholstered in blue and white striped satin. No speck of dust marred the gleaming woodwork. A whatnot and shelved niches on either side of the fireplace displayed curios collected by Sir Bernard in every corner of the world.
The visitors seemed particularly awestruck by a striking full-length portrait of the bewhiskered, ruddy-faced Admiral in his dress uniform, liberally adorned with gold braid. Peter wondered what he would have made of his widow's choice of company.
At last Twitchell ushered out the last guest. Every currant tart, every crumb of cake had vanished from the dining-room table.
"Well, Peter,” said Aunt Artemis, sinking onto a sofa and patting the seat beside her, “what do you think?"
He joined her. “Interesting people, Aunt, those I spoke to, and some of them charming. I must say I particularly liked the Pottses."
"They are dears, are they not?” said Miss Carmichael, sipping a last cup of tea.
"Do you never have a failure?” he asked. “I mean, find you have invited someone who turns out to be not quite as unexceptionable as you had supposed?"
"Oh yes,” her ladyship admitted with a sigh. “Miranda, pray do not send the Captain a card next week. He utterly refuses to change his ways."
"Which was the Captain?” Peter queried. “I don't believe I met him."
"Captain by virtue of his own imagination, I fear,” Miss Carmichael said dryly. “A Captain Sharp, and by no means willing to reform."
"A card-sharp?"
"I am afraid so.” Aunt Artemis looked positively guilty. “He is quite amusing, and he has taught me several of his naughty tricks, but he will not stop fleecing pigeons and take up some more respectable line of work."
"Fleecing pigeons!” Miss Carmichael laughed.
"You know what I mean, dear."
"Of course, and I know that you are tired. Do take a nap before you dress for dinner, Lady Wiston. If you have no need of me, I shall go and thank the servants for their usual splendid efforts, and then finish the letter to my brother which I began yesterday.” She went out.
"Miss Carmichael has a brother, does she?” said Peter. “I assumed she was alone in the world, I don't know why."
"She might as well be,” his aunt snorted. “Her mother died when she was quite small, and her father four or five years ago. Her brother is a sanctimonious country clergyman with a feckless wife, five children, and an inadequate benefice."
"Then I quite understand why she prefers the life of a companion, however dismal, to residing with her relatives."
Inexplicably, Aunt Artemis brightened. “Miranda told you it is a dismal life?"
"She told me she was well on the way to becoming a little grey mouse before she came to you, dear ma'am. She appears to positively enjoy your ... er ... interesting ways."
Her face fell. “She has me quite at my wits’ end!"
"At your wits’ end? What the dev ... deuce do you mean? Miss Carmichael seems to me an ideal companion for you."
"She is, she is. Oh dear, I suppose I had best explain, then perhaps you will be able to advise me. You remember, I expect, that I was a lady's companion, a little grey mouse, just as you describe, before dear Sir Bernard married me."
"A perspicacious gentleman, I have always considered him, to see past the twitching nose and long whiskers to the—"
"Really, Peter, this is serious! I was utterly miserable, and he was a gallant gentleman who could not bear to see my unhappiness."
"Gammon, Aunt, he adored you. That was plain even to a heedless youth like me."
She beamed. “Well, I do think we were happy together. Which is what made me think, after I lost him, that every girl in such a situation deserves a chance of such happiness. But it was not until Frederick offered for Aurelia that I actually came up with a plan."
"Tell me,” urged Peter, wondering with misgivings what sort of plan the original little lady had devised.
Chapter 4
Twitchell tapped through from the dining parlour. “Shall we clear away in here, my lady?” he asked.
"Another cup of tea, Peter? No? Yes, you may clear, Twitchell. But you are looking rather tired, dear man. You are not sickening for a summer cold, are you?"
"Thank you, my lady, I believe not."
"Well, do go and sit down and rest your leg. The boys are quite capable of taking away the tea-things without your eagle eye upon them."
The butler was not about to allow himself such a dereliction of duty. At his signal the youthful footmen, Eustace and Ethan, came in, smart in their blue and grey livery and powdered wigs. Swiftly, carefully, unobtrusively, they cleared the tea table and circled the room picking up stray cups and saucers.
As they vanished through the door into the hall, Aunt Artemis sighed. “I am afraid they will have to go,” she said.
"I fear so, my lady.” Twitchell echoed her sigh. “I shall advise them to look out for positions elsewhere.” Bowing himself out, he closed the door.
"But why?” Peter asked. “They seem particularly competent footmen."
"They are, dear. Twitchell has trained them up, and now they are fit to serve the dear Prince Regent himself. We must start again with another pair rescued from the streets. I believe it was the one thing which most distressed Julia, my third companion. I must admit life is always a little difficult for a few weeks while they find their sea legs, as Twitchell puts it."
Envisaging months of cold shaving water and soup spilled in his lap, Peter suggested, “Why not take one new lad at a time? Then the earlier-comer can help to train the later, thus lessening the burden for Twitchell."
"True,” she said dubiously. “He is not as young as he was, which is the silliest phrase
, is it not, for it applies even to a baby in the cradle! The first pair were brothers, you see, who could not be split up, and since then it has always seemed sadly unfair to make one leave before the other. I shall consult Twitchell."
"Do that, Aunt. But now I am all agog to hear your scheme for marrying off your companions."
"You must swear not to breathe a word to a soul."
"I swear.” He glanced round as an imperious yap sounded at the door.
"Let Mudge in, will you, dear? He will scratch the paint dreadfully else."
Peter went to open the door. The pug cast a longing glance at his ankles but apparently recognized the impervious nature of his boots. Scampering past, the brute plumped down in front of Aunt Artemis and fixed her with a beady eye. Automatically she felt for a comfit.
Reseating himself on a chair at a safe distance, Peter said, “Aurelia and Frederick gave you the notion, you said?"
"Do you recall Frederick Fenimore, the Admiral's nephew? A most respectable young man, a solicitor at Ipswich, in Suffolk, with excellent expectations from his papa even without what he might hope for from his uncle."
Peter nodded. “Yes, I recall Fenimore.” As a dry, pompous stick who snubbed the youth without prospects or profession Peter had been at their last encounter.
"Frederick came to visit—all Sir Bernard's nephews have been most kind and attentive—and found Aurelia in tears. Every little thing overset her. She was afraid of Mudge, and she could not bear to look at Twitchell because of his missing leg. I had asked her to read aloud to me a French novel which she thought not quite proper, I seem to remember. Aurelia was sadly straitlaced, besides being such a prodigious watering-pot, though she did cry beautifully, I will say that for her. Well, Frederick took one look at her and proposed marriage."
"Good lord, she must have cried exceptionally beautifully!"
"Oh, she did. Not a trace of red in her eyes, only teardrops hanging like pearls in her lashes. She never even sniffed!"