by Mayhem
Mr. Daviot's insouciant attitude towards his empty pockets reminded her all too strongly of her late papa. If he actually completed his book and made his fortune, no doubt he would squander it in two shakes of a lamb's tail.
At least it now seemed possible that he intended to make a serious effort to write down his adventures and observations. Miranda was glad to have been able to help him get started.
But what had he meant by asking whether she was Thalia in disguise?
Finished with the housekeeper, Miranda went in search of Lady Wiston. “Her ladyship's upstairs in the green sitting room,” the footman on duty in the hall told her mournfully.
"Thank you. I am sorry you have to leave, Eustace."
"So'm I, miss, right sorry, but it's not like we wasn't warned when we came. And her ladyship says we'll always be welcome at her at-homes when we can get away."
"Good. Well, I hope you find an excellent position."
"Ta, miss. Mr. Twitchell says we won't have no trouble after he's had the training of us. Mr. Sagaranathu's with her ladyship, miss,” he added as she nodded and turned away.
On her way up the circular stair, Miranda pondered the sad fate of the footmen. Arbitrary as it seemed, it made sense, as most of Lady Wiston's actions did when considered in the right light. The young men had been taught a respectable trade and it was time for two others to be given the same chance. They were not expected to depart until they had found good posts elsewhere.
All the same Miranda was relieved that her ladyship did not treat her companions thus. Impossible to imagine ever finding another position equally enjoyable!
In spite of which, she could not help wishing for a home of her own, a husband and children. She knew her three predecessors had all left to be married, by odd coincidence to three of the late Admiral's nephews. However, the only nephew left was Lord Snell. It was too much to hope for that a member of the nobility should stoop to marry a mere gentlewoman forced by straitened circumstances to work for her living.
Indeed, whenever he called upon his aunt-by-marriage during the spring Season, Lord Snell had scarce noticed Miranda's existence. She bore him no ill will. She might not feel like a grey mouse any longer, but in the eyes of most of the Upper Crust, that was what a lady's companion was, almost by definition.
Sighing, she pushed open the door of the sitting room.
It was a charming apartment, hung with apple-green silk and decorated in dark green, white, and buttercup yellow. But Miranda had no eyes for the furnishings. Sagaranathu stood with his back to the fireplace, gazing down. In the middle of the floor Lady Wiston lay, flat on her back with one leg in the air.
Decently clad in Cossack trousers, a red and grey pair, Miranda had time to note as she started forward. “Good gracious, ma'am, are you all right?"
"A little stiff, dear.” Her ladyship lowered the waving leg and foot shod in a beaded moccasin—a gift from her nephew—though she made no move to rise. “But Mr. Sagaranathu assures me that will pass if I practise faithfully every day. Indeed, it is one of the purposes of the exercises."
"The benefits of yoga are physical as well as spiritual,” the Javanese agreed gravely.
"I have hired Mr. Sagaranathu to give me a daily lesson while he is in London. Will you not join me, dear?"
"I believe not, Lady Wiston,” Miranda said hastily, quailing at the thought of thus exposing her limbs. “Walking Mudge and shopping twice a week give me all the exercise I desire. I beg your pardon for interrupting."
"No matter, dear. You were looking for me?"
"I just wanted to check these accounts with you, the milliner's and the haberdasher's, but they can wait. In fact, I shall take Mudge to the Park now, while the sun is shining. Is he in here?"
"Asleep on his cushion in the corner, as usual. Perhaps Peter would like to go with you. He must be accustomed to an active life."
"I would not for the world distract him, Lady Wiston. He is busy writing."
"He is?” In her excitement, Lady Wiston struggled to sit up. Sagaranathu gave her a hand. “I confess, I had serious doubts. I have wronged the dear boy, I fear. What splendid news!"
"Is it not? But one morning does not make a book,” Miranda warned. “It is to be hoped his diligence matches his good intentions."
"Pray don't be so fierce, Miranda! Give the boy the benefit of the doubt."
"Yes, ma'am.” Not without difficulty, she succeeded in stopping herself pointing out that Mr. Daviot was no longer a boy. He was a man, and the time for making allowances was surely past. Still, he had made a good beginning, with her assistance. “Do you know who Thalia is, Lady Wiston?” she asked.
"Thalia?” said her ladyship with a dubious frown. “No. Why?"
"Mr. Daviot mentioned her."
"He has a sweetheart? How delightful! Does she live in the country? I must invite her to stay."
"From the way he spoke of her, I fancy she is not a sweetheart.” Or was that wishful thinking? No, of course not, she had no reason to hope he had not left behind a beloved when he went to America. “A figure from poetry, or mythology, perhaps?"
"Alack, my education was sadly lacking in the study of mythology as well as the use of the globes."
"Mine also,” Miranda admitted. “The only female I recall is Venus, goddess of love, who was Cupid's mama, I believe."
"There was my namesake Artemis, of course, and Medusa, who turned people into snakes, or something of the sort. Not a desirable acquaintance. We shall have to ask Peter for an explanation."
"Oh no, ma'am, pray do not trouble him.” She would prefer not to learn from his own lips that he had compared her to someone vaguely disreputable, like Venus, or downright unpleasant, like Medusa. Not that he had any cause for the latter, but she considered him quite capable of the former, however unjustifiable. “I daresay he has forgotten all about it."
"Well, I believe Sir Bernard had a dictionary of Classical mythology. A number of Navy ships are named after obscure gods and goddesses and heroes, and he always liked to know who they were. No doubt the book is on a shelf in the study."
"I shall consult it later, then, when Mr. Daviot is finished for the day. Now I'll be off and leave you to your lesson. Can you spare me a comfit to lure Mudge from the room?"
Lady Wiston produced the necessary sweetmeat. Apologizing again to Sagaranathu for the interruption, Miranda bribed the pug from his repose and set off for Hyde Park.
* * * *
Her first chance to search for the dictionary was just before dinner that evening. After changing her gown, she slipped down to the study. The writing table was strewn with sheets of paper, some written all over, some with no more than a line or a paragraph. Sternly repressing the temptation to pry, Miranda crossed to the bookshelves.
The dictionary of mythology was tucked away among the volumes on navigation and naval regulations. No wonder she had never noticed it. She took it down and found the entry for Thalia.
Confusingly, there were three Thalias. Surely Mr. Daviot had not meant to compare her to a Nereid, attendant on the god of the sea? One of the Graces, perhaps. Beautiful, modest, decorous—very good so far-but oh dear, they were attendants on Aphrodite, who was the Greek version of Venus and no doubt equally immodest. Surely he did not equate his aunt with Aphrodite!
Before hunting down the third Thalia, Miranda looked up Artemis. Goddess of the hunt, of chaste maidens, and of the changeable moon—so Lady Wiston had an excuse for her whimsical nature! Miranda chuckled.
She turned back to Thalia: one of the nine Muses, who danced and sang to entertain the gods on Olympus. And Thalia was the patron of comedy. That must be it. When Peter Daviot made the comment, had she not just advised him to make his readers laugh?
She found she rather liked being compared to the merry muse.
Chapter 6
Lady Wiston looked up from her breakfast muffin as Miranda entered the dining room.
"I shall buy a horse,” she announced. “A saddle hors
e. A hack, as I believe they are called. Yes, dear, another cup of chocolate if you please. A hunter will hardly be required."
Miranda, pouring chocolate, was glad to hear it. “You are going to take up riding?” she enquired.
"Alas, I cannot think it would be quite seemly at my age. No, for Peter. He is working far too hard."
"Mr. Daviot has certainly kept his nose to the grindstone for several days now,” Miranda agreed, helping herself to eggs, a muffin, and a cup of tea. “Though he does join us every evening after dinner. Only last night you beat him handily at piquet."
"I find the captain's tricks amazingly simple,” said her ladyship proudly, adding with a guilty look, “Not that I should employ them were I to play for money! But Peter takes no air or exercise. He must go to Tattersall's and buy a horse."
"Would it not be more practical to hire a mount for him when he wishes to ride?"
"He might hesitate to ask. If it is waiting for him in the mews, he can simply go off whenever he chooses. Miranda, dear, do you think he would be affronted if I were to offer him a small allowance? There must be any number of odds and ends he would like to purchase, and a gentleman ought to be able to drop into a coffee house now and then, to meet other gentlemen."
Since wheedling his way into the household, Mr. Daviot had been singularly slow to request further benefits of his fond aunt, Miranda had to admit. Only yesterday, the washerwoman had requested an interview with her to disclaim all responsibility if the gentleman's shirts entrusted to her should disintegrate into rags. Mrs. Lowenstein had told her the obliging Dilly, though it was no duty of hers, washed one of his two neckcloths every night so that he always had a clean one. Even his two coats were both worn at the elbows and beginning to fray at the cuffs.
He made no complaint. Possibly he had insufficient effrontery ... or perhaps he was biding his time.
Miranda had thought of drawing the parlous state of his wardrobe to Lady Wiston's attention. She had decided it was hardly her place. However, now she was asked for her opinion on an allowance, the subject naturally followed.
"Doubtless Mr. Daviot would be very glad of a little money in his pocket,” she said. “He is not touchy, not at all quick to take offence, but to salve his pride you might suggest he may reimburse you once his fortune is made."
"An excellent notion,” her ladyship approved.
"There is another matter.” Miranda hesitated. With any less amiable mistress, her suggestion would be rightly treated as a gross impertinence.
"Yes, dear?"
She ventured onward. “I daresay you have not noticed, but it has been drawn to my attention.... The laundrywoman, when she brought back the linen, mentioned.... The fact is, ma'am, Mr. Daviot's wardrobe is sadly in need of replenishment. But perhaps you mean to make him an allowance sufficient to cover such expenses?” she added hastily.
"Dear me, no, I had not noticed any deficiency. Do you suppose I need spectacles, Miranda?” Lady Wiston anxiously enquired.
"I doubt it, ma'am,” Miranda reassured her. “I expect it is just that you are unaccustomed to judging people by the state of their clothes and so failed to pay any particular attention to Mr. Daviot's shabbiness."
"Shockingly remiss of me! But how kind in you, my dear, to concern yourself for his welfare. My nephew must not go about in rags, but I fancy it would be unwise simply to hand over sufficient funds, do not you?"
"I'm sure I cannot say, Lady Wiston!"
"A young man unused to such comparative wealth,” she mused, “might well fritter it away on trifles and be no better dressed at the end. No, he must have the tailor and hatter and haberdasher and glover and boot-maker send their bills directly to me. Pray tell him so."
"Me! I mean, I?” Miranda cried in dismay.
"If you please,” her ladyship said firmly. “I shall find it difficult enough to offer him an allowance, without criticizing his clothes into the bargain."
So that was the penalty for meddling in what was none of her affair! Mr. Daviot would be quite justified in resenting her interference. Even so easygoing a gentleman must find it humiliating for a mere companion to be involved in his financial arrangements with his aunt. Very likely he would never speak to her again, at least not in the friendly, informal fashion to which she had already become accustomed.
She would be sorry to lose his esteem and goodwill, Miranda thought unhappily, buttering her muffin.
Mr. Daviot came in a few minutes later. “Good morning, ladies,” he said cheerfully, dropping a kiss on his aunt's cheek on his way to the sideboard. “I'm a bit late after burning the midnight oil last night. I'm glad I've caught you, Miss Carmichael. I should like your advice, if you have a moment to spare this morning."
"Have you come to a standstill already, Mr. Daviot?"
"On the contrary, it's all going along swimmingly since you set me on the right track. At least ... but I'll have to show you."
"I must go and have a word with Cook and Mrs. Lowenstein now. After that, I am at your disposal, sir. Unless you have need of me, Lady Wiston?"
"Not until we go to the hospital, dear. The Vicar threatened to call this morning, but I daresay I can hold up my end in our dispute without your presence. I hope to be able to make Mr. Sagaranathu known to him."
"Do you think it wise, ma'am?” Miranda asked.
Lady Wiston gave her a mischievous smile. “If not wise, at least interesting."
Mr. Daviot grinned. “I wouldn't miss it for the world! Never fear, Miss Carmichael, I shall make sure we finish our business in time to attend."
"Then I had best be on my way,” Miranda said tartly.
* * * *
Domestic concerns dealt with, she repaired to the study. Mr. Daviot was already there. He stood by his desk under the window, staring not down at the higgledy-piggledy muddle of papers but out at the rain-drenched garden.
Hearing Miranda's entrance, he swung round, a frown clearing from his brow.
"I am in some perplexity, ma'am, and sorely in need of your counsel,” he said. “Do sit down."
Miranda took one of the easy chairs. Mr. Daviot perched on the edge of the writing table, his back to the window so that she could make out little of his expression. His voice, however, was unwontedly serious.
"You looked not quite happy, Miss Carmichael, when I entered the dining parlour just now. Would I be wrong in supposing my aunt had just proposed to you certain expenditures on my behalf?"
"It cannot have been for this you requested my advice!"
"Oh, that can wait,” he said with an impatient gesture. “Is my conjecture correct?"
"Yes, sir, but it is not my place to approve or disapprove her ladyship's char ... expenditures."
"Charities? I am, after all, Aunt Artemis's nearest relative."
"I do beg your pardon, Mr. Daviot,” Miranda said contritely. “That was an unfortunate slip of the tongue. Of course her support of her nephew cannot be regarded as charity. May we wipe clean the slate and begin again?"
"Certainly.” He smiled. “It won't be the first time."
Recalling her first request of that nature, and the kiss which preceded it, Miranda was annoyed to feel her face grow warm. As a result, it was with some asperity that she said, “Lady Wiston announced her intention of purchasing a horse for your use. She also desired my opinion as to whether the offer of an allowance would affront you. I daresay it was not quite proper to discuss the matter with a hired companion, but—"
"But my aunt cannot be relied upon to do what is proper, bless her!"
"I was going to say: but I had no choice in the matter. I am heartily sorry if you are offended."
"Not in the least. She is wise to rely upon your judgement, Miss Carmichael. How can I think otherwise when I mean to do the same? Did you tell her I should be affronted?” he asked with apparent real interest.
"Hardly! As a matter of fact, I suggested her insisting on your paying back any outlay on your behalf."
"I might have guess
ed!” he said, laughing. “I could not credit Aunt Artemis coming up with that notion, though it was less of a demand than a hint. But all this is beside the point. You were right, I was far too grateful to feel insulted, but before I accept—"
"You have not accepted?” she exclaimed in astonishment.
"Provisionally. I wish to be certain that my aunt can stand the nonsense without discomfort to herself or a lessening of her charity to more worthy objects than myself. Short of applying to her lawyer, who would doubtless kick me downstairs, you are the person most likely to be able to tell me just how well to pass the Admiral left her."
"I see.” Impressed by his consideration, a moment later Miranda found herself doubting. Was he cozening her, whether to make her think well of him, or to discover the extent of Lady Wiston's wealth for his own purposes? “I am not fully acquainted with her ladyship's affairs,” she said hesitantly.
"And not sure you ought to tell me what you know. But if you fail to warn me off, you will be as responsible as I for any subsequent hardship."
"I don't know how much she proposes to give you."
"Nor I, but she spoke of a small allowance.” Mr. Daviot grinned. “If that will not break the bank, then at least advise me whether I am to look at Tatt's for a handsome bit of blood and bone or a broken-winded nag."
"Tattersall's does not deal in broken-winded nags.” She smiled. “So long as you don't spring for a race horse, I daresay there is no need to go to the opposite extreme and purchase a slug."
"That's a relief! The Admiral cut up warm, I collect?"
"He added a good deal of prize money to various family inheritances, I believe. He left his entire fortune to his wife, with full use of the income. As to the capital, it is held in trust but she may bequeath it where she will. For all her charities, Lady Wiston is not purse-pinched, nor like to be."
"Then, much as I regret adding to your poor opinion of me, I shall accept her largesse."
"You mistake me, sir,” Miranda cried in some agitation. The truth was, she still found herself quite unable to make up her mind about him.