Carola Dunn - Mayhem and Miranda

by Mayhem

  The indecorous circumstances of their original meeting, together with his willingness to sponge on his aunt, had created an unfortunate first impression. Since then, he had indulged Lady Wiston's peculiarities with every appearance of sympathy; he was an amiable and amusing companion; and he had made a serious start on his book. On the other hand, his perseverance and his sincerity remained to be proved.

  Miranda could not help liking him, but she was far from ready to trust him. Unwilling to tell him so, she said lamely, “It would be muttonheaded to refuse an allowance your aunt can well afford. Besides, it would distress her."

  "And the last thing the admirable Miss Carmichael will permit is that anyone should distress Lady Wiston."

  Mr. Daviot's jaunty tone made Miranda suspect he was quizzing her. She wished his face were better illuminated.

  She took refuge in primness. “That is surely my chief duty in this household. It is only to spare her embarrassment that I allowed her to prevail upon me to ... to mention to you.... “She simply could not think of a tactful way to find fault with his apparel.

  "Yes, Miss Carmichael? What is the distasteful matter you are to mention to me?” There was light enough to see his teasing smile. The wretch was enjoying her discomfort!

  "Your rags,” she said, abandoning tact. “Her ladyship wishes you to fig yourself out decently and have the bills sent to her."

  "Most willingly,” he consented with a rueful laugh. “It will be a pleasure not to have Twitchell wince every time he cannot avoid setting eyes on me. There, that was not so difficult, was it? Did you fear a high dudgeon?"

  "Well, it was scarcely courteous to notice your ... disarray."

  "Rags, Miss Carmichael, rags. It's too late to mince words! No dudgeon. I cannot afford to be at outs with you when I'm so desperately in need of your help."

  Miranda was glad to change the subject. “With your book?” She crossed to the desk. “What is the trouble?"

  Before he answered, Mr. Daviot pulled out the desk chair for her. She sat down, scanning the scattered sheets.

  "Just look,” he said plaintively. “Primo, I write fast because the ideas are bubbling over in my head. Therefore my scrawl is illegible."

  "Oh no, I can make out the odd word here and there,” Miranda teased, then consoled him, “Doubtless publishers are used to deciphering a poor hand."

  "I daresay, but there's worse. Secundo, I write a page or two, and then I think of something I left out, so I write it on a new page with asterisks and daggers and numbers to indicate where it belongs. And then I reread what I have written, and I cross out a bit here, write in a word there, until no printer in his right mind could make head or tail of it. Even I myself am confused when I attempt to put the pages in their correct order."

  "Yes, I see. But all you have to do is make a fair copy before you approach a bookseller."

  "I've tried it, with the beginning.” He reached across for a fan of a half dozen sheets and spread them before her. “It's just the same all over again. New ideas come, I start rearranging, and in no time the muddle is as bad as ever."

  "But sooner or later you must be satisfied."

  "Perhaps, but when? I've no desire to hang on my aunt's sleeve for the next several years, I assure you!"

  "No.” Glancing up at him, Miranda had to believe him. His bright blue eyes shone with an eager sincerity impossible to mistake. Their glow made her feel quite peculiar inside. Reminded of his shocking conduct in the gardens, she hastily looked down.

  "What am I to do, Miss Carmichael?"

  "What you need,” she said reluctantly, “is someone to copy it for you. Someone you trust to correct obvious errors, or at least to draw them to your attention before proceeding, yet someone firm enough not to allow you to make further major alterations."

  "And someone with a neat, clear hand.” Mr. Daviot sighed. “I know only one person who meets every criterion, but Aunt Artemis keeps her far too busy for me to ask her to undertake such a monumental task."

  Miranda echoed his sigh. “If Lady Wiston is willing to grant me the time, I am willing to undertake it."

  She had anticipated this, so how had he succeeded in wheedling her into it without even trying?

  * * * *

  The incumbent of St. Mary le Bone Church had departed tight-lipped.

  "The poor man finds it difficult to castigate me as he feels he ought,” said Lady Wiston blithely, “because I always give a donation to the parish poor even when I don't attend his service."

  Her ladyship and the unruffled Sagaranathu retired to the green sitting room for the yoga lesson. Notwithstanding the rain, Mr. Daviot went off to Tattersall's on a preliminary scouting expedition.

  Even if Miranda had cared to brave the drizzle, Mudge refused absolutely to set foot out of doors in such weather. Having prepared a basket of comforts for the patients of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, for once she found herself at leisure.

  Returning to the study, she sat down at the writing table. When she concentrated, Mr. Daviot's handwriting was quite legible, but his system—if it could be called a system—of changes and additions took more effort to puzzle out. A bookseller might well not choose to take the trouble, she realized, especially with an unknown author.

  She read through the first few pages, the attempted fair copy. He had decided after all to begin with his landing in the city of New York. The arrival within the month of the news from the capital, Washington, of the declaration of war against Britain made a fine dramatic incident.

  His lively style reminded Miranda of the way he spoke. She enjoyed reading the tale. Yet something was missing.

  Chin in hand, she gazed out at the dripping rose-bushes, musing. What was it the written story lacked?

  She pictured Peter Daviot in this chair, herself seated at the bureau, listening as he related his adventures, watching him. Watching, that was the difference. The animation of his features had added an inexpressible sparkle to the story which the written word was unable to convey.

  Finding herself smiling at the memory, Miranda called herself sternly to attention. What mattered was that readers who did not know him could not know what they were missing.

  Despite her suspicion that she had been manoeuvred into offering, she rather thought she would enjoy working with him.

  Unsurprisingly, Lady Wiston was perfectly willing to donate her companion's services to her nephew. Mr. Daviot made the request when they gathered at luncheon.

  "Of course, dear,” she said. “Mrs. Lowenstein's English is much improved, quite enough to take over the marketing. Take her with you to the shops tomorrow, Miranda, and introduce her to the shopkeepers. Only think, today I mastered the Candle!"

  Mr. Daviot exchanged a glance with Miranda. “The Candle?” he enquired cautiously.

  "I shall show you later. Mr. Sagaranathu says one must wait two or three hours after a light meal."

  "Oh, the Candle is one of your yoga exercises!"

  "Congratulations, Lady Wiston,” said Miranda. “I look forward to a demonstration. Had you equal success this morning, Mr. Daviot, at Tattersall's?"

  "Nothing quite right, but I talked to a couple of fellows and got the name of a reputable tailor. I don't aspire to Weston or Stultz! Aunt Artemis, will your sewing woman make up some shirts for me?"

  He was not at all embarrassed to discuss his new wardrobe. Miranda agreed to go with him to Grafton House on the morrow to help him choose lengths of linen for shirts and muslin for cravats, as he knew nothing of the subject.

  After luncheon, he went off to find the recommended tailor, while Miranda and Lady Wiston set out for St. Bartholomew's.

  Lady Wiston's carriage was a vehicle of her own devising. The double-hooded landau body was slung far above the ground on great springs between four enormous wheels. More comfortable and more stable, if less dashing, than a high-perch phaeton, it gave an amazingly smooth ride and provided its passengers with an excellent view. The chief disadvantage, the need to clamber u
p three steps into it, made it unlikely ever to become widely popular but naturally failed to daunt Lady Wiston.

  As the landau rumbled over the cobbles, her ladyship leaned back against the blue velvet squabs and turned to Miranda.

  "When we return home, dear,” she said, “write a note to my lawyer, if you please. Ask him to call at his earliest convenience as I wish to alter my will."

  "Yes, ma'am. You are not feeling unwell, are you?"

  "Not at all. I have never felt better since Mr. Sagaranathu taught me to breathe properly. You really ought to learn. But as the Admiral always said, life is uncertain and one must not postpone these matters."

  "Very wise.” She smiled, relieved.

  "I am going to make better provision for Peter. He is more in need than Sir Bernard's nephews, though of course I should not dream of cutting them out, when every penny was their uncle's to start with. They shall still have the greater share, only I wish Peter to have enough to make a fresh start."

  "That seems fair enough."

  "But I cannot wish the dear boy to suppose I have no faith in his making a fortune with his book, so pray don't tell him, Miranda."

  "My lips are sealed, Lady Wiston,” Miranda vowed.

  If Peter Daviot, self-confessed adventurer, learnt that his future was secured, no doubt he would give up his authorial efforts and go off adventuring again. While Miranda would naturally be indifferent to his departure, she told herself, his aunt would be sadly grieved. And it was Miranda's business to see that nothing distressed her ladyship.

  Chapter 7

  Peter met his new acquaintance from Tattersall's at the tailor's shop. A first lieutenant in the Royal Navy, James Bassett was in London on half pay, awaiting a commission as commander and appointment to a ship of his own.

  Under Bassett's tutelage, Peter was measured for new clothes and came to a satisfactory agreement with the snyder. The two young men repaired to a coffee house to swap stories of their adventures in distant parts of the globe.

  Over a pot of ale, the time passed so pleasantly, Peter was dismayed to realize it was nearly six o'clock.

  "I must be on my way,” he exclaimed. “My aunt dines at seven."

  "Staying with an aunt, are you?” said Bassett. Such trivial domestic details had not hitherto interrupted their conversation. “Thought we might take a bite together, but I daresay she's expecting you."

  "Yes, I'd better turn up."

  The lieutenant looked so wistful, Peter was about to invite him to dine in Portchester Square. He doubted Aunt Artemis would object to an unexpected guest. But then he remembered she was going to demonstrate her Candle pose, an event perhaps best kept in the family.

  "See you at Tatt's tomorrow?” Bassett asked hopefully. “Not that I'm on the lookout for a horse—stands to reason, not much use on board—but it's as good a place as any to fiddle away the hours while the Admiralty's mills grind on."

  "I shan't have time.” Grafton House with Miss Carmichael in the morning, a bit of writing if he could fit it in, and ... “My aunt is ‘at home,’ as they say, in the afternoon. If you've nothing better to do, why don't you call in?"

  "I say, my dear fellow, not quite the thing. I'm not acquainted with the lady, she don't know me from Adam."

  "She won't take snuff, I promise you. Aunt Artemis is anything but toplofty."

  "Truth is, I ain't much in the petticoat line."

  "Oh, it's not a matter of doing the pretty to a set of genteel tabbies. You'll meet some interesting characters. The fact is, my aunt's a bit of an eccentric and invites all sorts of rum people. Not that I mean to say there's anything rum about you, old chap!"

  "And you're quite sure she won't take a miff?"

  "Devil a bit. Lady Wiston, 9 Portchester Square, half past three to half past five."

  "Lady Wiston? Not the Admiral's widow? My first year as a midshipman, I sailed under Admiral Sir Bernard Wiston."

  "Then dammitall, Bassett, you owe it to the old lady to come and pay your respects. She'll be delighted to see you."

  They shook hands, and Peter hurried home.

  "'Er lidyship's hupstairs, guv'ner,” the new footman informed him. Alfred, a weedy youth who had hitherto eked out a living as a crossing-sweeper, had run after Lady Wiston in the street to return the guinea she handed him in mistake for a smaller coin. Now profiting by his honesty, he carried out his new duties in a state of beatitude and a suit of livery two sizes too large. He would grow into it after a few good meals, according to her ladyship. At least his wig fitted, more or less.

  "Dressing for dinner?” Peter asked.

  "Oi ‘asn't took ‘ot water up yet."

  Taking the stairs two at a time, Peter opened the sitting-room door, an apology for his lateness on the tip of his tongue. The words died as he saw his aunt stretched out flat on her back on the carpet, her eyes closed.

  He sprang forward. Miss Carmichael stopped him, a warning hand raised. Shaking her head, she came to him.

  "Hush,” she whispered. “Your aunt is breathing."

  "I'm glad to hear it!” he choked out.

  "That is, she is practising yoga breathing, which is, I collect, considerably more complicated than the ordinary kind. You are just in time to witness the Candle."

  "Good.” Peter gave her a shaky smile. “I feared she was dead, or at least in a fit. Mutton-headed, when her cheeks are as rosy as ever."

  As he spoke, Aunt Artemis's Cossack-clad legs rose slowly from the floor until they pointed straight at the ceiling. He held his breath. Her short, plump body uncurled until she was standing on her shoulders, supported by her hands on her hips. And there she stayed.

  A glance at Miss Carmichael showed her spellbound, but then her brown eyes met his and he saw the mirth brimming there. If Aunt Artemis had hoped to shock and dishearten her companion, the plot was an utter failure.

  His aunt's descent began equally slowly but ended with less grace when her buttocks thudded to the floor. Her legs followed suit.

  "Bother!” she said crossly. “That is just what one must strive to avoid."

  Miss Carmichael took a step towards her. “Have you hurt yourself, Lady Wiston?"

  "No, not at all. I am well padded.” She turned her head to cast a covert glance at Miss Carmichael, and looked disappointed. “Hello, Peter. I must just do the Fish to straighten out my neck. It is nothing to gape at so you may both take yourselves off. Miranda, ring for Baxter to my chamber, pray. I shall be there in a trice."

  Peter followed Miss Carmichael out into the passage. Closing the door, he said, “I fear Aunt Artemis was disappointed not to show us a perfect Candle."

  "She only failed at the very end. I hope I am half so vigorous at her age. Is she not amazing?"

  "I wouldn't have missed it for the world,” he vowed with a grin.

  * * * *

  Seated behind her tea-table, Aunt Artemis was once again the gracious hostess. Peter devoutly prayed she would not take it into her head to demonstrate the Candle for her guests for the sake of disconcerting Miss Carmichael. Surely now she was wearing a gown such a display was too shocking even for her.

  "Mr. Potts, my lady."

  Daylight Danny tramped in, made his clumsy bow. “Arternoon, m'lady. My Mary sent her ... her..."

  "Regrets?” Miss Carmichael suggested.

  "Ta, miss, them's her very words. Her sister's took poorly, see. Got a bun in the oven, she has, her seventh.” He turned to Peter as the ladies absorbed this information without a blink. “What cheer, mate? Ow!” He winced.

  "What is the matter, Danny?” Aunt Artemis asked. “You have not been fighting, I trust."

  "Not me, m'lady. Blow me if I didn't feel my Mary's elbow in me ribs, and her a mile orf. What I oughter've said's ‘Howjer do, sir.’”

  "Mate will do very well,” Peter assured him.

  He shook his head mournfully. “She'd have me liver and lights, she would, sir. Well now, who's yon flash cove?"

  Peter followed his suspic
ious gaze towards the door, as Twitchell announced, “Lieutenant Bassett, my lady."

  Bassett, smart in his dress uniform, recoiled before the combined assault of Daylight Danny's ferocious scowl and the ladies’ questioning looks.

  "A friend of mine,” Peter hastened to inform Danny, going to meet him. “Aunt Artemis, as I told you last night, Bassett sailed with Sir Bernard."

  "Only briefly, ma'am,” the sailor stammered bashfully, “and I was only a midshipman at the time."

  Aunt Artemis gave him a warm welcome and a cup of tea. Several more people came in just then. Peter lost sight of Bassett for a while, and when he next saw him he was chatting quite happily with Miss Carmichael and Daylight Danny.

  In fact, Miss Carmichael, who was looking particularly delightful in yellow-spotted muslin, appeared to hang on his words. He must be impressing her with tales of his exploits at sea, grossly exaggerated, no doubt. Peter frowned.

  At that moment, his aunt signalled to Miss Carmichael to relieve her at the tea table. Whatever her interest in Bassett's boasts, she had never ceased to observe her ladyship, and at once she excused herself. Her way took her close to Peter.

  Pausing beside him, she said with a smile, “Mr. Bassett is charming. I am glad you invited him. One may turn up one's nose at girls who run after any man in uniform, but I must confess there is something prodigious dashing about it, all the same."

  She moved on. Peter wished he at least had his new coat, since he could not aspire to the glory of a uniform.

  Devil take it, what did he care? As long as she was willing to help with his book, Miss Carmichael might admire a thousand sailors with his good will! He went to talk to a comely young actress whose wages his aunt supplemented in an effort—probably doomed—to dissuade her from taking a lover.

  When the girl discovered Peter was Lady Wiston's nephew, she hung on his words almost as keenly as Miss Carmichael had hung on the lieutenant's. However, noticing a tendency for her eyes to stray to that damned dashing uniform, he soon moved on. He happened to be quite close to Aunt Artemis when Bassett came to take his leave and thank her for her hospitality.