Carola Dunn - Mayhem and Miranda

by Mayhem

  "Over my dead body!"

  "No, of course, now she would not touch dear Godfrey with a pair of tongs."

  "And you actually want to marry her?” Aunt Artemis persisted. “Why?"

  "Well, you have no other nephews left to rescue her."

  His aunt gave a snort of disgust. “I do not regard that as a good reason. Nor would she."

  Backed into a corner, Peter felt his face turn a fiery red. “As a matter of fact, I love her. That only makes it more impossible to ask her to hitch herself to a sponger with no means to support himself, still less a wife and family."

  "But you will soon make your fortune with your book."

  "That seems to be a common delusion. I have been talking to some fellows at the club, and one or two booksellers. The odds on making more than a meagre sum are vanishingly small."

  "Then you mean to give up?” his aunt demanded disapprovingly.

  "I don't want to. I enjoy writing, and Miranda says it's good. In fact I had even thought of going on to write novels of adventure—but I cannot ask her to marry me and starve. Aunt Artemis, do you think she would wait for me if I went to India to make my fortune?"

  "Do you want to go?"

  Peter sighed. “Not really. Roaming the world is all very well in its way, when one is young and fancy-free, but adventures on paper would more than satisfy me now. All I really care for is to settle down with Miranda and raise a family."

  Aunt Artemis beamed. “I cannot imagine anything more delightful. If you are willing, Peter, this is what we shall do."

  * * * *

  Miranda stopped in the hall to take off her bonnet. Setting it on the half-moon table, she asked Charlie, “Is Lady Wiston still on the terrace?” In the mirror on the wall above the table, she saw that her face was scarlet from the heat, despite the parasol. Thank heaven the air was cooling now that the sun was on its way down.

  "Yes, miss,” said her ladyship's bodyguard. “Miss, you knows my lady's going to fig me out all in proper liv'ry? Well, Mr. Twitchell, he says he'll teach me how to go on like a real footman, so's no one won't know the diff'rence."

  "Splendid. So long as you remember not to go running errands. Your place is near her ladyship whether she is at home or out.” Miranda tried to tidy her hair, but it clung lankly in dark, damp wisps to her forehead. She gave up. What did it matter if she looked a perfect fright?

  "I knows that, miss. There's lemonade out there, miss,” Charlie added consolingly. “You'll feel better after a nice glass o’ lemonade."

  She smiled at him. “Thank you. Come along, Mudge."

  The pug plodded after her to the back of the house. As she paused on the threshold of the terrace door, he brushed past her. Too exhausted even to approach Lady Wiston to beg for a comfit, he slumped panting on a cool flagstone.

  Miranda hesitated. Mr. Daviot was on the terrace, too. Did it matter that she looked a perfect fright?

  Too late to escape. Hearing Mudge's claws click on the stone, Mr. Daviot and Lady Wiston both glanced round.

  "Miranda, my love, you are woefully overheated. Do come and sit down and drink some lemonade. It is very pleasant out here now."

  "The park was pleasant, but the streets are still quite hot.” As she descended the steps, Mr. Daviot jumped up to fill a glass from the glistening pitcher.

  At the same time, Lady Wiston rose from the chaise-longue. “Sit here, dear, at your ease. I believe it is cool enough at last for my exercises.” She trotted up the steps and disappeared into the house.

  Miranda would much rather not have been left alone with Mr. Daviot, not without his manuscript between them as a subject for conversation. But he was holding out her glass of lemonade. It would be shockingly rude to turn tail and run.

  Relieving him of the glass, she sat down. “I fear I have accomplished very little work today on straightening out your magnum opus,” she said lightly, and took a long draught of lemonade.

  "It has been much too hot even to think about it. Will you marry me, Miss Carmichael?"

  Miranda choked. As she coughed and spluttered, Mr. Daviot removed the glass from her hand, set it down, and thumped her between the shoulderblades.

  Then she was in his arms. The kiss she had dreamt of became an earthshaking reality. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

  "Oh, Peter!"

  "You will marry me, Miranda?"

  "Not because I was compromised?"

  "Aunt Artemis assures me Mudge was all the chaperon we needed.” He cast a nervous glance at the pug, but Mudge's eyes were closed. “No, because I adore you."

  "Oh, Peter!” Some minutes passed before she was able to say, “And you will not vanish one day in search of adventure?"

  "Not I. This rolling stone intends to become a supporting rock. I have taken a position, rather menial but it pays extremely well."

  "What position? Will you have time for your book?"

  "Bother the book!” He kissed her again.

  After a while, Miranda surfaced sufficiently to protest, “You must finish the book. It is good, and after all the work I have put into it—"

  "I shall have plenty of time to write, but I cannot do it without your help. So you see, the world will lose a great masterpiece unless you marry me."

  "Oh, Peter, I want nothing more, but I cannot simply desert Lady Wiston. What position have you taken? Will she be able to go with us?"

  He grinned. “Don't fret, my darling. Aunt Artemis shall not be abandoned. You know she has hired Charlie as a permanent bodyguard."

  "And Danny to come in on Charlie's time off. But they are no companionship for her, and besides, they are not clever enough to keep her safe against Lord Snell's wicked wiles."

  "Precisely, my love, which is why Aunt Artemis has hired me as Overseer of Bodyguards!"

  "Overseer of Bodyguards?” Miranda laughed. “Is she not wonderful? How can I possibly resist becoming the Wife of the Overseer of Bodyguards? Particularly as I love him with all my heart."

  "Dearest Miranda!"

  Mudge suddenly awoke to the disgraceful behaviour taking place not three yards from his nose. He danced around the pair in a paroxysm of rage, shrilly berating them.

  Peter and Miranda did not even hear.

  Historical note:

  The Association for the Improvement of the Female Prisoners in Newgate was not founded till 1817 though Elizabeth Fry was already working to that end in 1815. The York Retreat was founded in 1796. Its humane methods gradually had a wide influence on the accepted standards for treatment of the mentally ill.

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