by Carola Dunn
Extending the net on the end of its bamboo pole, she brought it up beneath a cluster of tadpoles. Compared to the sticklebacks they were clumsy swimmers, easy to catch, and she had quickly learned the knack of not letting them squirm out before she had them in position over her jar. Carefully she swung the net toward her through the water. It was heavier than it should have been, and she saw that she had caught a piece of driftwood.
She stretched out her left hand to remove it—and her bracelet fell into the mere. Sinking like a stone, it came to rest on the gravel, the glinting gold clearly visible and quite beyond her reach.
“Oh no!”
“What's the matter?” asked a voice behind her. A male voice.
Turning her head, Mimi saw a young man astride a bay gelding, gazing at her from the landward end of the jetty. She lifted the net up onto the planks, then scrambled to her knees and regarded the intruder hopefully. Males generally did what she wanted, and this particular male was not so well dressed as to object to a wetting for a suitable payment. He raised his hat politely, revealing short, sandy hair.
“My bracelet fell into the water. I cannot reach it. If you fetch it out for me, I shall reward you.”
“May I ask why you wore a precious bracelet to go fishing?” he inquired in a skeptical tone, looking her up and down.
“I always wear it.” She brushed at a damp, brownish patch on her pale green morning gown—the train of a riding habit would have been horridly in the way. “It was my mother's,” she added defensively. “Please get it, I shall pay you well.”
“I'm not sure I'm ready for a wetting for a shilling or two.”
“I do not mean a shilling or two.” Mimi was growing annoyed. “A really valuable reward. I can afford it—I'm a princess.”
“And I'm a prince,” he said with a disbelieving laugh.
“You don't look like one.”
“I was enchanted by a wicked sorceress. I'll tell you what, if you will promise to break the spell by taking me home to dinner, dancing with me, and giving me a kiss, I'll go in after your bracelet.”
Mimi scowled at him. Of all the impertinent rogues! Then she glanced down at her bracelet, gleaming on the bottom. A fish was nudging at it. Perhaps she might reach it herself if she waded in, but then she'd have to ride home with wet, cold skirts clinging to her legs. Besides, an extorted promise was no promise.
“Very well,” she said, tipping the tadpoles from the net into the jar as an excuse to avoid meeting his gaze.
He swung down from his horse and tied it to one of the linden trees. She hurriedly stood up as he approached. Though not tall he was strongly built, with a determined chin and eyes somewhere between blue and green and gray, like the sea in an uncertain mood. His riding boots thudded on the jetty. Afraid he might decide to take the promised kiss before he earned it, Mimi stooped to pick up the jar of tadpoles and held it before her as a shield.
“Simon Hurst at your service, Princess,” he said, his courteous bow contradicted by his impudent grin. “Where is this valuable bauble?”
“Down there.” She pointed, clutching the jar to her bosom.
“What do you have there?” He set his hat on the planks and took off his coat, a well-worn brown garment with plain horn buttons, and his neckcloth. “Did you catch some minnows?”
“They are tadpoles.”
He raised his eyebrows and she felt herself flushing. Her annoyance increased. When she planned this unconventional outing she hadn't reckoned on the arrival of a mocking stranger.
“How deep is it? Can I reach it with my hand if I lie down?”
“I don't think so. The net will not reach the bottom.”
Sitting down, he pulled off boots and stockings. Mimi quickly looked away, beginning to wish she had brought her groom after all. Simon Hurst close by, and clad only in buckskin riding breeches, a shirt, and a carelessly tied cravat, was a different kettle of fish from Simon Hurst safely at a distance on his horse.
He stuck one foot in the water and yelped. “It's bloody freezing!”
“You should not swear in front of a lady.”
“I never swear in front of ladies. You are a princess, which is quite another matter.”
Before she could think of a suitably cutting response, he lowered himself into the mere, grumbling as the cold water rose up his legs. “I'm not sure I asked for sufficient reward,” he observed as it reached his waist. “Ouch! The gravel is deuced sharp-edged, and the ripples are distorting my view of the quarry.”
Mimi decided that discretion was the better part of valor. “I'm going to put this jar in my saddlebag,” she told him, and hurried to where she had tied Deva Lal by a wooden bench under a tree. Quickly she stowed the jar and checked that the gray mare was close enough to the bench to enable her to mount.
She sped back to the jetty just as Mr. Hurst triumphantly waved the bracelet.
“I have it, Princess.” He laid it on the edge and started to haul himself out.
Mimi seized it and slipped it onto her wrist. “Thank you,” she said, backing away as he rose dripping from the depths, his shirt plastered to his muscular body. “Thank you very much.” She turned and ran.
Safe in the saddle, she paused to look back. He was standing with hands on hips, watching her. Suddenly she was very conscious that her gown left her legs exposed nearly to the knee. Setting Deva Lal in motion between the linden trees, she called once more, “Thank you,” and rode on, her gaze fixed straight ahead.
She did not dare trot because of the glass jars in her saddlebags, but he could not follow her until he had at least put on his boots. And then, she hoped, he would be more inclined to head straight for home and dry clothes.
How unpardonably presumptuous he had been to demand such an improper reward of a well-bred young lady! Mimi had no regrets about breaking her promise.
* * * *
Simon grinned as he took off his sodden shirt, dried his upper half as best he could with his neckcloth, and put on his coat. He hadn't really expected the little minx to honor her commitment. The dainty gray mare and the heavy gold bangle, delicately chased in an elaborate pattern, alike announced the probable truth of her claim to wealth. Her voice was educated, despite a tantalizing hint of foreignness, more intonation than accent. And her small, gloveless hands were smooth and soft, unused to menial labor.
His thoughts wandered from her station in life. She had been hatless, too, her hair glossy as a raven's wing—a striking beauty with her cinnamon complexion and liquid black eyes. He had spent enough time in Indian ports to guess at her provenance.
Aunt Georgina would know who she was. He'd have that kiss from her yet.
Shivering, he pulled on his boots, mounted, and turned Intrepid's head back toward Mere House. The water soaking his buckskins started trickling down into his boots. He felt clammy, and more froglike than ever.
Fortunately he had not far to go, cantering across green pastures where contented cows scarcely raised their heads from the lush grass to watch him pass. The long, low house, built of pinkish sandstone, hugged the Cheshire plain, with the dairy block at one end and the stables at the other. When Simon dismounted in the stable yard he squelched at every step. The groom who took the gelding's reins from him snickered but did not venture to comment.
Baird was less reticent. Popping out of the butler's pantry as Simon strode squishily past, he said in a voice of deep reproach, “If you had warned me that you meant to go swimming, sir, I'd have sent Thomas after you with a towel.”
“I'll inform you in advance next time I decide to take a dip.” Simon was aware that the old man knew precisely who he was, remembering him from childhood visits. Aunt Georgina had assured him that her butler, as devoted as he was eccentric, would not give him away to the other servants, all of whom were new since his time. “At present,” he continued, his teeth chattering, “Thomas would be better employed bringing hot water to my chamber.” He handed over the soggy bundle of his shirt.
; “At once, sir.”
Baird's peculiarities did not interfere with his efficiency, so Simon was soon luxuriating in a hot bath. At moments like this he ceased to regret his life at sea, where a quick wash in a bucket of seawater was usually the best even the captain could expect. “Water, water, everywhere...” Coleridge's phrase floated through his mind, and that reminded him: What the devil did the Indian beauty want with a jar full of tadpoles?
He was unable to broach the subject at once when he went down to the drawing room half an hour later to join his aunt, a plump, gray-haired lady in her sixties who favored violet satin.
“Hot lemon and honey,” she greeted him, leaving a letter half written on her little marquetry desk and joining him by the fire. “Baird tells me you have been for a swim. Is it not a little early in the year for swimming?”
“Much too early,” he agreed, grinning at her affectionately.
“I hope you will not take cold.”
“I doubt it, aunt. We sailors are hardy folk.”
“Of course. You must be quite accustomed to being wet. Simon, dear, I have been thinking.”
Her loving nephew's response to this announcement was wary. Though he had arrived only the day before, he had already recognized that Lady Thompson's thought processes were not quite like anyone else's. “Have you, indeed?” he asked noncommittally.
Before she could elaborate, the butler came in, bearing a tray with a tall glass of murky yellowish liquid from which steam arose.
“Your hot lemon, sir.” As he set the tray on a small table at Simon's elbow, one eye closed in a slow, significant wink. “Her ladyship recommends it to ward off a chill. Will there be anything else, my lady?”
Simon sniffed at the fragrant steam with a degree of caution, then sipped. The acid bite of lemon on his tongue, the sweetness of honey—nothing there to explain the significance of the wink. He took a mouthful, and realized that his tisane had been fortified with a generous slug of rum. Clearly Baird had his own idea of the best way to avoid a chill!
“Satisfactory, sir?” inquired the butler benevolently.
“Excellent,” Simon assured him.
“Do go away, Baird,” urged Lady Thompson. “I told you there is nothing more I require, and I wish to speak privately with my nephew.”
With a disapproving sniff, the butler reluctantly departed.
“He always finds out everything anyway, but at least we can have the illusion of privacy. Simon, I believe you ought to change your name. Someone might put two and two together and guess who you are, especially if they know you were in the navy.”
“I'd best keep quiet about being a sailor, perhaps. But neither Simon nor Hurst is an uncommon name, Aunt Georgina, and I have been so little in England these past years I doubt anyone will connect me with Derwent or Stokesbury.”
His aunt sighed. “Are you sure you would not like to be called Sebastian Hetherington-ffolkes? You could keep the same initials.”
“I fear I must decline the honor. Besides, all your staff think me to be your distant relative Simon Hurst, and I have already introduced myself to one of your neighbors. I was riding past the mere on my way to see Wickham when I met a rather odd angler, fishing with a butterfly net.”
“That must have been Mimi.”
“Surely not. Mimi sounds French, and this young lady was of Indian extraction, unless I miss my guess.”
“Half Indian, you are quite right. Mimi is a nickname, of course. Her given name—one can scarcely call it Christian! I believe she is named after the Hindoo goddess of wealth and beauty. Most appropriate.”
“Her given name?” asked Simon patiently.
“Lakshmi. Of course no one can pronounce it, but then most call her Miss Lassiter anyway so it hardly matters.”
“Lakshmi Lassiter. She is wealthy as well as beautiful, is she? She claimed to be a princess.”
“That's odd.” Lady Thompson regarded him with bright eyes, her head cocked to one side like an inquisitive sparrow—in borrowed plumage, given her violet satin. “Mimi is usually at pains to deny any right to the title. I wonder what made her claim it. She didn't by any chance have cause to push you into the mere, did she?”
“Good Lord, no! What sort of a loose fish do you take me for?” Simon explained about the lost bracelet. “She promised to invite me to dinner and to dance with me, as a reward.” He thought it prudent to keep to himself his request for a kiss. “But she rode off as soon as she had her bracelet, leaving me bootless and dripping.”
“I daresay she thought you shockingly presumptuous. If you will conceal your title and dress in your oldest clothes, you cannot expect young ladies to treat you as a desirable acquaintance.”
“At that particular moment, she didn't precisely look like a lady. Why the deuce should she have been fishing for tadpoles?”
“I cannot imagine.” There was something spurious about Aunt Georgina's innocent expression, and how had she guessed at once who his odd angler was? “Mimi has always behaved with the utmost propriety,” she assured him.
“Who is she, Aunt? Is she or is she not a princess?”
“Strictly speaking, no, though her mother was. Her father, Colonel Lassiter, was in the Indian army. He was sent to put down a rebellion against one of the native rulers and then was seconded to him as a military adviser. The rajah took a fancy to him and gave him his daughter's hand in marriage.”
“It sounds like a story out of the Arabian Nights.”
“Does it not? Of course, the colonel prospered mightily, in true fairy-tale style. When his wife died, he came home a wealthy man and last summer he bought Salters Hall.”
“You know a great deal about him for so recent an addition to the neighborhood.”
“Mimi calls on me often, and the colonel is a most hospitable gentleman. In fact, I have an invitation to dine at the Hall two days hence.” Lady Thompson paused in sudden thought. “Oh, I have a simply splendid notion! She promised to invite you to dinner?”
“She did.”
Their eyes met in a glance of understanding and complicity.
Chapter 3
“Ever your most humble and admiring servant, Miss Lassiter.”
“Thank you, Sir Wilfred,” said Mimi primly, accepting the slim young man's hand as she dismounted at the gate of the vicarage. At her wrist, between glove and cuff, her gold bracelet glinted in the sun.
“May I call this evening?”
“You know my father is always delighted to gather his friends about him.”
“Too many of them by half,” muttered Sir Wilfred, then cast a guilty glance at the vicarage. “Must be on my way. Until tonight.” Top hat in hand, he bowed as deeply as his tight coat allowed and pressed a fervent kiss on her gloved fingers.
His inexpressibles fitting as tightly as his coat, he mounted his showy black gelding with some difficulty and cantered away down the village street. Sir Wilfred Marbury did not find it easy to reconcile the demands of the dandy set to which he aspired with the life of a country gentleman.
Mimi breathed a sigh of relief: he had not asked why Jacko was carrying a butterfly net. She gathered the train of her dark-blue velvet riding habit and turned to her groom.
“Wait here a minute, Jacko. I expect Miss Cooper is ready to go, but if she is not I'll call to you and you can tie the horses and go around to the kitchen to wait.”
“Aye, miss.” A short, wiry lad, Jacko was dwarfed by the three horses whose reins he held, but his worshipful eyes never left his mistress. She felt his gaze on her back as she opened the wicket gate and walked down the brick path between beds of nodding daffodils and rich-scented hyacinths.
On either side of the door, brilliant against the whitewashed walls, grew polyanthus in every shade of yellow, orange, scarlet, crimson, and purple. These Mimi regarded with particular satisfaction—they were the result of one of her projects. On arriving in Cheshire last summer, she had discovered that the vicar's wife's chief joy was in growing flowers. Since t
hen she had made a point of seeking out new varieties of seeds and plants and bulbs every time she went into Chester.
Of course, Mrs. Cooper had not liked to accept an endless stream of gifts she wanted but could not afford. A word in Papa's ear had solved that problem. Colonel Lassiter had begged Mrs. Cooper to rescue him before his gardener gave notice. His daughter, he said, having no notion of economy, bought far more than the gardens of Salters Hall could easily accommodate. Mrs. Cooper had smiled and happily agreed.
As Mimi raised her hand to knock on the door, it was opened by a fair-haired young lady in a slate-gray cloth habit.
“I'll be with you in a moment, Mimi. My mother went out, but Judith has a cold and could not go with her, so she will watch the children. I must just tell Papa I am leaving.”
“I have a message for him from my father.” She followed Harriet down the narrow hall to the vicar's study, pondering the injustice of life. To have opened the door so quickly, her friend must have been looking out of the window. She could hardly have helped seeing her erstwhile suitor departing in a hurry rather than calling on her as he would have before Mimi's arrival in the village.
Harriet never complained, always seemed cheerful, but she must be sadly hurt at the defection of all her beaux. Something, Mimi decided, must be done about the situation.
Knocking on the study door, Harriet went in. “Mimi has brought the horses, Papa. We are going to see Lady Thompson.”
“Very well, my dear.” Rising as Mimi followed his daughter into the tiny, book-cluttered room, he added, “Good day, Princess Lakshmi.”
“Good day, sir.” The first time he had greeted her thus, she had earnestly explained that, though her mother had been the only daughter of the Rajah of Bharadupatam, she herself had no claim to a title. She had long since grown used to his gentle teasing. “My father asked me to tell you that he'd like to call tomorrow morning to consult you about the orphanage, if that will be convenient?”
“I shall be at home at least until noon,” the vicar informed her, “and I am always happy to see the colonel. Now off you go, girls, or there will be no sermon come Sunday.”