Carola Dunn (8 page)

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 suspicious 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.

“Why, Mr. Bassett,” she said, “I have had no chance to talk to you. If you are not engaged elsewhere, do pray stay to dinner.”

Blushing, he accepted. Someone else came up to speak to her, and he turned to Peter.

“Lucky dog!” he said. “You told me Lady Wiston is eccentric, but not that she is so kind, nor that she has a companion just as kind, and pretty to boot.”

“You said you are not in the petticoat line,” Peter pointed out indignantly.

“No more I am. In general, I’d rather face a battery of French guns than a room full of ladies, so maybe it’s just as well it’ll be years before I’m able to support a wife. But Miss Carmichael made me feel at home. And what a character that Daylight Danny is!”

“He’s quite a fellow, isn’t he?” said Peter, mollified. “If you could but see him with ‘his Mary’ as he calls his wife. The top of her head scarce reaches his armpit yet her word is law.”

Bassett laughed. “So I gathered. He had orders to consult Miss Carmichael about the health of his sister-in-law, who suffers from some female complaint he was too embarrassed to describe. She set the poor chap quite at his ease, said she’d talk to him privately later.” He glanced around the room, now thin of company. “I expect that’s where she’s gone. Oh well, thanks to Lady Wiston’s invitation I shall see her at dinner.”

There was absolutely nothing in this speech for Peter to take exception to. Clearly the man admired Miss Carmichael as much as she admired him, but it was none of Peter’s business. He’d just drop a word in Aunt Artemis’s ear, a mention of Bassett’s inability to support a wife. It would never do for his aunt to attempt to promote a match in that quarter.

* * * *

Miranda donned her best gown for dinner, in honour of Lieutenant Bassett’s splendid uniform. Amidst Lady Wiston’s unfashionable guests—not to mention her still threadbare nephew! –the poor fellow had felt horridly conspicuous in his gold braid, a peacock among sparrows. Daylight Danny’s all too audible comment about a “flash cove” did not help. Danny had explained to her that the phrase signified “a buck what’s dressed up all dandified like.”

Mr. Bassett had shyly apologized to Miranda for his
faux pas
. She assured him her ladyship could only take his smartness as a compliment. Presenting Danny to him, she encouraged the young officer to talk about his voyages and he soon felt quite comfortable.

She had not been able to resist quizzing Mr. Daviot about his friend’s magnificence, though she would never have said a word had not his own shabbiness been well on the way to relief.

Her evening dress was as fine as Lady Wiston could persuade her to accept. The white sarcenet slip had amber silk roses set on around the hem; the shorter frock of amber net was caught up at the side with a posy of white roses, and another rose adorned the brief bodice. It went perfectly with Miranda’s sole ornament, a necklace of amber beads, a gift from her father which he had never pawned only because she kept it well hidden from him.

Altogether she felt very fine, much too fine for a hired companion. She thought of leaving off the necklace, but without it the neckline looked far too low and even less suitable for a companion.

Lady Wiston did not think so. “Charming, dear,” she said with approval when she and Miranda met at the top of the stairs. She too was dressed to the nines. In forest green silk festooned with white lace, a collar of pearls, and white curls topped with a green toque, she looked rather like an evergreen tree bedecked with snow.

A pang of guilt struck Miranda. “I fear Mr. Daviot, in his aged attire, will be sadly piqued.”

“Fiddlesticks! We have donned our finery in honour of his friend, have we not? It will be very pleasant to have a naval gentleman at table, I vow. Quite like the old days. I am very glad Peter has made Mr. Bassett’s acquaintance. A young man ought not to be tied to an old lady’s apron strings.”

Descending the stairs, they heard an uproar from the drawing room below. A volley of high, sharp barks vied with a string of distinctly seafaring oaths.

“Oh heavens!” cried Miranda, picking up her skirts. “Mudge has taken exception to Mr. Bassett.”