“
And
where’ll ye be heading, now, miss?” asked the driver.
“
Three
Wendover Square, if you please,” she replied.
The driver whistled.
“That’s a mighty fine direction, miss,” he said, and leaned down
from his box. “Now you’ll not be offended if I ask ye to show me
some money first, will ye? It’s a bit of a way to go.”
And I look none too
prosperous soaking wet, she thought grimly as she dug about in her
reticule and salvaged a handful of coins. The driver nodded and
tipped his hat to her, and she climbed inside.
Once she was out of the
rain, she had to smile to herself, thinking how carefully she had
assured Galen that she could manage perfectly well by herself. And
so she could, once she had learned to overlook the stares of
innkeepers and the bold glances of men drinking in taprooms.
Jeannie had spoken to no one in the four days of her journey, save
a vicar outside of Leeds, who rode for only a few miles, and a
governess on her way to Nottingham. In silence she had ridden, one
hand firmly on her reticule and her eyes fastened upon the dreary
scenery of late March.
She must have slept
then in the hackney, leaning against the window, her hand tight to
the strap. The monotony of the rain, along with last night’s
sleepless sojourn in a noisy, overcrowded inn, sent her into a
slumber that she did not wake from until the hackney had stopped
and the driver opened the door to admit the rain again.
“
Here
you are, miss. Watch your step, mind.”
Jeannie paid the
driver, gathered her sodden skirts about her, and descended to the
roadway. Whistling to himself, the driver plopped her bags down
beside her, tipped his hat again, and drove into the rainy
night.
Jeannie picked up her
bags, took two steps toward the house, and then set down the bags
again. The doubts that had been niggling at her almost since the
moment they crossed the border seemed to loom before her now in
monstrous proportion. As she stood peering at the large house
through the dark and the rain, Jeannie McVinnie knew, deep in her
self-critical Scottish heart, that she had erred.
She also knew that she
could not return to Kirkcudbright. Galen had locked up the little
house on McDermott Street, and Mrs. MacDonald had left for Skye to
spend the spring with her oldest daughter. To cry off now would
mean that her father-in-law, gentleman that he was, would be forced
to leave his Highland trout stream and the agreeable company of old
comrades-in-arms.
What had seemed a
clever idea less than a week ago was now only a foolish escapade.
Jeannie knew that Scottish humor was a piquant thing. Suppose the
English were different? She had no experience among them. Her mouth
went dry and her hands felt cold and clammy inside her gloves.
How could I be so
stupid, she berated herself. What happened to my perspicacity?
A cart tumbled by,
flinging water across her cloak. If I remain here much longer, I
will be a fetching sight, she thought. Courage, Jeannie. You got
yourself into this so gracefully, now you had better get yourself
out.
She squared her
shoulders and picked up her bags again, compelling herself to move
forward and up the front steps. She knocked on the door, praying
that no one was at home even as she saw lights glowing in the
windows and heard the mumble of voices within.
The bags felt as heavy
as Presbyterian sin, and she set them down again, a little to one
side, as she waited for the door to open.
It opened so suddenly
that the motion nearly threw her off balance. Jeannie blinked and
jumped back as an overstuffed woman in an apron and cap grabbed her
by the wrist and yanked her inside.
“
We
thought you would never get here,” the woman railed as she pulled
Jeannie into the room. “Lady Smeath is about to fall into a foaming
fit, and the captain … Oh, God help us!”
Jeannie could only
stare, openmouthed.
The housekeeper peered
at her and spoke in more kindly tones. “Dearie, take off your
cloak. My, you look as if you had traveled miles and miles, instead
of only from Bond Street. I suppose it’s that kind of a night.
Hurry up, now. There’s work to be done. That’s my dearie.”
Numbly, Jeannie handed
over her cloak and thought only fleetingly of her bags on the front
steps. Whatever address she had once possessed deserted her
entirely. She started to say something, but the housekeeper had her
firmly in tow and was tugging her up the stairs.
A quick glance at the
top of the stairs took in the beautiful rooms, the portraits on the
walls, the thick carpeting underfoot. She peeked in one open door
as the housekeeper hurried her along. A curly-haired gentleman was
struggling with a neckcloth.
“
Blast
and damn, Pringle,” he shouted as she was hurried past. “Damn and
blast! I’d rather be under fire and hip-deep in swash!”
“
Aye,
aye, Captain. Surely we’ll come about, sir.”
Jeannie’s ears caught
the burr of a Scottish voice in that reply, but the housekeeper was
racing her down the long hall to another room, where she stopped,
out of breath. The housekeeper took a closer look at Jeannie and a
frown appeared between her eyes.
“
Well,
didn’t Madame Coutant send you with some thread at least? A pair of
scissors?”
Jeannie shook her head
and the housekeeper sighed in exasperation. “Those frogs haven’t
the sense of a pound of butter. Oh, go in. I will get thread.”
The woman propelled
Jeannie into the room and left her there. A young girl stood in
front of Jeannie, her eyes red with weeping. An older woman sat on
the bed. She was dressed in the latest fashion, her dress a
perfection of lace and silk, but her face was pale and she appeared
on the ragged edge of a spasm. The woman rose laboriously to her
feet when she saw Jeannie and drifted toward her as if she had not
the strength to navigate to the door.
“
You
can tell Madame Coutant that after this night, I will no longer
suffer her with our patronage. Now, what are we to do about this, I
ask you? And I suggest that you have a remedy.”
With a languid hand,
she motioned Jeannie forward. “Stand still, Larinda, and quit
sniveling. We haven’t time for cucumbers on your eyes. Let the
dressmaker see you. Now, I ask ….”
Jeannie came nearer and
the problem was obvious immediately. The dress was too big, nothing
more. Jeannie smiled and reached out to touch the girl on the arm.
“I can have this ready in a trice. Don’t fret so. Now, take it off,
like a good lassie.”
The young woman pulled
back when Jeannie touched her.
“
You
are a trifle familiar with your betters,” she snapped even as she
turned around for Jeannie to unbutton the garment.
Resisting the urge to
slap her, Jeannie unbuttoned the dress and pulled it carefully over
the young woman’s hair, which was already arranged with diamonds
and flowers. “Wrap a dressing gown around yourself, my dear,” she
said. “Ah, here we are.”
The housekeeper had
returned with a workbasket. Jeannie whisked the dress inside out
and reeled off a length of thread. Deftly she pinned another seam
inside the first one and threaded the needle. She perched herself
on the chest at the foot of the bed and started to sew. She thought
about attempting some light conversation, but a quick glance at the
young lady—was her name Larinda?—and her stormy eyes and a peek at
the older woman’s white mouth convinced Jeannie to keep her own
counsel. As she hunched over the material, she vowed to leave this
unpleasant house, leaving no one the wiser. If they thought her the
dressmaker’s assistant, that was well and good.
Jeannie bent her head
diligently over her work, looking down at the exquisite pink muslin
dress across her lap. Her glance caught the tiniest movement of the
bed ruffle.
Curious, she stuck the
needle in the fabric and picked up the bedspread. Gazing back at
her was a little girl, finger in her mouth, dark eyes wide.
“
Oh,
you precious,” Jeannie exclaimed despite the tension that seemed to
sit in the room like a fog. “Oh, do come out. I’ll not bite. Truly,
lassie, I haven’t a mean bone.”
The little girl smiled
around the finger still in her mouth, but she did not move. With a
sigh of profound ill use, the housekeeper pulled her out from under
the bed, picked her up, and set her against the wall. She wagged a
finger at her. “Don’t you move a muscle now. We haven’t time to
spare for crochets.”
The little girl’s eyes
clouded over and for a moment Jeannie thought she would cry. The
child took a quick, sidelong glance at Larinda’s companion, uttered
a shuddering breath that went straight to Jeannie’s heart, and
remained where she was in the shadow.
Jeannie dragged her
eyes back to the dress and continued her tiny stitches. She quickly
altered both side seams, clipped off the thread, and held out the
dress to Larinda, who snatched it from her.
“
Help
me,” she ordered.
Her lips set in a tight
line, Jeannie rose to her feet and snapped the scissors shut in her
hand with an audible click. Her head went back and her eyes
narrowed. “Say please.”
Larinda gasped. The
other woman—she could only be Larinda’s aunt—made a strangled sound
deep in her throat and waved her vinaigrette about like incense
while the housekeeper coughed.
“
Your
impertinence defies belief,” the aunt said as soon as she regained
the use of her voice. “Tomorrow Madame Coutant will have a full
account of it, and I hope she turns you off without a
character.”
Jeannie looked around
at her tormentor. “Yes, ma’am, you tell Madame Coutant every little
detail.” She turned an inquiring eye on Larinda, who stood, as if
rooted to the spot, still clutching the dress.
“
Please.”
The word was softly
spoken, but Jeannie heard it.
“
Very
well.”
Larinda held up her
arms as Jeannie stood on tiptoe and dropped the gown over the curls
and jewels that glittered in her hair. She did up the buttons and
smoothed the fabric over Larinda’s hips, stepping back for a better
look.
“
It is
too long, but that is all. If you will allow me, I can have that
hemmed in a jig and jiffy.”
After a glance at her
aunt, Larinda nodded.
In a moment, the dress
was spread over Jeannie’s lap again. Quickly she pinned in another
hem and set to work.
The chest was too high
to perch upon comfortably, and the pain laced through her shoulders
as she leaned forward over the material.
And then someone was
sliding a footstool under her shoes. Gratefully she looked over and
smiled into the face of a countryman.
He could only be a
fellow Scot, with his frank blue eyes, square jaw, and liberal
dusting of freckles. He must belong to the voice Jeannie had heard
from the captain’s room. She looked at him, a question in her
eyes.
“
The
captain will be needing your assistance when you are finished here,
miss, if you will be so obliging.”
“
She
is not obliging,” burst out Larinda’s aunt with a sob in her
throat.
“
I am
very obliging,” Jeannie said firmly, and smiled at the light of
recognition that her accent brought into his eyes. “I am merely a
stubborn Scot.”
The man—Summer’s
valet?—stood where Larinda’s aunt could not see his face and winked
at her. She smiled back, grateful to know that she was not
Scotland’s only expatriate in London.
The man went to the
door and stood there until the housekeeper shooed him away.
Jeannie hemmed swiftly,
wondering what the captain wanted. He could have no idea who she
was. I do not think I will ask him to say please, she told herself,
and the thought made her chuckle.
While she worked, the
women left the room. Jeannie heard them quarreling in the hallway.
Someone stamped her foot several times and there were noisy tears.
Jeannie shook her head. Nothing could force her to remain in this
disjointed household. Agnes would simply have to open her home in
Edinburgh to one more body, for she was going there as soon as she
knotted her last knot and saw to whatever it was the captain
wanted. It might make for a long spring, but at least it would be a
tolerable one.
Jeannie looked up into
the eyes of the little girl, who still stood against the wall,
finger in her mouth. The child couldn’t have been above four years
old, if that. She was dressed nicely and her curly hair was caught
up into a little bow on the top of her head. Jeannie smiled and
beckoned her closer.
After a careful look
around, the girl ran across the room and held up her arms for
Jeannie to lift her onto the chest. Jeannie laughed and settled the
child next to her.
“
Stay
here and be quiet as a mouse,” Jeannie said, “and we’ll brush
through this without a blot on our souls.”
Jeannie finished the
hem and shook out the dress. The housekeeper whisked herself back
into the room and snatched it away. “I’ve heated the irons
belowstairs. It’ll want another press.”
Jeannie nodded. The
housekeeper motioned her to follow. “I’ll send your wage along to
Madame Coutant’s in the morning, but I expect you’ll be wanting
something to eat.”
The Scottish man in the
hallway took her by the arm and appropriated the workbasket from
the housekeeper. “Nay, Mrs. White, not so fast. The captain hasn’t
worn his dress blues since I disremember, and he has a loose
button.”
Jeannie looked back
into the room. The little girl had climbed down from the chest and
was backed up to the wall again, her eyes on the aunt and daughter,
who had taken up residence in the room again.