Carola Dunn (3 page)

“Not making my fortune, alas,” he said ruefully, cutting into a thick slice of York ham.

Miranda had guessed as much. He had slept in the open after going without his dinner, though the inns of the greatest city in the world never closed their doors. His pockets were undoubtedly to let. She suspected he hoped to hang on his aunt’s sleeve.

He would find Lady Wiston less easy to impose upon than he expected. And if a sentimental attachment to her sister’s son, her only living relative, overbore her capacity to resist undeserving spongers, she had Miranda to protect her.

“What a pity,” said her ladyship, her sympathy all too obvious. “I daresay it was impossible for an Englishman to grow rich in America while we were fighting the colonists again.”

“I certainly chose the wrong moment to cross the Atlantic!” he agreed. “Within a month of my arrival, the Yankees declared war. I thought it wisest to make for Canada. Canada, Miss Carmichael, is a name for British North America, which lies to the north of the United States.”

“I know!” Miranda said indignantly. “I am not absolutely ignorant of geography, in spite of never being taught the use of the globes.”

“Nor was I,” said Lady Wiston, “and when Sir Bernard tried to explain to me I must confess I utterly failed to comprehend the connection between the celestial and terrestrial globes. I gather they keep moving in relation to each other in the most confusing fashion. As for lines of longitude and latitude—my dear, it seems they are quite imaginary! How they can have assisted him in navigation I cannot think. So you went to Canada, Peter?”

“Not quite. Before I came to the frontier, I fell in with a band of Iroquois Indians.”

“Gracious heavens!” his aunt gasped. “My dear boy, how did you escape?”

“Oh, they didn’t take me prisoner. Most of them fought with the British in the American Revolution, you know. Many fled to Canada, and those who remain in the United States are in general still favourably disposed towards us. They welcomed me and took me to their village, and there I stayed until I heard a few months since that peace was made at last.”

“That must have been interesting,” said Miranda. In a severe tone, she added, “But when the peace freed you to make your fortune, why did you rush back to England?”

“I decided my new scheme had a better chance of reaping rich rewards here, because of the larger population, a greater choice of publishers, and any number of wealthy patrons of the arts. You see, if I can only find a patron, I mean to write a thrilling popular account of my life among the Iroquois.”

“What a splendid notion, dear,” Lady Wiston exclaimed, surrendering without a fight. “You will live here, of course, while you are writing.”

With a quizzical glance at Miranda which told her he was well aware of her dismayed disapproval, Mr. Daviot smiled and said, “Thank you, Aunt Artemis, I shall be delighted.”

Chapter 3

“That is all settled, then,” said Lady Wiston, beaming.

“I shall move out of my chamber as quickly as I can,” Miranda said resignedly.

“Good gracious, dear, whatever for?”

“It is the second best chamber, ma’am. Your nephew—”

“I shouldn’t dream of dispossessing you, Miss Carmichael,” Mr. Daviot protested. “The blue chamber is perfectly comfortable.”

“Quite right,” his aunt agreed. “You are all settled, Miranda, and there is not the least occasion to uproot yourself. The Admiral’s study will be perfect for your work, Peter. Miranda, pray order plenty of paper and pens and ink.”

“I shall go by the stationer’s this morning on my way to do the marketing.” Miranda was determined to make sure he had no excuse not to keep his nose to the grindstone. “How much paper do you suppose you will require, Mr. Daviot?”

“Oh, a ream I suppose will do the trick. Or do I mean a quire?”

“I have not the least notion.”

“Perhaps I had best go with you. I’ll be glad to carry your basket.”

“Thank you, sir, but that is not necessary.” She was not going to succumb to his blandishments. “I take one of the footmen, and in any case all the tradesmen deliver to the house.”

Lady Wiston’s mind had moved on to the marketing. “Miranda, if the greengrocer has good red and black currants, pray order plenty. Cook shall bake tarts for my at-home this afternoon and put up the rest for the winter.”

“You expect callers this afternoon, Aunt?” Mr. Daviot enquired. “As I recall, London is generally rather thin of company at this season.”

“The
Ton
may go off to their country houses, but they are a very small proportion of the population. London still abounds in interesting people. Only last week, when we visited St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, we met a Lascar seaman, a charming gentleman.”

“A Lascar seaman a gentleman!”

“I find,” said Lady Wiston with some severity, “that if one treats common men and women as ladies and gentlemen, they almost invariably strive to live up to one’s expectations. I gave Sagaranu my card. I hope he will come today. The name was Sagaranu, was it not, Miranda?”

“Something of the sort, Lady Wiston. I wrote it down in my notebook. I shall check before he arrives.”

“What an excellent secretary you are, my dear.”

Miranda smiled at her affectionately. “If I am to be a good marketer also, I must be on my way, or all the best currants will be sold.” She finished off her cup of tea and folded her napkin.

“Don’t forget to go by the bookseller’s and tell them we did not receive the latest
Examiner
. I shall be sadly disappointed if the Hunts close down the paper and cease to bedevil the government now they are out of prison at last.”

“Yes, indeed! What should we discuss over our Sunday breakfast?”

Miranda went upstairs to put on her bonnet and shawl. When she came downstairs a few minutes later, she was surprised to find Mr. Daviot waiting for her in the hall, gloves and well-brushed top-hat in hand.

“I told Ethan I shall accompany you in his place, Miss Carmichael,” he said.

“I am quite capable of ordering paper and pens for you, sir.”

“Of that I have no doubt. You strike me as a singularly capable female. That is why I wish to consult you.”

“Oh?” said Miranda coldly, sure he thought to win her over by flattery and enlist her aid in fleecing Lady Wiston. Only a fear of being overheard in the house could explain his choosing to consult her in the street.

He said no more until they were outside. The square was quiet, devoid of its usual bustling traffic. Most of the houses were shut up, only caretakers in residence, the knockers removed from front doors for the summer. Miranda and her unwanted escort turned south towards Oxford Street.

“I am a little concerned about Aunt Artemis,” said Mr. Daviot, a supportive hand beneath her elbow as they crossed the cobbled street. “As you know, I have been absent for several years. I don’t recall her being so freakish when I left.”

“Freakish! Lady Wiston is an original, perhaps even a trifle eccentric, but I would not call her freakish.”

“What, when she reads seditious newspapers, invites ramshackle sailors to her at-home, visits hospitals—”

“And orphanages,” said Miranda, not without relish, “and prisons.”

“Prisons!”

“We were at Newgate recently with Mrs. Elizabeth Fry, the prison reformer—we met her a fortnight ago, when we attended a Quaker meeting.”

“Aunt Artemis doesn’t go to Church?”

“The Church of England? Sometimes, but she likes to try a different place of worship every Sunday. She says each sect is quite convinced it possesses the only truth, and since they cannot all be right, it behooves every individual—”

“Yes, yes, I see her point. But what’s all this about visiting prisons?”

“Lady Wiston believes one ought to see conditions for oneself so as best to direct how one’s alms are employed. Besides, she thoroughly enjoys delivering little comforts to the unfortunates confined in such places, and we make the acquaintance, as she told you, of the most fascinating people.”

“But to invite them to call upon her!” Mr. Daviot said feebly.

Miranda stopped and turned to face him. “Your aunt happens to be remarkably lively and interested in the world about her,” she asserted, “unlike all too many old ladies whose only concern is their ailments. She gives many people a good deal of harmless pleasure, and injures no one.”

“Not even you? I’d have thought a well-brought-up young lady must find it trying to be obliged by her position to assist in such activities.”

“Not even me.”

“You don’t find shopping for household necessities demeaning? Is that not commonly regarded as part of a housekeeper’s duties?”

“Yes, but Mrs. Lowenstein speaks very little English. She is a refugee from Poland, you see, where Jews are much persecuted.”

“I suppose you met her when you attended a Synagogue!”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Miranda regarded his stunned face with amusement. “Though she communicates very well with the maids—indeed, no one could complain of their slacking at their work—dealing with shopkeepers is beyond her at present, while I don’t mind in the least.”

“You are an exceptional woman, Miss Carmichael.”

 “Not I. Did you not say yourself that you conceived all hired companions to be grey, mousy creatures? I was well on the way to becoming just another such until Lady Wiston engaged me. I can never be sufficiently grateful.”

“You grey and mousy?” He shook his head with a smile. “Inconceivable. Well, you defend Aunt Artemis so ably that I have not another word to say on the subject. In fact, I confess I begin to look forward to this afternoon’s outlandish at-home.”

Chuckling, Miranda pointed out, “After living among Iroquois Indians for several years, you are unlikely to find the occasion excessively outlandish.”

“Touché! Say rather that I anticipate no little amusement from meeting my aunt’s acquaintance.”

His smile really was alarmingly attractive, Miranda reflected as they continued on their way. She was going to have to make an effort to remain on her guard.

* * * *

As hostess, Aunt Artemis wore a gown for once, in a dazzling vermilion sarcenet which made her look, Peter thought, like a plump, cheerful robin redbreast. He wondered whether her companion had had to persuade her to abandon her comfortable trousers for the nonce.

“Is Mudge safely shut up?” she asked.

“Yes, Lady Wiston, at a large cost in comfits for bribery.”

“He does enjoy them so, as I trust our visitors will enjoy this spread.” Aunt Artemis regarded the laden table with a contented sigh. “Plum cake, seed cake, bread-and-butter, currant tarts and Bakewell tarts, Shrewsbury biscuits, macaroons—excellent. I’m sure you are right, dear, about the bowl of cherries. So difficult even in the best company to deal politely with the stones.”

“Very wise, Miss Carmichael,” Peter agreed gravely. “One cannot wish to force one’s guests to choose between swallowing the stones and spitting them into the fireplace.”

Miss Carmichael appeared to be trying not to smile at his bald statement of the possible alternatives. “It seems sensible not to face people with that quandary,” she said.

As Lady Wiston trotted through to the drawing room to take her place behind the tea-table, Peter continued in a low voice, “I must say I’m surprised my aunt doesn’t provide more substantial victuals, hams and barons of beef and such. Surely some of those she invites seldom eat well?”

“True,” she said, favouring him with an almost approving look. “Lady Wiston regards these at-homes as purely social affairs, like those to which she invites her fashionable acquaintance during the Season. She finds plenty of other opportunities for charity, and you may be sure none of her friends goes hungry. Ah, there goes the door knocker. You are about to make the acquaintance of Daylight Danny—he is always the first to arrive.”

“Daylight Danny?” he asked, bemused, following her through to the other room.

She threw a mischievous glance over her shoulder. “Do ask him how he came by his name. Lady Wiston,” she addressed her employer severely, “I wish you will let me pour. Last week your wrist ached for two days from lifting heavy teapots.”

“I shall call for help before it grows tired,” Aunt Artemis promised. “Ah, here they come.”

The tap-tap of the butler’s peg-leg was heard in the hall. Twitchell was an ex-Chief Petty officer who had sailed with the Admiral and lost his leg at the Battle of the Nile. He had been with the Wistons ever since, an excellent if unique butler. Eccentricity was nothing new in this household, Peter reflected.

The door opened. His leathery face impassive, Twitchell announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Potts, my lady.”

Behind him loomed a hulking, villainous fellow with a low brow, a squashed nose, two cauliflower ears, and a broken-toothed grin. Peter sprang forward, his immediate reaction that the butler must have run mad to admit a prize-fighter to his mistress’s drawing room. Then, recalling the Lascar seaman, he hesitated.

Twitchell stepped aside, revealing a neat little woman at the bruiser’s side. Perfectly self-possessed, she advanced into the room. “How do, my lady, miss?” she said with a curtsy.

Her mountainous husband bowed awkwardly. “Here I be, m’lady,” he said, his slow country voice overlaid with a touch of Cockney, “but it do seem today there’s another forrarder nor I.” The glare he turned on Peter was a fearsome sight.

“Good day to you both,” said Aunt Artemis. “This is my nephew, Mr. Daviot, come home from America to live with me for a while. Peter, Daylight Danny and Mrs. Potts.”

Daylight Danny apologized to Peter for taking his presence amiss. “I likes to be here first, you see, sir,” he said in a confidential whisper. “There bain’t no knowing what sort o’ rum custermers her la’ship’ll take into her noddle to arst into her house, bless her heart. She needs summun to look out for her at these here at-homes, she do.”

“I must be grateful to you for taking on the task,” Peter assured him, somehow contriving not to smile. His own coat, he had to acknowledge, was quite shabby enough to mislead the man into doubting his respectability.