Mrs. McVinnie's London Season (34 page)

He laughed. “Turn
around, Jeannie,” he said.

She shook her head.
“It’s much too improper.”

He looked around
elaborately at the empty hall and then raised up one corner of the
runner on the floor and peered under it. Jeannie giggled and turned
around.

“
I
would close my eyes, Jeannie dear, but then I would be fumbling
about. Hold still. How can I perform this maneuver if you are
laughing?”

He did up her buttons
and she turned about again and curtsied playfully. He took her by
the hand. “Jeannie, do you have a moment to spare?” he asked, and
all the fun went out of his eyes.

Her smiled vanished.
She looked up at Bartley MacGregor’s dear, honest face. It was an
expression totally without guile. Tom had remarked to her once that
Bart would probably be fleeced by every double-dealer he came
across. “You’d have to hit him over the head with a caber, Jean, to
get through to him that everyone’s not as honest as he,” Tom had
said.

Jeannie held tight to
Bartley’s hand. She could make an excuse and avoid him for another
day, but there must come an end to it. It was time to put a ghost
to rest, even if it meant … whatever it would mean to one so
devoted to her.

“
I
have a moment, but only that,” she said, her voice low.

She thought for a
moment to take him into her room, but she went instead to the
nursery and opened the door. A small fire burned in the hearth of
the little sitting room, but all else was quiet. Mary must have
taken Clare down the hall to the bathing room. Jeannie motioned for
Bartley to follow her and she closed the door behind him.

He sat down on the
sofa, tucking his kilt about him, but rose almost immediately and
went to the fireplace, where he rested his arm along the mantel. He
didn’t say anything for the longest time, so Jeannie cleared her
throat.

“
You
have been hearing rumors about me?” she prodded, her voice scarcely
above a whisper.

He nodded, but still
did not speak. He shook his head at the floor and then looked her
in the eye.

“
Jeannie, you couldn’t have done what I’m hearing.” He came
closer and took hold of her hands. “It’s too unlike you to be
believed, but ….’’ his voice trailed off and he couldn’t look
her in the eyes.

“
But
everyone believes it?” she asked.

He nodded. “When we got
back to Dumfries from Canada, we joined the remnant of boys who had
been on the beach at La Coruña. All the women were whispering and
whispering that, that …. Ah, Jeannie, that you never came to
Portsmouth, not in those whole three weeks when Tom was dying and
Galen so close to it that the doctor had to use a mirror more than
once to see if he still breathed.”

Jeannie was silent.

Bartley let go of her
hands and backed himself up to the fireplace as if he had taken a
sudden chill. “I mean, the other women came. All your lady friends.
It was hard day and night traveling, but they came and stood by
their men as the women of the Dumfries Rifles have always done. But
you weren’t there.”

She shook her head.
“It’s true, Bartley,” she managed.

“
Oh,
Jeannie,” he burst out, “how could ye do such a thing? Colonel
Mackey’s wife said she sat up with Tom and all he could do was call
for you and stare at the door each time it opened, with such a
light in his eyes!”

“
Please don’t,” Jeannie said, and sat down on the sofa because
her legs wouldn’t hold her.

Bartley couldn’t stop
now that he had begun. “Then just before Tom died—my best friend,
Jeannie, never mind that he was your husband, too—he told Lady
Mackey that you would come. Kept insisting, even as his eyes sank
in his head.”

Jeannie covered her
face with her hands.

Bartley sighed and sat
down heavily beside her on the sofa. “And that’s the story Lady
Mackey tells. How Tom started up at the last moment with such a
look in his eyes when he realized that he was all alone. ” He shook
his head. “ ‘Ach, such a mask of terror to wear through the
eternities,’ is how Lady Mackey describes it. ” He touched Jeannie
then, pulling her hands away from her face and clasping them
firmly. “That’s the story she puts about the regiment.”

Jeannie looked into
Bartley’s eyes, Bartley she had known since they were both
children. She saw looking back at her that same wary look that
stared out from Galen’s eyes when he thought she wasn’t aware.

“
Jeannie McVinnie, how could ye be such a coward?” Bartley
asked in amazement. “I never would have thought it possible.” He
ran his fingers over her knuckles and then put her hand to his
lips. “Tell me there is something more to the story, please. I have
to know.”

With a great effort,
Jeannie rose and took her place in front of the fireplace. She was
colder than she could ever remember before, but there was no warmth
from the flames. For a moment she considered telling him what he
wanted to hear, but only for a moment.

“
There
is nothing more to the story, Bartley, nothing more,” she
said.

He stared at her, and
gradually the wary look gave way to contempt and then resignation.
“Then it is all true what Lady Mackey tells?”

“
You
have said it,” Jeannie whispered.

“
Jeannie!” Bartley leapt to his feet. “And we all thought ye
such a braw, bonnie lass! How could ye?”

He went to the door and
wrenched it open, looked back at her once and tried to speak, and
then left the room. In another moment, she heard him pounding down
the stairs, probably out of her life. For a year she had
anticipated the wretched scene that had just played itself out, but
in all her anxiety she had erred in one respect: it was much, much
worse than she could ever have imagined.

She turned to the fire,
wishing for some warmth from the flames that glowed with all the
heat of a papier-mâché imitation. As her head finally cleared and
the roaring in her ears receded, she heard the unbelievable sound
of clapping.

“
Bravo, Jeannie, bravo,” said the captain from the inside door
to Clare’s room. “I never heard a more touching story, or one less
true.”

She gasped, whirled
about, and clapped her hands over her ears. “Stop it!”

He stopped clapping,
leaned against the doorframe, and stuck his hands in his pockets.
“One should never eavesdrop, of course, but you two didn’t give me
the opportunity to announce myself. I thought you were Mary
returning with Clare from the bathing room.”

Jeannie edged toward
the door. “It’s not a thing I’m proud of,” she said when she was
able, “and I’ll thank you not to spread the word about.”

The captain shook his
head. “Jeannie, I just told you I don’t believe a word of it.”

“
Bartley does,” she said. “You heard him. And Galen does.” She
tried to smile, but it died on her lips. “And Tom did. And each of
them knows me better than you.”

“
I’m
not so sure about that,” he said. “You cannot fool me.” He came
closer and held out his hand to her. When she only backed closer to
the door, he let it drop. “I’ve seen you face lions in the theater,
and all for my silly niece, who only wanted to do you mischief. You
would no more abandon the man you loved than fly to the moon. God,
how I envy Tom!” He came closer, but did not reach for her.
“Something happened, and you’re shielding someone. I wish I knew
who and why.”

She said nothing in her
defense, but she stopped her movement toward the door.

“
And
there you stood, such a little lady, Bartley railing at you,
begging you to tell him if it was true, and all you could say was,
‘You have said it,’ and play Jesus to Pontius Pilate.”

He came forward
quickly, before she could dart out the door, and cupped her face in
his hands. “But look here, lady, I am not railing at you.” He
kissed her nose. “I will do my utmost to make you comfortable
around me.” He kissed her forehead. “I have no winning ways because
I never needed any before, but, my dear, if you need a friend, I am
here.”

He released her and she
bolted to the door. “I have to go downstairs,” she managed to say.
“Beau Brummell is below by now, I am sure of it.”

He caught at her hand
before she could dart away. “Then Mrs. McVinnie, I recommend that
you put on some shoes. Even the Beau couldn’t bring bare feet into
fashion, I fear.”

She fled to her room,
leaning against the door until she regained some semblance of
command over herself, and then hurried into her shoes. Jeannie knew
without looking in a glass that her face was white and anxious. She
rushed to the mirror anyway and pinched her cheeks until she drove
some color into them. With fingers that trembled, she straightened
her skirts and forced herself to take several deep breaths.

Bartley was gone. She
had driven off her dearest friend, next to Tom. “And Tom, you are
dead,” she said out loud. “I must remind myself.”

There was a knock at
the door, and Jeannie’s fingers tightened on her skirt. She prayed
that it was not the captain, for she knew she would tell him
everything, and her disclosure would serve no useful purpose.

“
Yes?”
she asked.

“
Mrs.
McVinnie?”

“
Yes?”

“
I’m
sorry, but it didn’t sound like you,” said the upstairs maid
through the door. “If you please, Mr. Brummell is
below.”

“
Very
well,” she replied. After another look at herself, a quick scrutiny
that took in her person from shoe tops to collar, but did not
include a glance into her own eyes, she left the room.

Brummell was not alone.
Lady Smeath, bereft of words for once, sat and smiled at him, while
Larinda, awed by the personage before her, attempted conversation.
She glanced around in relief at Jeannie’s entrance.

The Beau rose at once,
magnificent in a coat of Bath superfine that did not admit a
wrinkle anywhere, a neckcloth of both mathematical genius and
discreet symmetric proportions, and trousers that stretched from
waist to ankle without the obscenity of a single crease. Jeannie
could only stare in frank delight, forgetting her misery for the
moment.

“
Sir,
how do you manage to look so fine all the time?” she asked as she
extended her hand.

He bowed over her hand
and smiled up into her face. “My dear, it is the result of arduous
labor and sacrifice of untold numbers of neckcloths upon the high
altar of fashion.” He sighed. “Style is a vigorous taskmaster, Mrs.
McVinnie. I wonder that I have the strength for it.”

As they watched in
fascination, he took an exquisite enameled snuffbox from his pocket
and flicked it open with his thumb in one practiced gesture,
expertly extracting a pinch and placing it upon the back of his
other hand, where he sniffed once, twice.

He gazed back at them
in modest satisfaction. “I would imagine that I devoted more time
to learning to do that than you spent learning your catechism, Mrs.
McVinnie.”

“
I do
not doubt it, sir,” she agreed, a twinkle back in her eyes,
“although I am not sure that the ‘Whole Duty of Man’ is to
sneeze.”

The Beau rolled his
eyes and touched his forehead. “Touché, madam! Why is it that I am
continually undone by your Scottish plain-speaking?”

“
I am
sure Mrs. McVinnie does not mean it,” Lady Smeath interjected
quickly.

“
Of
course she does,” said the Beau severely, but lightened his
accusation with another airy wave of a bow, in itself a work of
nature. “But we are dawdling, m’dear! How are we ever to find a
husband for Larinda—or you, for that matter—if we discuss my
snuff?”

“
I am
sure you do not need to find me a husband,” Jeannie
said.

“
Oh?”
asked the Beau in surprise. “Have you already accomplished such a
feat?” He looked about him elaborately. “I trust you have not cast
yourself upon Captain Sir William Summers.” He shuddered. “Why the
Admiralty suffers them to return from the sea at all, I cannot
fathom. Army officers are gallant—I know because I was one—but sea
captains? Merely grim, madam. I contend that a steady diet of
biscuit and salt beef makes no man capable of intelligent
decisions.” He chuckled. “Only consider our noble Duke of Clarence
and see if I am correct.”

“
You
are severe, Mr. Brummell,” Jeannie said.

“
I
am,” he agreed amicably. “So long as Boney keeps the captains upon
the waves, we will run along tolerably well. But madam, you can
imagine the threat to our amiable society when all those morose
little gods in uniform are cast upon the shore? It doesn’t bear
thinking upon.” He paused a moment in melancholy reflection and
then brightened. “But, my dears, this gloomy cast gets Larinda no
closer to a husband. Lady Smeath, your servant. Come,
ladies.”

He offered an arm to
each young woman and led them outside, where the groom stood at the
head of his horses. The Beau helped Larinda into the back seat of
the phaeton and handed Jeannie up beside him. He took the whip from
its socket and nodded to the groom. “I cannot abide the high-perch
phaeton, Mrs. McVinnie. Such altitude gives me the nosebleed.”

Brummell’s progress to
Hyde Park was remarkable for its snail’s pace. He was constantly
bowing and nodding to pedestrians. More than once he stopped the
phaeton in the middle of the roadway to allow a conversation
between carriages.

“
I
wonder, sir,” Jeannie said after he had nodded to a clutch of
ladies waiting to cross Regent Street who curtsied deep as he
passed. “Do you know everyone in London, or does it only seem that
way?”