Mrs. McVinnie's London Season (5 page)

Jeannie gasped. “You
walloping great toad,” she said.

“
One
more word from you and it will be your last,” said Lady Smeath in
an awful voice, surprising in one so pale. She brushed past Jeannie
and the captain and summoned Larinda to follow. “Come, my dear,
this is no place for ladies. Captain, we will await you in the
carriage.”

“
I
will be there in a moment,” the captain said.

He did not relinquish
his grip on Jeannie. He shook her. “If you have practiced some foul
play on the kindest old lady of my acquaintance, you’ll be cooling
your heels in Newgate.”

“
I am
Jeannie McVinnie,” Jeannie said.

The captain grabbed her
by the shoulders and jerked her forward until they were nose to
nose. “Then I am Marie Antoinette,” he declared.

Pringle coughed and
turned away.

Jeannie wrenched
herself from the captain’s grasp. She fumbled in her reticule and
pulled out the money remaining from the bank draft. She grabbed his
hand and slapped the money into it.

“
This
is what remains of the bank note you sent me in Kirkcudbright, you
great big bully! I may be Jeannie McVinnie, but I wouldn’t stay
under the same roof with you for all the tea in China!”

“
William,” Lady Smeath called from the front steps.

Captain Summers shoved
the money deep in his pocket, his thin lips set in a tight line.
“That woman has a voice that could summon dead sailors to the
riggings in a hurricane.” He glared in the direction she had gone
and roared, “When it suits her!” He passed his hand in front of his
eyes, and for the tiniest moment, but only for a moment, Jeannie
felt sorry for him. “I must be headed on the road to Bedlam,
Pringle.”

“
Aye,
aye, sir,” the Scotsman replied automatically.

“
And
you needn’t be so damned agreeable!”

“
William!”

“
I am
going, sir,” Jeannie declared with all the conviction she could
muster.

“
Indeed, you are not,” declared the captain in tones equally
fervent. “Pringle, if you have to sit on her, keep this Jeannie
here until I return. And that’s an order!”

“
Aye,
aye, sir!”

“
And
what about me?” demanded the forgotten Madame Coutant.

The much-tried and
sorely put-upon Captain Summers rounded on the dressmaker. “You,
Madame, can go to the devil! And quickly, too!” He slammed the door
behind him so hard that the chandelier swayed and tinkled
overhead.

Silence ruled for a
moment while the inmates of the hall looked at one another. Pringle
was the first to speak.

“
And I
thought a London Season would be dull work,” he said to no one in
particular. “I cannot recall offhand when blockade duty was this
stimulating.” He offered his arm to Jeannie McVinnie. “Come, Miss
McVinnie, or whoever you are. We have a bit of night ahead of
us.”

J
eannie dabbed her lips with the napkin and pushed the
plate a little to one side. “And that is the whole of it, Pringle,
believe it or not. If you have any doubts, you can direct Captain
Summers’ attention to Malcolm Caldwell, my Edinburgh
solicitor.”

Pringle shook his head
and laughed softly. “And there he was insisting you were
his
Jeannie McVinnie.”

Jeannie shuddered. “Oh,
don’t remind me. I harbor a vast suspicion that I may be the first
person to ever argue with him.’’

“
You
claim that title, Mrs. McVinnie.”

She spread her hands
out in front of her. “Please believe me, I had the best of
intentions. I thought I would serve this household equally as well
as my husband’s Great-aunt Jeannie.” She shook her head. “That was
before I met the people in this household.”

“
A
quelling lot. And now you wouldn’t stay for the world,” Pringle
said.

“
Nay,
I would not,” she agreed, “especially after that disagreeable woman
called me a … well, you know what she called me.”

They sat belowstairs in
the servants’ hall. After eyeing her suspiciously for the better
part of the evening, the butler—Wapping was his name—had finally
taken himself off to bed, but not before muttering something
concerning the evils brought about by adventurous females.

On another occasion,
Jeannie would have been sent into whoops by Wapping’s admonitions.
Tom had told her once that he had been attracted to her from the
very first by her great good sense and air of true maturity. But it
was scarcely funny. She had thrown an entire household on its side
and made a perfect cake of herself into the bargain. The only thing
that remained was to suffer through what promised to be a delicate
interview with Captain William Summers and take the next mail coach
north.

“
Perhaps things will appear in a better light tomorrow
morning,” Pringle suggested. “The captain had set aside a room for
you, or for Jeannie McVinnie, at any rate. I am sure he would not
quibble if you were to retire for the night.”

“
You’re sure?” she asked doubtfully.

Pringle smiled. “He has
a better side, Mrs. McVinnie. A pity that few ever see it.”

“
I am
sure I shall not,” Jeannie exclaimed as she rose to her
feet.

Candle in hand, Pringle
led her upstairs again and down the long hallway. The candle threw
shadows on the portraits lining the walls. The flickering light
seemed to animate those older lords and ladies. Jeannie rubbed her
eyes. The portraits almost seemed to be dancing in the agitated
light. This would never do.

They passed a closed
door. Jeannie paused and put her finger to her lips when Pringle
turned to her with an inquiry in his eyes.

Someone was crying,
little gasping sobs that made Jeannie’s heart turn over.

“
It
must be that little girl,” she whispered. “Oh, Pringle, who is
she?”

“
Clare.”

“
Clare? Clare who?” she asked even as he took her firmly by the
elbow and started her down the hall again.

“
Clare
is … Clare,” he said finally, in a tone that allowed no
questions.

“
So
Clare is Clare,” Jeannie said to herself when she had closed the
door to her room and listened to Pringle’s footsteps receding down
the hallway. Wapping had placed her soggy bags inside the door. To
her surprise, someone had taken out her clothes and hung them in
the little dressing room. The bedclothes had been turned down; a
bulge at the foot of the bed indicated that a warming pan was
spreading its comfort.

Jeannie slowly
unbuttoned her dress and let it drop to the floor. She made herself
ready for bed, braiding her hair and tucking it into her nightcap.
Her eyelids drooped. She wanted nothing more than oblivion until
the sun came up. She crawled between the sheets, grateful for their
warmth. She sighed, stretched, and closed her eyes.

Sleep did not come. As
she lay there in the quiet darkness, she could still hear Clare
sobbing. It was a sound so totally without hope that Jeannie put
her hand over her ears, wondering if she had sounded like that in
those awful months after Tom’s death.

But this is none of my
business, she thought as she lay on her back in the darkness, her
hands clenched into tight fists. I am leaving this house first
thing in the morning.

And then, as surely as
she knew her own name, Jeannie McVinnie knew she could not just lie
there and listen to a child cry. “Jeannie girl, you are an enormous
fool,” she told herself as she got out of bed and padded to the
door, opening it a crack and peering into the hall.

No one was about. After
a careful glance around, she tiptoed down the hall to Clare’s room
and opened the door.

A woman sat nodding in
front of the little fire in the hearth. When the door opened, she
jerked herself upright and then leapt to her feet.

“
There’s a child crying,” Jeannie said. “I thought
perhaps …” What on earth did I think? How can any of this be
my business, Jeannie thought as she watched the woman’s expression
change from one of surprise to irritation.

“
That
is only Clare, and I have my instructions.”

There. It was as plain
as that. The matter was obviously of no concern to her.

But Jeannie did not
move. “Surely your instructions do not mean for you to allow the
child to cry half the night?”

The woman smiled in a
condescending manner and sat down again. “She never cries all
night! In another hour she will be silent.”

“
Another hour,” Jeannie exclaimed. “Surely you cannot be
serious?”

“
I
have my orders,” the woman insisted. “You’ll have to
go.”

Without another word,
Jeannie left the room. She knew her face was red with humiliation
and she could only be thankful for the dark. Why do you not learn
to mind your own business, Jeannie McVinnie, she scolded herself.
Are you not in sufficient trouble already because you thought to
wiggle in where you really weren’t invited?

She threw herself back
into bed and pulled the covers over her head, wishing she had never
heard of Captain William Summers and his ill-regulated,
ill-mannered household.

An hour later, she was
still no closer to sleep. Somewhere a clock chimed once. As her
ears practically hummed in the silence, Jeannie heard a door open.
She got out of bed, slid open the door, and squinted in the
gloom.

It was the door to the
nursery. The nursemaid let herself out and went quietly down the
stairs. Jeannie listened, a frown on her face. Clare still cried.
Jeannie stood where she was, listening. When the maid did not
return, she let herself into the hall again and hurried to the
nursery door.

The fire had died and
the room was cold. Jeannie shivered and hurried into the next room.
The light of the moon shone across the bed where Clare huddled, her
legs drawn up to her chest, her hands over her ears. Jeannie came
closer and touched the little girl, who started and then opened her
eyes wider.

“
It is
I, Clare,” Jeannie whispered. “Do you remember?” She touched the
child’s cheek and rested her hand on the tousled hair, damp with
tears. “Oh, come on. We might as well get in a little more
trouble.”

Jeannie picked up the
child, who made no objection but only settled herself into
Jeannie’s arms and closed her eyes. She hurried down the hall and
back into her own room, where she put Clare in bed and climbed in
after her. Without a word, she tucked the child close to her side
and put her arms about her.

“
No
sense in being miserable,” she whispered. “Now, go to sleep, Clare
Whoever-you-are.”

Clare nodded, her dark
eyes full of sleep. In another moment, she was breathing
steadily.

Jeannie rested her lips
on the curly hair for a moment, breathing in the faintest fragrance
of bay rum. The familiar odor made her open her own eyes for a
moment, but only a moment. Clare’s warmth was pulling her into
slumber with all the effectiveness of a sleeping draft.

Jeannie couldn’t be
sure what woke her. Clare breathed slowly and evenly beside her.
The room was still dark and surprisingly cold, as if a window had
been opened. She almost turned over and closed her eyes again when
she heard someone else’s breathing.

She willed herself to
be silent. As her eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness,
Jeannie could discern the outline of someone poised by the open
window, as if he had been caught in flight.

Gently Jeannie
disentangled herself from Clare and sat up. She forced her voice to
remain light, even as her fingers searched the night table for
something, anything, to throw.

“
Pringle,” she called softly as she found a hairbrush and
picked it up. “Did you fear I would slip my moorings? Even after I
gave my word?”

No answer.

She looked again. The
figure was too slight for Pringle, and decidedly so for Captain
Summers. Lady Smeath or Larinda would never have entered her room.
That exhausted her knowledge of the residents of 3 Wendover
Square.

“
Who
are you, please?” she asked finally.

No answer for the
longest moment, and then, “Edward.”

Edward. Jeannie
searched her brain for a moment and then remembered the son who had
taken himself off to bed with a sick headache. She relinquished her
grip on the hairbrush, wondering if anyone kept regular hours in
London and if this was an even more unusual household than she had
reckoned.

“
Edward, are you not ill? Didn’t Lady Smeath say something
about—”

“
I’m
not ill. It’s only a hum,” said the voice. “I’ve only just now got
back from Vauxhall Gardens, and your room affords the most
convenient entry.”

“
Is
there not a door on this house?” Jeannie asked. “I seem to recall
one.” She reached for her robe and, after another glance at Clare,
struck a match to the bedside lamp.

“
Oh,
there’s a door,” Edward said, “and the others have not yet returned
from the Dearden’s, so I know it is not locked.”

“
Then
why did you not use it?” Jeannie asked sensibly, drawing her knees
up and wrapping her arms around them. “Is this a London
custom?”

“
It is
in this house,” Edward replied. “Besides, there is Wapping and that
great monstrous Cyclops of a footman sitting up.”

Jeannie laughed softly.
“Enough said. He does resemble a Cyclops, now that you mention it.
Edward, would you please close that window?”