Madcap Miss

by Joan Smith

  “Yes, it will take him a day to get the cash assembled, and meanwhile we’ll have the mortgage papers drawn up.”

  “Well then, we can stick it for one more day.”

  Whewett smiled a rueful smile, shaking his head. “I’m damnably sorry about this, Grace. What an unconscionable way I have treated you. Allowed her to treat you, I mean. I feel wretched about it. I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, placing his hands on her wrists.

  “The price has been agreed upon. I am not a rack-rent.”

  “The initial offer did not include incarceration in a stifling attic and threats of violence.”

  “Or starvation,” she added wanly.

  “She didn’t feed you?” he demanded with a kindling eye.

  “Not a bite, and I am likewise to be robbed of dinner. But she’s only pretending to be angry. She wanted to laugh.”

  “You shall have dinner and luncheon. You are my daughter! She has no right—”

  “Better make sure she means to let you have a crumb before you start making threats. I must advise you, Whewett, you are in even deeper disgrace than myself.”

  “How could she believe me so foolish as to let my daughter carry on like that?” he asked, hardly able to credit it.

  “She found that easier to credit than that you had a lightskirt stashed away. I guess she hasn’t heard about Doll. But you are only my dupe, you know. I always could wind you round my thumb.”

  He squeezed her fingers. “Poor Gussie.”

  “It wasn’t so bad. I knew she wouldn’t really hurt me.”

  “I didn’t mean you. I meant my daughter. She would no more pull off a stunt like this than she’d grow fins and take to the deep blue seas.”

  “But you cannot throw away her rightful inheritance. You must swallow your pride and see this through. And you must stick up for me, too. I am really very hungry, Whewett.”

  He accepted her advice and was struck most forcibly by her courage and tenacity, especially as her own reward was so trifling. “Not to worry. You are ill—prostrated from the heat in this oven. I shall enforce my rights as your father.”

  Grace congratulated him with a pert smile. “That’s a good boy, Papa.” Even as he looked, her smile faded. He followed the line of her glance and saw the butler sticking his head out the window.

  “Can I help yez, milord?” the man asked, displaying none of the curiosity he must surely be feeling.

  “Yes, will you toss us out a ladder, please.”

  “I’ll have to go to the shed and fetch it.”

  “Do it, then,” Whewett said in an impatient voice not normally used to servants. The head disappeared.

  “It’s not his fault,” Grace pointed out.

  “I know perfectly well whose fault it is. I said I’m sorry,” he answered rather sharply. He shook his head, running his fingers along the furrows of his brow. “I am sorry, Grace.”

  “Oh, stop apologizing,” she scolded.

  “You don’t seem to realize the position I have placed you in. Townsend’s mother is now broadcasting your name the length and breadth of the country as my—whatever,” he finished with an ambiguous flutter of his hand.

  “Mistress,” she replied grimly.

  “Something of the sort.”

  “I do regret that.”

  Instead of trying to reassure her, Whewett went on to paint a bleak picture. “She will have discovered by now that Miss Farnsworth is no kin to my wife. She will discover you do not reside at Tunbridge Wells and jump to the conclusion her sort always leap to. She’ll think we met there for some obscene carrying on.”

  “You don’t have to draw me a picture, Whewett. I know what she will think—and say—to anyone who will listen.”

  “This was a wretched idea I had, bringing you here.”

  “You did not force me. I came of my own will. It is not as though I am some famous debutante who ever expected to make a grand match. I doubt if this on dit will cause a ripple in the saloons of London. It is just that a governess must have a sterling reputation—oh, why are we being so pessimistic? We shall figure out something,” she said, but her pale, worried face told him she was more disturbed than she admitted.

  “I have already thought of something. Marriage,” he said in a businesslike way. “I have compromised your good name and am ready to do the proper thing.”

  Marriage! The word caught her unawares. She had expected another offer of increasing her salary. Being only human, Grace had given a thought to what it would be like to be Whewett’s wife. She could not think of a more appealing husband, but to win him by such a shady means—no, never. “That is a gentlemanly offer but unnecessary,” she replied, with an enigmatic little smile.

  “I hope I am a gentleman and behave like one—when I am not behaving like a jackass.”

  “You have always behaved like a gentleman with me, and I do not mean to take advantage of you.”

  “We could visit a bishop, get a special license, and be married the very day Grandma leaves.”

  He meant it! Temptation tugged at her heart, but Grace was a lady as surely as Whewett was a gentleman, and could not press her advantage over him. “We are not ready for such desperate measures as marriage,” she said firmly. “I don’t know anyone in Tunbridge Wells except Miss Thomas, and she is aware of the truth. Let your cousin do her worst. It will be only a nine days’ wonder, if that.”

  This settled, Grace walked off to peep over the edge of the roof, pointing out the unusual view. Whewett strolled after her, so preoccupied he did not even think to utter any words of caution, but when she leaned over too far to please him, he took her hand and pulled her silently back.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lord Whewett and Lady Healy exchanged many a silent, fierce scowl while the terms of the sale to Daugherty were hammered out. As soon as the buyer and his agent left, he turned on her. “I have already told you my daughter’s health is delicate, madam. She has collapsed from the heat in the attic. You must allow me to decide what is best for her in future, or I shall remove her at once.”

  “Collapsed, that sturdy girl? Nothing of the sort. She was shamming it,” she insisted mulishly, but her next speech showed her concern. “Is she really ill, Alfred? Should I call in a sawbones for her?”

  “That won’t be necessary, but she must certainly have her meals.”

  “What is amiss with her? Does she take these spells often?”

  “No. She has been improving in recent months.”

  “I’ll have Mulkins take her up some lemonade.”

  “And sandwiches. She is starving.”

  Mulkins was called and told to take Lady Augusta up refreshments.

  “It is growing pains that make her feel peaky,” was the dame’s next speech. “You have not noticed, but your daughter is growing up on you. Breasts, Whewett. She has started growing breasts.”

  “I have noticed,” he said curtly.

  “That girl is going to be a holy terror when she gets going. I remember very well borrowing Mama’s slippers and long gowns when I was young, but I must say my papa did not encourage me in this vice.”

  “If Gussie wishes to cut up a lark, it is better for her to do it when I am there to protect her,” he pointed out reasonably.

  “There is a grain of sense in that and a peck of nonsense. It makes her think you approve. They will always go a pace beyond what their parents approve, you must know. That is the whole point of being young.”

  “We have a better understanding than that.”

  “What a sweet child it is. Not one of those mealy-mouthed gels, as I feared any daughter of yours and Irene’s must be. She has life. What a complexion— with just a touch of bran on her nose. You must buy her a parasol.”

  He looked at Lady Healy, whose face and hands were bedizened with brown age spots. “Don’t judge by what you see now,” she said angrily. “I was prettier than Augusta in my day, though she takes after me in spirits. I wish I had known the truth when Mrs. Tow
nsend was here, and I would have put a flea in her ear. ‘A saucy piece of merchandise’ she had the nerve to call her. She will traduce Miss Farnsworth up and down the land. What a trick to play on the poor governess, I daresay it is no more than the woman deserves, if the truth were known.”

  “You are mistaken. Miss Farnsworth is unexceptionable.”

  “Perhaps. Now about Daugherty—tomorrow the deal will be closed. Saturday. We cannot desecrate the Sabbath with travel. We shall leave and go our separate ways on Monday, bright and early. About Augusta’s trip to Scotland—”

  Whewett had decided that the attic episode would serve as an excuse to forbid the trip. No excuse was necessary. “I am going to delay the visit a little,” she said. “She will be disappointed, for we both looked forward to it. The truth is, her high spirits are too much for me to cope with till I have recovered from this journey. When I feel more stout, I shall send for her. Invers can accompany her north—I quite depend on her common sense. It is all I can depend on, for it is clear you have no control over the chit, buying her bonnets that are fitter for the muslin company.”

  Weak with relief, Whewett put up little fight. “It is an excellent bonnet. I selected it myself.”

  “I suspected as much. That high poke must have looked like a stove pipe on her little head. I shall have her model it for me before we leave. And soon you will send her to me. No excuses, now.”

  He felt fairly confident that the event would never occur. Lady Healy herself probably knew it but refused to face the truth. “Write and let us know when you are feeling more the thing,” he said.

  “It will be sooner than you think,” she warned, having jumped to the conclusion that he was patronizing her.

  “I hope so.”

  “Humph. You must exercise a more proper regard for your daughter’s behavior in future. Call Mulkins. I am shaken to pieces with having to scold Augusta. She knows I didn’t mean it,” she added in an uncharacteristically mild way.

  “Of course she does. I am going up to her now.”

  “Tell her I shall be up to her later.”

  Whewett went abovestairs. Daylight lent some aura of propriety to his being in Grace’s room. Her outfit, too, was that of a juvenile. It was only her lounging at ease on the bed that lent any air of depravity to the visit. “Are we for whipping at the cart’s tail or the dungeon?” she asked, sitting up.

  “Neither one. There is good news and bad. The bad news is that we are here till Monday. I must stay for the closing of the deal tomorrow, to make sure Bronfman does not hoodwink Grandmama on the mortgage.”

  “We could leave as soon as it is signed.”

  “Not much point leaving late in the afternoon.”

  “Sunday morning, then.”

  “Desecrate the Sabbath by sitting at ease in a carriage? Did you learn nothing from all that Bible reading? Besides, we have not decided where you are to be taken.”

  “I shall go to Miss Thomas.”

  “To Tunbridge Wells, where Miss Farnsworth’s reputation is the talk of the town?” Whewett saw the indecision on her face and braced himself for a different suggestion. “You shall come to Downsfield with me, as soon as I come up with a chaperon.” He saw no signs of outrage but only surprise.

  “No, that is not at all sensible.”

  “The Townsend business changes everything. You must see that,” he said reasonably.

  It had indeed made Tunbridge Wells ineligible, and Grace had no other spot to suggest. “Is London very far?” she asked. It seemed big enough to become lost in.

  “Not too far. I have several relatives in London. We’ll go there and talk some maiden aunt into coming to Dover with us. In fact ...” He stopped, to think out the details.

  “Yes?”

  Whewett felt uncertain of his ground, and to remove any aura of embarrassment, he spoke in a brusque manner. “It might be a good idea to be married there. In that way we can dispose of the maiden aunt. They can be the very devil to root out, once they’re installed.”

  Grace noticed that his talk of marriage had no tinge of romance. It was conducted along strictly business lines. “It might be a good idea if we were planning to be married. I, for one, am not. Now, let us talk sense, if you please.”

  “If it is common sense you’re looking for, marriage is the answer. You need a position; I need a wife; Gussie needs a mother. It is the sensible, convenient course.”

  He looked at her closely, trying to read her reaction. A smile at the corner of her lips led him to believe she found the idea attractive. As it stretched into a grin, however, he realized that whatever in his plan amused her, it was not what pleased himself. “Here I thought you were turning into a foolish romantic on me, Whewett. Gentlemen do at forty or so, you recall. You are too young for me.”

  He studied her with a sapient eye. “Too old for you is what you mean.”

  “I am too young for you. It amounts to the same thing. I am not really ready to settle for a sensible marriage of convenience. My mind has disintegrated from too long a perusal of Pamela. I insist on a happy, romantic ending.” She waited, wondering if he would follow up this lead ... wishing.

  He listened, not trusting himself to speak for a moment. “I understand,” he said curtly, and then turned to look out the window for a moment. He was a fool to think Grace was interested in him. What would that vibrant, fun-loving, lively girl want with his aging self?

  When he looked back, he seemed to have forgotten all about marriage. “We shall leave early Monday for London. You can stay with one of my relatives till Mary returns. If she does not require a governess, my aunts will see you are well placed. They have a wide circle of friends and acquaintances. About your payment for this acting chore, Grace, the original sum is so small in light of all the hardships you have been subjected to that it amounts to a joke. I shall have a thousand pounds made over to you, if that is satisfactory.”

  “I thought perhaps—two hundred,” she countered.

  “A thousand. I have told Lady Healy you are not feeling well. Mulkins is making some lunch, and Lady Healy will drop in later. It would help if you could act invalidish.”

  “Heat prostration calls for plenty of liquids. Wine would do nicely,” she said, trying for a light air.

  “There was a mention of lemonade. Can I get you anything else—books, cards? Nothing is too good for my invalid daughter,” he added with a show of good humor he was far from feeling.

  “A smile?” she suggested in a coaxing way.

  “You ask too much. Rejected gentlemen are not expected to receive their refusal with a smile.” He gazed at her a moment, examining her as if for the last time. “But for you I shall make the effort,” he said in an uneven voice.

  The effort was not successful. There was much of regret in it. His eyes lingered longer than was comfortable. For one wild moment Grace felt it possible that the offer had been made from the heart. But he had said, in so many words, it would be sensible and convenient and that Augusta needed a mother. The word love had not arisen. He felt sorry for her, that was all.

  “I’ll try to hurry Mulkins up,” he said. Then he bowed and turned to leave.

  “Whewett!” she called, for no reason but that she did not want him to leave. He looked over his shoulder, and she remembered something to ask him. “You said there was good news and bad. What was the good news? Was it that you would marry me?”

  “That was not good news to you apparently. Neither was it what I meant. One item of some importance slipped my mind. Grandma has postponed your visit north. She is not up to entertaining a rambunctious youngster, poor old girl. The visit will never come. If she raises it at some future time, I’ll find an excuse.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Yes.” He left then.

  Grace lay on the counterpane and puzzled over the visit. She had been so flustered at his proposal that she had forgotten all about going to Scotland. She knew he was serious about marrying her. Whewett would not joke
about such a thing and would perhaps even take some pleasure from having her at Downsfield.

  But it was not the pleasure normally associated with marriage that he wanted. It was not the same pleasure that she wanted. The most contrary thing of all was that if she had not stupidly gone falling in love with Whewett, she would marry him in a flash. So kind, so gentlemanly and considerate, yet not without humor and a sense of adventure. He would have been an ideal employer, but that was no longer enough. A week’s masquerade had shown her it was not a career she could undertake for life.

  And if she married him, they would go on much as they had been doing, like father and daughter, or perhaps eventually brother and sister. No, it would never do. Perhaps once they were at Downsfield, constantly together, she could slowly insinuate herself into his heart. She would turn the conversation back to the subject when he brought her lunch.

  Grace put on her brightest smile when the expected tap was heard on the door a few moments later, but it was only a servant holding her tray. Whewett would bring her a book or some cards—he was waiting till she had eaten, that’s all. Lady Healy came and sat for half an hour, first jawing about her “shameless spree,” then discussing the delayed visit. She returned again in the evening, and still Whewett had not been back.

  When Lady Healy claimed she was as tired, as if she had been hunting all day and went to her bed, Grace decided to give Whewett a little surprise when he came to say good night. She would appear as an adult. She hastily changed into her own suit and arranged her coiffure as attractively as she could. The face staring back at her from her dim mirror was undeniably that of a fully mature lady, and a lady ready to do battle for what she wanted. Her chin was lifted high, her eyes sparkling, and her color brightened with excitement.

  She heard him enter his room and flew from the mirror, like an assassin from the scene of his crime. He paced to and fro, talking to someone. That was why he delayed coming to her. Who could it be? An ear to the door told her it was only his valet. The voices stopped, and Grace hurried from the door, but still the expected tap did not come. When at last it was heard, Whewett did no more than peep his head in through the partially open door.