by Carola Dunn
“Not at all.” She began to fold her own work.
“You are already occupied. Allow me to be of assistance,” Simon offered, sitting down beside Mrs. Forbes. To his disappointment, the Indian princess was behaving today as sedately as any well-bred milk-and-water miss, but he decided to play up to her lead. Perhaps she had been raked over the coals for her unseemly liveliness last night, though he had thought her to have more spirit than to be cowed by a scolding. He took the skein from Mrs. Forbes. “You will have to show me what to do for you, ma'am.”
“So kind.”
Patiently he followed her muddled instructions until he had the yarn settled around each hand and stretched between them. She began to wind the ball, and at last he had attention to spare for Miss Lassiter.
She was watching him with wickedly sparkling black eyes, her lips pressed together so firmly he knew she was trying to hide her amusement. She was saucy Mimi again, not the decorous Miss Lassiter. Oddly reassured, he came to the conclusion that gentlemen callers did not as a rule offer their services for winding wool. If Gerald had foreseen the possibility, no doubt he would have warned against it. Simon sighed.
“I trust you are not regretting your kindness already, Mr. Hurst?”
“Certainly not, Miss Lassiter.” There was a jerk on his hands and he nearly dropped the lot.
Mimi let fall her own work. “Oh dear, you must not hold it so taut. And you need to move your hands just the tiniest bit, in rhythm with Mrs. Forbes's winding. Here, let me show you.”
She was at his side, her little hands holding his wrists. He breathed in the warm, rich smell of her smooth skin. For a moment he was as breathless as if he were drowning in her fragrance—then he recalled that she was a princess and he was a frog. Frogs don't drown. He surfaced as she giggled.
“Heavens, it's much easier to do than to demonstrate. Perhaps I should...”
“Sir Wilfred, ma'am,” announced the butler.
With a startled jerk, she moved away from Simon, then stepped forward to greet the baronet. Today the young man was dressed less like a popinjay. In fact, Simon suspected that Gerald would have approved of his garb, except for a shudder at the pink roses embroidered on his blue waistcoat. His coat was tight-fitting but neither padded at the shoulders nor pinched in at the waist, and his boots had an admirable gloss.
Simon glanced down regretfully at his own footwear.
“Servant, Mrs. Forbes. Servant,…ah…Hurst.” Sir Wilfred raised contemptuous eyebrows at the sight of the yarn linking the two.
Feeling foolish, Simon nodded in acknowledgment of the greeting. “You'll excuse my shaking your hand, Sir Wilfred,” he said dryly.
“I was about to take Mr. Hurst to see my tadpoles,” said Mimi. Gone without a trace was the demure young lady who had so recently labored at her needlework. “I hope you have reconsidered your decision, Sir Wilfred, and will go with us?”
“Er... better not.” The baronet looked round for inspiration, then produced an unconvincing sneeze. “Atchoo! Slight cold coming on, don't you know.”
“Then you ought not to be out in this weather. I hope you don't mean to pass it on to the rest of us, Sir Wilfred,” said Mimi severely, to Simon's utter delight.
“No, no, assure you, ma'am. Nothing to it, be better directly. All the same, best not to risk it, standing in the damp on a cold stone floor, don't you know. Daresay Hurst will like to take himself so you won't be obliged to desert a guest.”
“Mr. Hurst is as much my guest as you are, sir. If you don't care to come, I daresay you will be so obliging as to help Mrs. Forbes with her work.”
They left a very pink-faced baronet attached by a strand of wool to an agitated chaperon. Simon was hard put to it to restrain his mirth until the drawing-room door closed behind them.
Mimi chuckled, but then said guiltily, “I hope he doesn't make poor Mrs. Forbes too uncomfortable. I've used her badly, I fear, for she is never at ease with visitors in the best of circumstances. Now why, I wonder, is Sir Wilfred so set upon not seeing my tadpoles?”
“That's a good question. I suspect he is afraid for his dignity. He'd be bound to be noticed by your servants, and doubtless the tale would spread.”
“Oh yes, he'd hate that. I really must try to get him to the scullery.”
“What the devil are you about, Princess?”
She laughed merrily. “I cannot tell you.”
“Then you have a purpose?”
“Now that would be telling.” She pushed open the kitchen door. “Cook, we won't be disturbing you now?”
“Nay, lass, come on through. There's nowt doing in t'scullery this while.” She curtsied to Simon, who smiled and nodded.
Crossing the kitchen, he noted that it was high-ceilinged, light and airy, with an impressive, new-looking closed stove. The colonel, it seemed, was as solicitous of his servants' well-being as of the plight of unknown orphans, a trait Simon appreciated after being responsible for the crew of HMS Intrepid. The stone-flagged scullery, with its iron pump and zinc-lined sinks, was spotlessly clean.
Mimi went straight to a Crown Derby casserole sitting on a draining board near the window. “Here they are.”
“They must be the most expensively housed tadpoles in the world.”
“But they don't seem very happy.” She peered anxiously into the bowl. “I think those two are dead.”
“Very. You need to give them clean water, I expect. See how murky it is? What do you feed them on?”
“Bread crumbs.”
“Well enough, but they'd probably like a bacon rind to nibble on, maybe even some minced beef. Remember frogs are carnivores.”
“Yes, of course, I had not thought. Did you keep tadpoles when you were a boy?”
“No, I was never allowed to. I had a pet frog at school, though.” Simon had forgotten Leaper, who had won several wagers for him. The memory cheered him. “He was a splendid jumper and I was very fond of him. I was going to let him go down by the river, but he had an unfortunate encounter with a cat.”
“How sad.” She touched his hand in sympathy. “I don't want any more of these tadpoles to die. How shall I change the water without letting them escape?”
“Hmm, let me think. If we pour off the dirty water through a sieve, then we'll catch any that slip out.”
“Do you mean to help me?”
He grinned at the mingled surprise and caution in her voice. “Don't worry, I shan't claim a reward.”
A fiery blush mantled her golden cheeks—like a stormy sunset, he thought. At that moment the door to the kitchen court opened and a skinny lad in the dress of a groom appeared.
“Jacko!” She seemed delighted at the interruption.
Halting on the doorstep, the boy touched his hat. “Beg pardon, Miss Mimi, I di'n't know as you had comp'ny. I just come to take a peek at them tadpoles.”
“Come in, Jacko, you can help us. This is Mr. Hurst. We're going to change their water.” She explained Simon's plan.
“Right, miss. I'd best draw some water in a bucket so's we c'n fill up the dish right away.” He went to the pump and started to work the handle.
“I'll ask Cook for a sieve.” Mimi went into the kitchen.
Simon quickly reached into the casserole and scooped out the two dead tadpoles. The pathetic little scraps lay on his palm. “What the devil shall I do with these?” he demanded.
“Stick 'em down the drain, sir, quick afore she comes back,” Jacko advised approvingly. “They'll wash down wi' the dirty water.”
They exchanged a smile at their complicity in protecting the tender sensibilities of the female sex.
Mimi came back. She held the sieve over the sink while Simon carefully poured most of the water from the casserole. Two adventurous tadpoles that managed to slip out were quickly tipped back into the inch of water that remained, to join their squirming brethren. Simon set the dish down in the sink and Jacko poured in clean water from his bucket.
He poured too fast. The
water sloshed over the side, taking with it three of the captives. Simon hurriedly put his hand over the drain hole and they were left high and dry in the bottom of the sink.
“You'd better rescue them,” he said to Mimi, wondering whether she would actually venture to touch the tiny, twitching creatures. “Your fingers are more delicate and will do less damage.”
Without the least hesitation, with the utmost gentleness, she picked them up and returned them to the casserole. “Poor little things,” she said. “We must be more careful next time. I do believe they are already happier with the clean water, though.” She lifted the dish out of the sink and set it on the draining board.
“They looks kind of nekkid,” said Jacko doubtfully, then flushed crimson. “Beg pardon, miss, I just meant wi' all that white china round 'em.”
“They need some pond weed,” Simon suggested. “And that reminds me, you ought to grow some plants in that pond of yours, Miss Mimi. There was a heron down there today, and you won't have any frogs if those tadpoles don't have somewhere to hide. Have one of your gardeners take some rushes from the mere. My aunt won't mind.”
“I'll do it for you, miss,” Jacko assured her.
“I shall do it myself.”
“Then you will doubtless need my help.” Simon pretended not to notice her confusion at his provocative tone. “Tomorrow, if it is fine?”
“Tomorrow,” she said decisively. “Jacko and I shall be there at nine, if you care to join us, Mr. Hurst.”
“Without fail. I must leave you now, however. I abandoned my studies with Mr. Wickham to see the tadpoles, and I must return to work.”
“Then you will not be riding toward the village,” she said with a return to her demure manner, leading the way back through the kitchen. “I had hoped that Harriet—Miss Cooper—would visit today, but she must have been unable to escape her chores. I thought perhaps you might be passing by the vicarage and could deliver a note for me.” She sighed.
Simon was instantly sure that Miss Lakshmi Lassiter had something more in mind than the simple delivery of a note, which Jacko might easily have accomplished. Intrigued, he said gallantly, “I cannot bear to disappoint you, Princess. It will take no more than a few extra minutes to ride that way.”
“You are most obliging, sir.” She beamed at him. “Pray come into the library while I write. I shall be brief, I promise you.”
He raised his eyebrows, and she cast him a conscious look, but this time she lived up to her promise. Handing him the much-folded paper, she said, “If possible, please give it into Harriet's own hands, sir. The children—her brothers and sisters —are all too likely to forget to pass it on.”
“Into her own hands,” he assured her, and regretfully took his leave. He could not remember when he had been better entertained.
Chapter 7
Harriet sat in the shabby back parlor of the vicarage with a large basket of mending at her side. Patiently she helped her little sisters darn their stockings. Mending was not an occupation she enjoyed, but teaching Sally and Prue was always a pleasure.
Perhaps, she thought sadly, she ought to give up hope of marriage and a family of her own, and try to find a position as a governess. Mimi's efforts with the tadpoles did not seem to have repelled any of her suitors more than momentarily.
“Harry! Harriet!” Jim burst into the room. “There's a gentleman at the front door asking for you.”
“Who? Who is it?” She stuck her needle in the collar she was setting in a shirt for Ferdie and put it aside. “What does he want?”
“It's a stranger,” said her brother importantly. “He has a letter. He wouldn't give it to me. It's got to be put into Miss Cooper's very own hands, he said.”
Harriet hurried out. A strange gentleman, with a letter for her hands alone?
“He said his name is Simon Hurst,” Jim yelled after her.
Her breath caught in her throat. Mr. Hurst calling on her, and insisting on seeing her in person—she had not thought he really noticed her last night, though he had sat beside her for nearly half an hour, chatting politely.
She saw his stocky frame silhouetted in the doorway. Jim had left him standing on the doorstep, but fortunately it had stopped raining. He raised his hat as she approached with quick, light steps.
“Miss Cooper, I beg your pardon for disturbing you. Miss Lassiter instructed me to place her letter in your very hands, for fear that one of your siblings should neglect to deliver it.”
He had a nice smile, she decided, taking the note, slightly disappointed that he had not come of his own accord. “Thank you, sir. Will you step in?”
“I...” His answer was cut short by an angry screech in Sally's voice.
Prue's childish treble followed. “Ooh, you're going to be in trouble, Jimmy.”
“Pray excuse me, sir.” Harriet sped back to the parlor.
Jim had picked up one of Sally's still undarned stockings and, pulling on a loose thread, had unravelled several rows. Harriet promised to knit it up herself, forestalling incipient tears.
“And as for you, young man,” she addressed the miscreant, “I shan't tell Papa what you did if you clean Sally's shoes for her tonight.”
“But if you're going to mend it, I ought to clean your shoes.”
“It was Sally you upset. Now back to the dining room with you or I shall tell Papa you are neglecting your studies.”
Pulling a face, Jim turned to leave. “Oh, hello, sir. Harry, here's your caller.” He dashed out to rejoin his younger brother at their books.
“Mr. Hurst!” She felt her face grow hot. What must he think of her squabbling siblings?
“Forgive me, Miss Cooper. I followed to lend you my aid if necessary, but you managed admirably. As a naval officer, I couldn't have dealt better with quarreling sailors.”
“You were in the navy, sir? My eldest brother, Ferdie, is a sub-lieutenant.”
“What is his ship?”
“He is fourth mate on the Bellerophon.”
They continued to talk for a few minutes but Harriet was uneasy. She found herself in a quandary. If she asked him to be seated she ought to offer him tea, but the Coopers' one servant would not take kindly to being asked to make it in the middle of her dinner preparations. Harriet could make tea herself, but that would mean abandoning Mr. Hurst to the company of her tongue-tied sisters while she went to the kitchen.
She was glad when Prue interrupted with a timid request for Harriet to finish off a darn so that it wouldn't come undone.
“I must be on my way,” said Mr. Hurst promptly. “No, I won't disturb you further, I'll see myself out. Good day, ma'am.” With a nod to the children he went off.
After quickly tying off Prue's lumpy darn and starting her on another, Harriet opened Mimi's letter.
“I wish you had come Today,” it began. “Mr. Hurst was Charming!!! He offered to go out of his way to carry this to you,”—knowing Mimi, Harriet was fairly certain that the gentleman had been coerced in some fashion—”so I am certain he was Much Struck by you last night. I shall be at the Mere tomorrow at Nine, and he may come.” At the mere at nine? What on earth was she up to now? “You must walk that way, without Fail!!!”
Mimi was determined to throw her into Mr. Hurst's arms. Folding the letter and slipping it into her pocket, Harriet made up her mind to do her best not to disappoint her friend. Though she did not find him precisely charming, Mr. Hurst was without doubt a vast improvement over Albert Pell and Sir Wilfred Marbury.
Stolen beaux or no, she thought as she set another neat stitch in Ferdie's shirt, Mimi was the best friend anyone could ask for.
* * * *
Mere House glowed pinkly in the sunset. Riding homeward, Simon repeated to himself the old saw: “Red sky at night, sailors' delight.” Or was it “shepherds' delight”? No matter; with any luck it meant a fine day tomorrow.
He left Intrepid in the stables and went into the house. As he emerged from the back passage into the entrance hall, he heard Ge
rald's drawling voice.
“Oh no, I mean to stay with you until the end of the Season, Aunt Georgina. I have blotted my copybook in town, you see, and don't wish to face Mama's recriminations at Crossfields.”
“Blotted your copybook, dear boy?” Lady Thompson's violet satin appeared in the drawing-room doorway, her head turned to address her nephew in the room beyond. “You must tell me all about it after dinner. You are not one to set tongues wagging, not like Ced... Oh, Simon! Your cousin is come.”
“So I hear, Aunt.”
“I daresay the pair of you have plenty to say to each other, but don't be late for dinner. I'm going up to change.”
“We won't keep you from your meal,” he promised, and went into the drawing room. In view of Baird's known propensity for eavesdropping, he closed it behind him. “Blotted your copybook, Gerald? I don't believe it.”
“All in your service, old fellow. Good gad! What are you wearing?”
“I told you I wasn't bringing my new clothes. In my service? What do you mean?”
“I've avenged you, coz.” Gerald dropped into a chair and lounged back, enjoying Simon's puzzlement. “I daresay you've forgot the ravishing Lady Elizabeth—the Incomparable, some call her?”
“I remember,” said Simon grimly.
“The more fool you. Lady Elizabeth, having inexplicably lost the marquis's heir without a word of farewell, openly and publicly restored the handsome young viscount to her favor. Said viscount was permitted, nay, encouraged to kiss my lady in an alcove at Almack's. To cut a short story shorter, the fair Lizzie, blushing rosily, thereupon informed me that her noble papa would be at home in the morning and would undoubtedly welcome a visit. She then proceeded to blush and whisper her way around the ballroom. Alas, for all I know Lord Prestwitton is waiting still.”
“You cut and ran when she was expecting an offer?”
“I did.”
Simon was awed. “No wonder you don't want to face the ton, nor Aunt Cecilia. What can I say? You...”
“Spare me your thanks, old fellow. It was a novel experience, giving the biddies something to tattle about, and one should never allow oneself to become stuck in a rut, to use a distressingly rural idiom. Tell me, how do your lessons go with friend Wickham?”
