Carola Dunn (14 page)

Leaving half her muffin uneaten, she went down to the kitchen to order the picnic, telling Cook to do her best at such short notice. Alfred went off with the message to Mr. Sagaranathu, and Miranda dashed up to her bedchamber.

When she descended a few minutes later, wearing her bonnet and spencer, carrying gloves, reticule, and a shawl, she turned towards the back stairs to go and check on Cook’s progress. Lord Snell was just coming out of the study.

“Miss Carmichael, a word with you, if you please,” he requested politely.

Miranda felt an apprehensive tightness in her chest. Did he want to discuss Lady Wiston’s mental faculties? The seed of doubt sowed by Mr. Daviot had sprouted.

Reluctantly she approached. “My lord?”

“I have neglected to bring with me my cousins’ directions, and I am hoping you will be able to supply the deficiency.”

“Certainly, sir.” Relieved, she led the way into the study and crossed to the shelves by the roll-top desk. “Lady Wiston writes to them quite often.”

“You see, in general we correspond regularly, and if they don’t receive the expected letters, they may wonder what has become of me. I looked in the bureau for a memorandum book but could not find one.”

Miranda frowned. Even a peer ought not to rummage in his aunt’s desk without permission. She took down a large volume. “Here it is. As you see, it is too big to fit in the bureau. Lady Wiston has a great many acquaintances. I shall copy down the directions for you.”

“If you would be so good as to read them aloud, I shall write to your dictation.” He sat down at Mr. Daviot’s writing table, pushed aside Mr. Daviot’s manuscript, took a sheet of Mr. Daviot’s paper, and dipped one of Mr. Daviot’s pens in Mr. Daviot’s ink.

Mr. Daviot would not be pleased, but then, Miranda had no intention of telling him.

“‘Frederick Fenimore, Solicitor,’“ she read, “‘Queen Street, Ipswich, Suffolk,’ or I have Mr. Fenimore’s direction at home if you prefer.”

“This will do very well.”

She turned to the Js. “‘The Reverend Edward Jeffries, Cathedral Close, Winchester, Hampshire.’“ On to the Rs. “And ‘James Redpath, Esquire, Redpath Manor, near Brighton.’“

They were all very simple addresses. Miranda could have recited them without looking them up had she not feared Lord Snell might mistrust her memory. She was surprised he could not recall them since he corresponded regularly. But perhaps he had a secretary who directed his letters, or perhaps he simply had too many important things on his mind to clutter it with extraneous detail.

In any case, it was gracious in him to preserve a close relationship with his family connexions in less exalted spheres of life. Of the Admiral’s sisters, only Lord Snell’s mother had married into the aristocracy, and many in such a position would have severed all ties.

The cousins must be very close indeed for three of them to wonder at not hearing from the fourth for a few weeks. Miranda’s own brother did not expect to receive a letter more than once a month, she thought as she hurried down to the kitchen.

* * * *

At the head of the Surrey Steps, Mr. Bassett awaited the rest of the party. Handing first Lady Wiston and then Miranda down from the high landau, he exclaimed in delight over the picnic basket. His pleasure redoubled when Lady Wiston insisted the fare from Deptford to Greenwich was her treat.

“A famous notion, ma’am!” he exclaimed. “I have got us a good boat with two men at the oars, none of your single scullers for us.”

The wherry bobbed below on the swift slate-grey stream, one waterman holding fast to a chain fixed to the stone steps while the other came up to carry down the hamper. Two cushioned benches at the stern would hold six passengers; another in the bows had room for two more.

“Allow me to support you, ma’am,” Lord Snell said to Lady Wiston. “The steps are awkwardly steep and bound to be slippery. Pray take my arm.”

“I’ll go down first, Aunt Artemis,” said Mr. Daviot, “to catch you should you miss your footing.” He gave Lord Snell a hard look, as if he half suspected him of intending to push her ladyship down the steps.

Lady Wiston reached the bottom unscathed. She seated herself on the rearmost bench, and Lord Snell sat down beside her. Mr. Daviot promptly took a place on the opposite seat, facing the pair. Miranda decided he was afraid the baron was going to toss his aunt overboard. He really was making a cake of himself.

With a smile she accepted Mr. Bassett’s arm and they took the seat in the bows, facing backward. He helped her arrange her shawl about her shoulders as the boatmen pushed off. Ripples sparkled in the sun, while overhead seagulls wheeled and cried.

As the wherry moved out into the river, Miranda saw the terrace and magnificent south façade of Somerset House, home of the Royal Academy of the Arts. Just beyond, the new Waterloo Bridge was under construction. Mr. Bassett, who was unfamiliar with London, asked her about the bridge and the palace.

Telling him what she knew, she watched the others. Both Lord Snell and Mr. Daviot addressed all their remarks to Lady Wiston, none to each other. Miranda was glad to be separated from their childish feud by the two burly oarsmen.

They rowed on downstream. Miranda pointed out the sights, the Temple Gardens and various church spires. Ahead, as they looked over their shoulders, the great dome of St. Paul’s loomed over all, matched—if far from equalled—on the southern bank by the church of St. Saviour, Southwark. The river was busy with barges and luggers, the banks for the most part lined with wharves and warehouses.

Under the wide, round arches of Blackfriars Bridge they passed in swirl of water. That was when Miranda recalled tales of the violent turbulence beneath the narrow arches of London Bridge, not much more than half a mile downstream.

There, if anywhere, Lady Wiston would be in danger, when the wherry tossed on the rapids and Mr. Daviot was distracted by the spectacle.

Could she somehow crawl past the boatmen and warn him? No, she was being as caperwitted as he was. He had imagined the whole business of Lord Snell being a threat to Lady Wiston. And even if he had not, a committal for lunacy was a far cry from a murder by drowning in the River Thames.

Of course he had imagined it! All the same, Miranda watched the three in the stern with painful intensity as London Bridge neared.

The roar of rushing water drowned every other sound. Suddenly the boat shot forward into the shadows between massive piers. The rowers made one last stroke and rested their oars as the fragile little craft skipped amid clouds of spray. Miranda clutched the seat, her gaze fixed on Lady Wiston.

For a moment they seemed to fly through the air, then they were out in sunshine again. The boatmen bent to their oars.

Lady Wiston laughed. “Heavens, that was quite exciting!” she exclaimed.

Sagging with relief, Miranda realized Mr. Bassett had his arm about her waist.

“Are you all right, Miss Carmichael?” he asked anxiously, removing his arm with evident reluctance as she sat up straight. “I didn’t know the passage under the bridge was so rough or I’d have arranged to take to the river below it.”

“No, no, I am quite all right, sir. I was a little concerned about Lady Wiston, but see, she has come through in fine spirits. As she says, it was quite exciting. Look, there is the Monument, commemorating the Great Fire.”

The wherry skimmed downstream, past the Tower of London, among ships of every size from every corner of the world, a forest of a thousand masts. Mr. Bassett chatted knowledgeably about the vessels and the nations represented by their flags, happily oblivious of undercurrents—at least of the human kind.

Miranda tried to give him the attention he deserved. What a goosecap she was to fear even for an instant that Lord Snell had wicked designs upon Lady Wiston! Why should he? He was a wealthy man with no reason to covet her fortune.

But some people were never satisfied, whispered a little voice in her head.

Finding
HMS
Adder
moored at the Royal Dock Yard quay, they rowed slowly along her length. Lady Wiston, with her naval background, was the only one able to ask Mr. Bassett intelligent questions. She wanted to know the sloop’s beam and tonnage, the size and number of her guns, how close she could sail to the wind, and other details whose significance completely escaped Miranda.

No one could possibly consider her mad after such a display of practical erudition.

They went on to Greenwich and picnicked on a grassy slope overlooking the Royal Hospital. Lady Wiston monopolized Mr. Bassett with further discussion of his hoped-for command, and Mr. Daviot stuck close to them, so Miranda was left to Lord Snell.

Though, courteous as ever, he kept her supplied with food from the excellent spread Cook had so quickly put together, he had little conversation. Indeed, he was distinctly distrait.

Had Mr. Daviot treated Miranda so—before their quarrel—she would have accused him of wool-gathering and teased him to tell what occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of his companion. Such banter was out of the question with his lordship. She wondered if Mr. Daviot’s unwarranted hostility was enough to bring the frown to his forehead.

In fact, Mr. Daviot was altogether to blame for ruining what might otherwise have been a delightful outing.

By the time the boatmen rowed back under London Bridge, the tide had ebbed far enough to decrease the turbulence. On either side of the river, narrow mud flats now lay exposed, crossed by channels dredged to the various wharves and steps. An occasional whiff of a foul effluvium drifted across the water, making the wherry’s passengers wrinkle their noses.

They passed beneath Blackfriars Bridge. The exposed flats were wider now. Here and there solitary figures trudged slowly along, gazing down, occasionally stooping to pick something out of the fetid muck.

Most were ragged men, walking with a shambling gait, but below the Temple Gardens, Miranda, in the bows with Lord Snell, spotted a whole family. At the waterline a tattered, emaciated woman carried a baby on her hip, and near the bank the man had a toddler on his shoulders. Between them, three children not much older plodded along with bent heads.

The eldest of the children suddenly bent down, then ran to his father to show what he had found. The motion caught Lady Wiston’s eye.

“What are those people doing?” she asked the nearest oarsman.

“They’m mudlarks, y’lidyship, lookin’ fer scraps o’ rope or iron, rags, wood even, anyfink as’ll fetch a meg. Most on ‘em’s boozin’ coves past carin’ fer owt but the next pot o’ blue ruin.”

“Scavengers,” translated Mr. Bassett at her side. “Drunkards hoping to sell what they find for a ha’penny to buy gin.”

“Not that family, surely?” said Lady Wiston.

“No’m.” The man shook his head sadly. “That there’s poor Jeb Tuttle as was a waterman. Bust ‘is arm and can’t row no more.”

“Did you hear, Miranda?” called her ladyship. “Those poor people trying to make an honest living in such a horrid fashion! I am certain it must be dreadfully unhealthy.”

“Shall I walk back when we get ashore, ma’am, and speak to them?”

“Yes, dear, if you please. Tell the woman to come to Portchester Square. Women are generally so much more sensible than men.”

“Can you not dissuade her?” Lord Snell said to Miranda in a low voice. “It is sheer folly to waste money on such wretches. The fellow will spend it on gin and his family be not one whit the better for it.”

“Lady Wiston will not simply give them money,” Miranda explained. “She says to give a man a fish is to feed him for a day, to teach him to fish is to feed him for a lifetime. I expect she will set them up in some business he can manage with his crippled arm.”

Lord Snell’s lips pursed. “The only trade he knows is rowing.”

“He will learn.” About to cite the example of Daylight Danny, Miranda paused. His lordship would not approve of his aunt’s friendship with Mr. and Mrs. Potts.

The day after tomorrow was Lady Wiston’s at-home day. Suddenly Miranda was dreadfully afraid that not only would Lord Snell not care for her ladyship’s guests, he might consider them evidence of madness.

If he was looking for evidence, which of course he was not... was he?

Chapter 12

Perched on the end of Miranda’s bed, Lady Wiston tucked her nightgown around her toes and readjusted her shawl about her shoulders.

“How fortunate the sunshine lasted until we reached home,” she said. “I should not have cared to be out on the river in this wind and rain. Would you like a fire in here, dear?”

“In August? Heavens, no! What shocking extravagance that would be.” Miranda pulled her own shawl closer. Though she was not really chilly, the raindrops beating against the windowpanes sounded cold. “We were lucky with the weather today.”

“Yes indeed. I should have enjoyed our voyage excessively if it were not for.... Miranda, I greatly fear Godfrey and Peter have come to cuffs. They scarce exchanged a word all day, and then Peter going off to dine at his club.... Do you know what they have quarrelled about?”

“I think you had better ask them, Lady Wiston.”

“Oh no, I could not do that. Gentlemen are so odd about such things.” She sighed. “Has Godfrey mentioned to you how long he means to stay?”

“He said a few days originally. But I am sure when his business in Town is done he will tell you, not me.”

“But you get on very well with him, do you not?”

“Well enough, ma’am. He has been most kind and courteous.”

“He admires you, I am certain of it. Though it was not quite gallant of him, I vow, to refuse when I asked him to walk with you down to the Temple Gardens to speak to those poor people.”

“I assure you, ma’am, I took it as a mark of his distaste for my errand—which is only natural in a gentleman of his rank—not as a lack of politeness towards me. Mr. Bassett was an excellent escort, and in sympathy with my goal.”

“Dear Mr. Bassett, we shall miss him sadly when he is gone. But I believe you wrong Godfrey, Miranda. I was telling him about Daylight Danny’s success as a pie-vendor and he was most interested. He is looking forward to meeting him. In fact, he asked permission to invite two of his own acquaintances to the next at-home.”