Carola Dunn (7 page)

So that was the penalty for meddling in what was none of her affair! Mr. Daviot would be quite justified in resenting her interference. Even so easygoing a gentleman must find it humiliating for a mere companion to be involved in his financial arrangements with his aunt. Very likely he would never speak to her again, at least not in the friendly, informal fashion to which she had already become accustomed.

She would be sorry to lose his esteem and goodwill, Miranda thought unhappily, buttering her muffin.

Mr. Daviot came in a few minutes later. “Good morning, ladies,” he said cheerfully, dropping a kiss on his aunt’s cheek on his way to the sideboard. “I’m a bit late after burning the midnight oil last night. I’m glad I’ve caught you, Miss Carmichael. I should like your advice, if you have a moment to spare this morning.”

“Have you come to a standstill already, Mr. Daviot?”

“On the contrary, it’s all going along swimmingly since you set me on the right track. At least...but I’ll have to show you.”

“I must go and have a word with Cook and Mrs. Lowenstein now. After that, I am at your disposal, sir. Unless you have need of me, Lady Wiston?”

“Not until we go to the hospital, dear. The Vicar threatened to call this morning, but I daresay I can hold up my end in our dispute without your presence. I hope to be able to make Mr. Sagaranathu known to him.”

“Do you think it wise, ma’am?” Miranda asked.

Lady Wiston gave her a mischievous smile. “If not wise, at least interesting.”

Mr. Daviot grinned. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world! Never fear, Miss Carmichael, I shall make sure we finish our business in time to attend.”

“Then I had best be on my way,” Miranda said tartly.

* * * *

Domestic concerns dealt with, she repaired to the study. Mr. Daviot was already there. He stood by his desk under the window, staring not down at the higgledy-piggledy muddle of papers but out at the rain-drenched garden.

Hearing Miranda’s entrance, he swung round, a frown clearing from his brow.

“I am in some perplexity, ma’am, and sorely in need of your counsel,” he said. “Do sit down.”

Miranda took one of the easy chairs. Mr. Daviot perched on the edge of the writing table, his back to the window so that she could make out little of his expression. His voice, however, was unwontedly serious.

“You looked not quite happy, Miss Carmichael, when I entered the dining parlour just now. Would I be wrong in supposing my aunt had just proposed to you certain expenditures on my behalf?”

“It cannot have been for this you requested my advice!”

“Oh, that can wait,” he said with an impatient gesture. “Is my conjecture correct?”

“Yes, sir, but it is not my place to approve or disapprove her ladyship’s char...expenditures.”

“Charities? I am, after all, Aunt Artemis’s nearest relative.”

“I do beg your pardon, Mr. Daviot,” Miranda said contritely. “That was an unfortunate slip of the tongue. Of course her support of her nephew cannot be regarded as charity. May we wipe clean the slate and begin again?”

“Certainly.” He smiled. “It won’t be the first time.”

Recalling her first request of that nature, and the kiss which preceded it, Miranda was annoyed to feel her face grow warm. As a result, it was with some asperity that she said, “Lady Wiston announced her intention of purchasing a horse for your use. She also desired my opinion as to whether the offer of an allowance would affront you. I daresay it was not quite proper to discuss the matter with a hired companion, but—”

“But my aunt cannot be relied upon to do what is proper, bless her!”

“I was going to say: but I had no choice in the matter. I am heartily sorry if you are offended.”

“Not in the least. She is wise to rely upon your judgement, Miss Carmichael. How can I think otherwise when I mean to do the same? Did you tell her I should be affronted?” he asked with apparent real interest.

“Hardly! As a matter of fact, I suggested her insisting on your paying back any outlay on your behalf.”

“I might have guessed!” he said, laughing. “I could not credit Aunt Artemis coming up with that notion, though it was less of a demand than a hint. But all this is beside the point. You were right, I was far too grateful to feel insulted, but before I accept—”

“You have not accepted?” she exclaimed in astonishment.

“Provisionally. I wish to be certain that my aunt can stand the nonsense without discomfort to herself or a lessening of her charity to more worthy objects than myself. Short of applying to her lawyer, who would doubtless kick me downstairs, you are the person most likely to be able to tell me just how well to pass the Admiral left her.”

 “I see.” Impressed by his consideration, a moment later Miranda found herself doubting. Was he cozening her, whether to make her think well of him, or to discover the extent of Lady Wiston’s wealth for his own purposes? “I am not fully acquainted with her ladyship’s affairs,” she said hesitantly.

“And not sure you ought to tell me what you know. But if you fail to warn me off, you will be as responsible as I for any subsequent hardship.”

“I don’t know how much she proposes to give you.”

“Nor I, but she spoke of a small allowance.” Mr. Daviot grinned. “If that will not break the bank, then at least advise me whether I am to look at Tatt’s for a handsome bit of blood and bone or a broken-winded nag.”

“Tattersall’s does not deal in broken-winded nags.” She smiled. “So long as you don’t spring for a race horse, I daresay there is no need to go to the opposite extreme and purchase a slug.”

“That’s a relief! The Admiral cut up warm, I collect?”

“He added a good deal of prize money to various family inheritances, I believe. He left his entire fortune to his wife, with full use of the income. As to the capital, it is held in trust but she may bequeath it where she will. For all her charities, Lady Wiston is not purse-pinched, nor like to be.”

“Then, much as I regret adding to your poor opinion of me, I shall accept her largesse.”

“You mistake me, sir,” Miranda cried in some agitation. The truth was, she still found herself quite unable to make up her mind about him.

The indecorous circumstances of their original meeting, together with his willingness to sponge on his aunt, had created an unfortunate first impression. Since then, he had indulged Lady Wiston’s peculiarities with every appearance of sympathy; he was an amiable and amusing companion; and he had made a serious start on his book. On the other hand, his perseverance and his sincerity remained to be proved.

Miranda could not help liking him, but she was far from ready to trust him. Unwilling to tell him so, she said lamely, “It would be muttonheaded to refuse an allowance your aunt can well afford. Besides, it would distress her.”

“And the last thing the admirable Miss Carmichael will permit is that anyone should distress Lady Wiston.”

Mr. Daviot’s jaunty tone made Miranda suspect he was quizzing her. She wished his face were better illuminated.

She took refuge in primness. “That is surely my chief duty in this household. It is only to spare her embarrassment that I allowed her to prevail upon me to...to mention to you....” She simply could not think of a tactful way to find fault with his apparel.

“Yes, Miss Carmichael? What is the distasteful matter you are to mention to me?” There was light enough to see his teasing smile. The wretch was enjoying her discomfort!

“Your rags,” she said, abandoning tact. “Her ladyship wishes you to fig yourself out decently and have the bills sent to her.”

“Most willingly,” he consented with a rueful laugh. “It will be a pleasure not to have Twitchell wince every time he cannot avoid setting eyes on me. There, that was not so difficult, was it? Did you fear a high dudgeon?”

“Well, it was scarcely courteous to notice your...disarray.”

“Rags, Miss Carmichael, rags. It’s too late to mince words! No dudgeon. I cannot afford to be at outs with you when I’m so desperately in need of your help.”

Miranda was glad to change the subject. “With your book?” She crossed to the desk. “What is the trouble?”

Before he answered, Mr. Daviot pulled out the desk chair for her. She sat down, scanning the scattered sheets.

“Just look,” he said plaintively. “
Primo
, I write fast because the ideas are bubbling over in my head. Therefore my scrawl is illegible.”

“Oh no, I can make out the odd word here and there,” Miranda teased, then consoled him, “Doubtless publishers are used to deciphering a poor hand.”

“I daresay, but there’s worse.
Secundo
, I write a page or two, and then I think of something I left out, so I write it on a new page with asterisks and daggers and numbers to indicate where it belongs. And then I reread what I have written, and I cross out a bit here, write in a word there, until no printer in his right mind could make head or tail of it. Even I myself am confused when I attempt to put the pages in their correct order.”

“Yes, I see. But all you have to do is make a fair copy before you approach a bookseller.”

“I’ve tried it, with the beginning.” He reached across for a fan of a half dozen sheets and spread them before her. “It’s just the same all over again. New ideas come, I start rearranging, and in no time the muddle is as bad as ever.”

“But sooner or later you must be satisfied.”

“Perhaps, but when? I’ve no desire to hang on my aunt’s sleeve for the next several years, I assure you!”

“No.” Glancing up at him, Miranda had to believe him. His bright blue eyes shone with an eager sincerity impossible to mistake. Their glow made her feel quite peculiar inside. Reminded of his shocking conduct in the gardens, she hastily looked down.

“What am I to do, Miss Carmichael?”

“What you need,” she said reluctantly, “is someone to copy it for you. Someone you trust to correct obvious errors, or at least to draw them to your attention before proceeding, yet someone firm enough not to allow you to make further major alterations.”

“And someone with a neat, clear hand.” Mr. Daviot sighed. “I know only one person who meets every criterion, but Aunt Artemis keeps her far too busy for me to ask her to undertake such a monumental task.”

Miranda echoed his sigh. “If Lady Wiston is willing to grant me the time, I am willing to undertake it.”

She had anticipated this, so how had he succeeded in wheedling her into it without even trying?

* * * *

The incumbent of St. Mary le Bone Church had departed tight-lipped.

“The poor man finds it difficult to castigate me as he feels he ought,” said Lady Wiston blithely, “because I always give a donation to the parish poor even when I don’t attend his service.”

Her ladyship and the unruffled Sagaranathu retired to the green sitting room for the yoga lesson. Notwithstanding the rain, Mr. Daviot went off to Tattersall’s on a preliminary scouting expedition.

Even if Miranda had cared to brave the drizzle, Mudge refused absolutely to set foot out of doors in such weather. Having prepared a basket of comforts for the patients of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, for once she found herself at leisure.

Returning to the study, she sat down at the writing table. When she concentrated, Mr. Daviot’s handwriting was quite legible, but his system—if it could be called a system—of changes and additions took more effort to puzzle out. A bookseller might well not choose to take the trouble, she realized, especially with an unknown author.

She read through the first few pages, the attempted fair copy. He had decided after all to begin with his landing in the city of New York. The arrival within the month of the news from the capital, Washington, of the declaration of war against Britain made a fine dramatic incident.

His lively style reminded Miranda of the way he spoke. She enjoyed reading the tale. Yet something was missing.

Chin in hand, she gazed out at the dripping rose-bushes, musing. What was it the written story lacked?

She pictured Peter Daviot in this chair, herself seated at the bureau, listening as he related his adventures, watching him. Watching, that was the difference. The animation of his features had added an inexpressible sparkle to the story which the written word was unable to convey.

Finding herself smiling at the memory, Miranda called herself sternly to attention. What mattered was that readers who did not know him could not know what they were missing.

Despite her suspicion that she had been manoeuvred into offering, she rather thought she would enjoy working with him.

Unsurprisingly, Lady Wiston was perfectly willing to donate her companion’s services to her nephew. Mr. Daviot made the request when they gathered at luncheon.

“Of course, dear,” she said. “Mrs. Lowenstein’s English is much improved, quite enough to take over the marketing. Take her with you to the shops tomorrow, Miranda, and introduce her to the shopkeepers. Only think, today I mastered the Candle!”

Mr. Daviot exchanged a glance with Miranda. “The Candle?” he enquired cautiously.

“I shall show you later. Mr. Sagaranathu says one must wait two or three hours after a light meal.”

“Oh, the Candle is one of your yoga exercises!”

“Congratulations, Lady Wiston,” said Miranda. “I look forward to a demonstration. Had you equal success this morning, Mr. Daviot, at Tattersall’s?”

“Nothing quite right, but I talked to a couple of fellows and got the name of a reputable tailor. I don’t aspire to Weston or Stultz! Aunt Artemis, will your sewing woman make up some shirts for me?”

He was not at all embarrassed to discuss his new wardrobe. Miranda agreed to go with him to Grafton House on the morrow to help him choose lengths of linen for shirts and muslin for cravats, as he knew nothing of the subject.

After luncheon, he went off to find the recommended tailor, while Miranda and Lady Wiston set out for St. Bartholomew’s.

Lady Wiston’s carriage was a vehicle of her own devising. The double-hooded landau body was slung far above the ground on great springs between four enormous wheels. More comfortable and more stable, if less dashing, than a high-perch phaeton, it gave an amazingly smooth ride and provided its passengers with an excellent view. The chief disadvantage, the need to clamber up three steps into it, made it unlikely ever to become widely popular but naturally failed to daunt Lady Wiston.