Page 14 of The Lady's Companion
“I think so, Mr. Wiggins. Do forgive me for being rag-mannered, but you stand between me and that bed right now, and I wish you would move.”
He gave another of his oblique smiles, stepped out of her way, and closed the door after him. She didn’t hear him on the stairs, but as she sat in the window seat to remove her boots, she watched him head across the barnyard again. She could see a modest two-story house beyond the barn, but he made for a long building that looked like a succession house. She watched closely; in another moment, a lamp began to glow.
Don’t you sleep? she thought as she let her dress fall to the floor, and crawled between the comforting weight of heavy blankets. The only reflections of any coherence that crossed her tired brain before sleep took over was the odd notion that David Wiggins had been her last thought the night before, too, as he was now.
Chapter Five
To her continuing amazement, she woke to the thought of David Wiggins. She wiggled her chemise down around her knees where it belonged, wished for the comfort of her flannel nightgown in the trunk beside the inn, and wondered if the bailiff had slept beyond his usual waking, too.
She looked at the clock, and sat up quickly. “This will never do, Susan,” she said out loud as she looked around her. Old Lady Bushnell will think I am a dreadful slug-a-bed. She allowed herself to lean back against the headboard, considering whether Lady Bushnell would seriously have a spare thought for her newest lady’s companion.
Apparently I am only one of many, Susan thought, hugging her knees to her. She stared into the small but sturdy fire in the grate which some kind soul must have lit for her earlier. Lady Bushnell will likely ignore me and wait for me to go away. I shall not. I cannot. I have no place else to go.
It was an uncomfortable thought, soon followed by another one. I have to convince Lady Bushnell that she needs me, and I haven’t the slightest notion how to go about doing that, Susan reflected, as she got out of bed and rummaged around in the mound of clothes she had stepped out of last night, as soon as David Wiggins closed the door. She shook out her petticoat and wrapped it around her shoulders.
The room was warm enough, so she moved to the window seat, tucking herself into its compact recess and grateful for her own small size. She gazed out the window at a white world clenched tight in the fist of winter. This was no London brown snow, but a white so intense that she had to look away after a minute’s observation. The sky was the cold blue of the bottomof a pond, and the trees skeletal. Overshadowing all was the smooth undulation of low hills that protected the valley. No traffic moved on the road they had traveled last night. They might have been the only manor on the planet, so complete was the isolation.
But I am warm, she thought, fingering the hem of the petticoat about her shoulders. Whatever her reluctance about a lady’s companion, Lady Bushnell did not allow anyone to stint on coal in her household. It was a pleasant room, too, low-ceilinged, with two chairs drawn up companionably by the fireplace, and a footstool. A sampler hung by a door that must lead into the dressing room. Her eyes still dazzled by the snow, she squinted at the writing on the sampler.
“’For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways,’” she read, wondering what young daughter or granddaughter had labored over the work, and remembering her own purgatory with thread and needle. Susan rested her chin on her knees. “I could use an angel,” she said. Someone knocked on the door and she smiled. My angel, she thought as she called “Come” from her window seat perch.
If the young woman who came into the room carrying a brass can was an angel, then the Lord had a good eye for competence. She was round and solid like the buildings on the holding itself, firmly planted to remain. She set the can by the washstand and placed the dress draped over her arm on the bed.
“I’m Cora,” she said and took a deep breath. “Mr. Wiggins isn’t so sure that he can get through to Quilling to fetch your trunk, what with the new snow, so he told my mum to find you a dress for a day or two. My mum’s the housekeeper,” she finished, in a rush of words. She looked at the dress doubtfully. “But I don’t think it will fit. Mr. Wiggins said he thought you had a waist small enough to span with his hands, and begging your pardon, ma’am, there’s nobody but Lady Bushnell who has a waist thatsize and she isn’t loaning out clothes to any lady’s companion.”
“I shouldn’t imagine,” Susan murmured, coming out of the window seat and wondering what else Mr. Wiggins thought. She held up the dress. “I’m certain it will do, if you can find me a sash of some sort.” She smiled then, and held out her hand. “I’m Susan Hampton, the final lady’s companion.”
Cora giggled. “No one’s ever said that before!”
“Perhaps it’s time someone did.” Oh, brave words, she thought, and here I stand with my knees practically knocking. “How many have there been?”
“Lots,” Cora replied, ticking them off her fingers. “There was the one who cried all the time because she was homesick, the one who ran off with the tinkers, the one who put Bible verses about hell and brimstone all around the place, the one who stole the spoons, the one…”
“Goodness, I think that’s enough,” Susan said. She sat down on the bed. “Stole spoons?”
“Lady Bushnell’s very own apostle spoons,” Cora said, and giggled again. “Tucked them right up her sleeves and probably in other places Mum says I shouldn’t mention.”
“Heavens!”
“I haven’t even told you about the others. There was...”
“Perhaps it can wait,” Susan broke in, eager to change the subject. “Cora, am I too late for breakfast? I really didn’t mean to sleep so long.”
“We keep early hours here, but Mr. Wiggins told Mum you needed to sleep and not to wake you.”
“And I suppose he’s been up for hours.”
“Mum doesn’t think he sleeps ever. When you’re dressed, follow your nose to the kitchen. Mum saved some breakfast for you.” Cora went to the door. “There’s lavender soap by the basin, and if you’re needing it, I can find you a hairbrush.”
“I have one, thank you.”
“I can brush it sometime, if you like,” she offered, her face shy with the suggestion, her eyes bright to please. “I disremember when I’ve seen hair so black before, and thick.”
Itisnice hair, Susan told herself after Cora left. She hadn’t taken the time to braid it last night, and it was all tangled around her shoulders. Mama used to brush it until it crackled, she remembered. I would sit between her knees. Oh, that was nice.
She took her hairbrush from her reticule and began to brush her hair in front of the mirror. Truth, I would have liked a little daughter with long black hair to brush. Damn you, Papa, for spending away my husband, sons, and daughters.
But I am not to think of Papa, she told herself as she braided her hair and twisted it into a low knot on the back of her neck. It hung heavy that way, but did wonders for her posture. She thought briefly of Emily and her constant parading about the drawing room with a book on her head, and all for the purpose of snaring some vicar or second son who needed a bride’s portion, no matter how poor her carriage. And Aunt Louisa? “I have likely exchanged one tyranny for another, but it is my own choice,” she told the mirror. “And Lady Bushnell will pay me, for I intend to stay.”
