Page 24 of The Lady's Companion
She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, thinking of her father. And don’t disgust your little ones, or make extravagant promises you have no way of fulfilling. If you promise them a mouse, give them a mouse. And for God’s sake, teach them how to hunt for themselves. She settled lower in the chair, unmindful of her posture for once, and propped her feet on the footstool. The cat was warm, and his purring created a pleasant vibration against her stomach.
She must have dozed off, but for how long she had no idea. She snapped her eyes open and tightened her hand on the cat, which tensed to spring. David Wiggins stood looking down at her. He shook his head. “Miss Hampton, go to bed.”
She relaxed again and regarded him out of sleepy eyes. “What are you doing still up, Mr. Wiggins?” Her accusation was blunted by a yawn that she could not stifle.
He looked down at his boots as though she had caught him at mischief. “I just wanted another look at the Waterloo wheat.” He squatted down beside her chair until he was on her eye level, his enthusiasm balancing the exhaustion in his face. “I’m going to sow an entire field of it this spring. It’s a good blend of wheat, Susan. You’ll see.”
She nodded and closed her eyes again, but opened them wide when the bailiff picked her up, cat and all. With a hiss, the tom jumped off.
“Do I have to carry you upstairs to bed?” he asked.
“No... no,” she stammered. “I’ll go.”
“When?”
“Now! Only let me down.” He did as she asked and she straightened her skirts around her. I should be so indignant, she told herself as she frowned at him. How odd that I am not.
“You won’t get anywhere staying up late to worry about things, Susan,” he said as he went to the door again. He observed the frown on her face. “But maybe you weren’t worrying about Lady Bushnell. Homesick?” he asked, his voice sympathetic.
“Not at all,” she said too quickly. “There is nothing to miss there.”
He watched her face another moment, his own expressionless. “So that’s how it is,” he said finally. “Well, life is short. Miss Hampton. Don’t hate them too long. Go to bed.”
She waited until she heard his footsteps on the path again, then took up a candle and holder on the table beside the lamp, litit from the lamp, then extinguished the greater light. She went carefully upstairs and set the candlestick on her bedside table.
The curtains were still open, so she went to close them, and stood there instead, watching the bailiff make his progress to his own house. She inclined her head against the window frame, enjoying the simple pleasure of watching the man in motion. He had a competent stride, and she could only marvel at the miles he must have walked, and under what circumstances. No wonder both Lord Bushnells had relied on him, she thought as she stood at the window watching him and slowly unbuttoning Lady Elizabeth Bushnell’s dress. He looks enormously capable, even from a second-story window. I can sleep now.
She did sleep well, to her gratification, and woke with Jane Austen on her mind—more specifically, Emma Woodhouse, she of the sharp tongue and strong will. Susan had nearly finishedEmmaon the long journey from London to Quilling, but she knew she could begin it again with no loss of interest. She got up from bed and wadded her nightgown—a loan from the generously endowed Mrs. Skerlong—around her as she padded on bare feet to the dressing room for her reticule. When she picked it up, she knew it was too light to contain the book, and then she remembered stuffing it into her trunk before walking to Quilling Manor. “Drat!” she said as she plumped herself down on her bed again, and she flopped onto her back with her arms out. There was a knock on the door.
“Come,” she said, trying to keep the dismal note out of her voice. No sense in troubling Cora with her woes.
It was the bailiff; he stood there with her trunk on his shoulder, surprised at first, and then smiling as she lay there and stared at him, too startled to move.
“Miss Hampton, such a dramatic pose,” he said finally.
She scrambled under the covers. “I... I thought you were Cora,” she stammered. “I mean, when did you retrieve my trunk? Is itlater than I think? How’s the weather?” She had the good sense to stop. “Am I babbling?”
He hesitated a moment, then came into the room and lowered the trunk carefully to the floor. “I woke up really early and made the trip to Quilling in no time. The road is clear now, and yes, you’re babbling.” He looked at her and winked. “Now you can probably locate a nightgown built on a less gargantuan scale.”
Her smile was sunny. No sense in being embarrassed in front of a man who had already bared his back to her. “Well, excuse my drama, please.” She crossed her legs under the covers and tucked the blanket around her. “It’s just that you are an answer to a prayer, Mr. Wiggins.”
He shook his head at her. “I never thought I would live to the day when I would be an answer to a maiden’s prayers!”
“Don’t give yourself too much credit, sir,” she said, then stopped. “See here, Mr. Wiggins. I know I am not to call you sir, on threat of being thrown into a muck heap, but Mr. Wiggins sounds endlessly formal, and you have, after all, proposed to me, and shown me your back...”
He burst out laughing before she could finish, and she blushed. “And I have called you Miss Hampton and Susan, and why don’t we both just call each other Susan and David? Is that what you are attempting to tell me? Considering the nature of our employment here, I think it would be entirely appropriate.”
“That’s one thing settled then,” she said, folding her hands in her lap and wishing her hair were not tumbled around her shoulders, but neatly in place. “I fear I do not look too much like a lady at the moment,” she apologized. “But then, I did not expect you with my trunk. For such, si... David, I thank you.”
He took his cue and went to the door, turning back for a last smile. “Susan, you would look like a lady if you were simmering in a cannibal’s iron pot in deepest Africa!” He leaned against the door, closing it with his weight. “Lady Bushnell always lookedlike a lady, even on our worst campaigns.” He touched his chest. “I’m neither an authority nor a gentleman, but I suspect that being a lady comes from within.”
She nodded. “My mother was that way.”
He opened the door again. “You are, too, Susan,” he said softly as he left the room without looking back.
She watched the door, pleased with herself. Mama, you would be pleased to know that a bailiff in the Cotswolds thinks I am a lady. The whole idea was so amusing that she laughed out loud, then bounded out of bed and threw herself on her knees by the trunk. The book was there on top of her underthings, just where she had left it. She leaned against the trunk and leafed through the pages, smiling over favorite passages.
“Lady B, if you are not amused byEmma, then you are a hard case indeed,” she declared as she pulled off Mrs. Skerlong’s nightgown, and dug down to a nightgown of her own. Much better, she thought as she put it on. David Wiggins could have no objection to this, and may the Lord smite me if I think of him again, when I should be concerned with weightier matters.
