Page 27 of The Lady's Companion
She looked at Lady Bushnell, who was indicating that Cora set down the heavy tray. I think there have been too many martyrs for Lady Bushnell’s peace of mind, as it is.
Cora left the room, pausing just out of Lady Bushnell’s vision to blow a quick kiss to Susan, her eyes merry. Susan found herself wishing for escape, too, and a return to the kitchen and the comfort of soup, or stew, or whatever it was she had been smelling this past hour and more. She picked up a cup and saucer and poured tea for Lady Bushnell.
“Thank you.”
That was all. There was no offer that Susan take up the other cup and pour for herself, too, so she did not, even though she was as dry as a hay sprig from reading.
Cora had left the day’s mail on the tray. As soon as Lady Bushnell had taken several sips, Susan handed the letters and a small package to her.
“There is a letter opener on my desk.”
Susan rose, grateful to move again, and went to the desk, which was covered with letters brittle and yellow, the ink faded. The dates were two decades gone now. She moved the letters aside, but not before her eyes caught several of the salutations. “Beloved Lydia.” “My darling wife.” “Sweetheart.” Susan sighed, marveling how it must feel to receive letters addressed like that. She returned to her seat by the window and took the letters which Lady Bushnell extended to her, slitting them open. The widow took them back and indicated with her head the package on the tray.
“That is for Mr. Wiggins. See that he gets it.”
“Very well, my lady.” Susan picked up the items. Should I offer to read her correspondence to her? she questioned herself. Can she manage? Do I dare attempt to remove such autonomy from her? A moment’s reflection told her that she did not dare. She picked up her book. “Will you be needing. . .”
“No,” the widow interrupted. There was no disguising her eagerness to see Susan gone. “That will be quite all.”
Susan hesitated at the door. “I could return after din ...”
“No need.”
She was absurdly close to tears but she forced them back and squared her shoulders. “I will return tomorrow for Chapter Seven,” she said, hoping she sounded confident.
“You will not,” Lady Bushnell contradicted as she reached for a macaroon. She took a good look at Susan, one that measure her up and down. “I believe we were on Chapter Six, Miss Hampton, and not Seven. Tomorrow then. Don’t forget Mr. Wiggins’ package.”
Susan paused outside the sitting room door and leaned againstit, relieved beyond all measure. I have survived one afternoon, she told herself. I refuse to allow myself any wild flights of fancy, such as are common to Hamptons, but I will permit myself the luxury of hope. She looked down at the book she clutched so tightly. “Thank you, Jane Austen,” she whispered, and never meant anything more.
She went down the hall to the kitchen, where she surprised Mrs. Skeriong, dozing in her chair. The cat leaped off the house keeper’s lap, twined itself around Susan’s ankles, then returned to the housekeeper, satisfied with ownership in the newest human. Another leap, this one more dignified, landed him back in Mrs. Skerlong’s lap.
Susan set the book and package on the table. “Is Mr. Wiggin about?” she asked. “There is this package for him.”
“He has gone to choir practice,” the housekeeper replied. “Would you mind stirring that pot on the stove?”
“With pleasure, provided I can lick the spoon. Choir practice?”
Mrs. Skerlong settled herself more comfortably in the chair “You don’t think any self-respecting curate would permit a Welsh bass to live unmolested within parish boundaries, do you?”
Susan laughed as she stirred the stew. “I wasn’t aware of Mr. Wiggins’s considerable talents before.”
“Then you’ll be the first lady’s companion who isn’t!” Mrs. Skerlong replied, amusement evident in her voice.
“Really, Mrs. Skerlong!” Susan protested as she felt herself blushing.
“Yes, really!” The housekeeper smiled and turned her attention to the cat, who was kneading her stomach. “They’ve all looked him over, but I don’t know that it did any of them much good. Of course, I suppose your being of the gentry yourself will make you less liable.”
“Of course,” Susan agreed as she poured herself some tea andat down to resume polishing silverware from her morning task. She looked around for Mrs. Skerlong’s daughter. “Did Cora go to choir practice, too?”
“She did. There is a tenor she is fond of.”
“Tell me, Mrs. Skerlong, if David is a Welshman, how did he come by a name like Wiggins?” Susan asked, concentrating on the intricate pattern of Lady Bushnell’s best table knives.
“I think it had something to do with what hurried him from Wales in the first place, Susan.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice some more. “Poaching.”
Susan’s eyes widened. “My goodness, but he’s a resourceful man. So he thought it best to revise his name?”
“Happens there is a village name of Wiggins just this side of the border,” Mrs. Skerlong explained. She shook her head. “I expect he’s not the first Welshman to decide on a name change, considering what hotheaded, impulsive works of nature most of them are. And it was probably one of those silly names with loads of l’s and y’s that decent folk can’t pronounce.”
