Page 42 of The Lady's Companion
“You are,” he said simply. “You’re braver than all the Hamptons who ever lived.”
She laughed. “That would not be difficult!” He was so close that she could smell soap, so she knew it was time to change the subject. “Actually, I came to tell you that Lady Bushnell let me drink tea with her.”
Immediately, she wished she had not said anything. The bailiff moved away slightly. She did not pretend that he was merely resettling himself. Their shoulders still touched, but he had shifted his hip out of her range. What did I say? she asked herself. Whatever it was, it was the wrong thing.
“Good for you,” the bailiff said finally. His voice was the same as ever, but it was different, too, in a way that baffled her. “But why should we be surprised? After all, Susan, you are one of them.”
“One of them,” she repeated. “I don’t understand.”
Wiggins got up then in one swift motion, holding out his hand to her. She let him pull her to her feet and take the coat from around her shoulders. He walked down the aisle, tossed his coat toward the peg, and sat on the stool at the drafting table.
“You’re too much of a lady to remark on how well I speak English,” he commented, resting his elbows on the slanting table.
If I can change the subject, I suppose you can, too, she thought, puzzled. “I guess I never considered it,” wishing her words did not sound so lame, but curious where he was going.
“When the elder Lord Bushnell made me one of his regimental sergeants, I started to study the officers,” he explained, not taking his eyes from her face. “I decided it would be well to imitate their diction, and labor over my faulty grammar.” He smiled to himself, but it was a deprecating expression. “I don’t regret that particularly, but one of those little lords with a purchased captaincy took me aside before the battle of Salamanca. I’ll never forget his words. ‘You may sound like a gentleman, Sergeant Wiggins, but you’ll never be one gf us.’” He grinned at her in what looked like genuine amusement. “He was right, of course, bless his blue blood, which, by the way, looked quite as red as everyone else’s when spread all over the Spanish plain. ‘One of us,’” he repeated, then took out his ledger, effectively dismissing her.
She watched him a moment more, but he was reaching for a pencil, and then looking for his ruler. One of us, she thought, amusement mingled with equal parts of exasperation. You propose to me, then tell me it was just a silly impulse. You almost tip the vicar into my lap. You set me up for Lady Bushnell to order about. You kiss me and trouble my mind and body. And myth and rumor have it that women are difficult to comprehend? I am so far removed from my sphere right nowthat I will do the only intelligent thing.
“Good night, sir,” she said. It was so easy to smile at him, and considerably smarter than tears or remonstrations.
“Good night, Susan,” he said, returning her smile with one of his own.
She could have passed him without the necessity of another word, and she did, but not before she reached out and touched his arm lightly as it lay on the desk. Figure that one out, Mr. Wiggins, she thought as she left the succession house and saved her laughter for the kitchen.
Before she prepared for bed in the silent house, she sat down to write to Joel Steinman. It was a cautious letter. She had never written to a man before, even if it was to the employment agent who had gotten her this job, and she hesitated a long time, redipping her quill into the ink any number of times. She told about the glove and Ben Rich, and his Welsh shepherd boy, and the kindness of the Skerlongs, and her own determination to be a lady’s companion to a lady with twice her own backbone, and miles more character and courage. She described that first disastrous piano encounter, and the bliss of finally drinking tea with the widow. She was careful not to mention the bailiff. After all, she reasoned as the ink dried on the quill again, Joel Steinman knows something about propriety. I must not let him think I am interested in the bailiff. I will add casually that I am interested in the governess position, but not that I am overly anxious, she thought, and put pen to paper again. In the main, this is true. I think I am well enough off here, if only I will concentrate on my duties and not try to figure out what the bailiff is up to, if anything beyond a mild flirtation. Aunt Louisa would have it that all men are rogues and flirts.
Perhaps she is right, Susan decided as she pulled on her nightgown, tied her sleeping cap under her chin, danced about because the floor was cold, and hopped into bed. Papa cannotresist a gaming table; perhaps the bailiff cannot resist lily of the valley and trim ankles. I wonder what else he cannot resist, she considered as she closed her eyes.
She was asleep then and dreaming of marsh birds looking for their hats, and tea pouring endlessly from a pot as high as the roof into a tiny cup far below while Lady Bushnell hanged on her ankles and tried to scoot her off the piano stool.
“Susan! Wake up!”
It wasn’t Lady Bushnell but the bailiff, and he was sitting on her bed, nudging her sideways with his hip to gain a little space for himself as he shook her shoulders. She snapped her eyes open, somewhere still between dreaming and waking, and put her hands on his face. Suddenly, in that curious semi-sleep, it was the loveliest moment of her life. He was warm, and he was close. Her fingers went to his lips. “Hush!” she said as he kissed her fingers. It seemed to be the most automatic of gestures to the bailiff, because he kept shaking her, and the lovely moment ended. She took her hand away, her mind still fuddled with sleep and the sharpest desire she had ever felt.
“Susan, you’ve got to wake up! I saw a light on late in Lady Bushnell’s room, but her door is locked and she doesn’t answer. You have to help me!”
Chapter Thirteen
She sat up, fully awake. Without another word, the bailiff pulled her from the bed and into the hall, hurrying with her to Lady Bushnell’s room. He paused outside the door, still gripping Susan’s arm.
“I was late in the succession house. When I was walking back to my place, I noticed Lady Bushnell’s light on. She’s never up that late.” He spoke rapidly. “I came upstairs and tried the door, but it’s locked, and she didn’t answer when I called.” He released her arm. “I want you to go in first.”
She nodded, understanding his position, and stood back against the wall as the bailiff tried to shoulder his way in. “Damn!” he muttered under his breath when the door would not give. He stepped back then, and kicked the door, which crashed open, the lock sprung.
Susan hurried inside, her heart in her throat, but Lady Bushnell was not in sight. She ran to the other side of the bed and stared down at the widow, who lay there looking up at her, her hand on her chest, her eyes huge with fright.
“Oh, Lady Bushnell,” Susan exclaimed in a soft voice. She quickly pulled down the widow’s nightgown, which had ridden up around her knees and nodded to the bailiff, who stood on the other side of the bed. “You’ll have to help me, David,” she said.
The bailiff came around the bed, knelt down beside the widow, and picked her up gently. With a sob of relief, she turned her face into his chest and tightened her arm around his neck. “I knew you would come,” she said, her voice scarcely louder than a breath.
Susan felt tears start in her eyes as the bailiff swallowed, then held the widow close for a brief moment before loweringher carefully to the bed. Susan hurried forward to pull up the blankets and smooth down the pillow, then stepped back as the bailiff sat on the bed, holding tight to the widow’s hands. “Get her some water,” he ordered Susan over his shoulder.
Surprised at the steadiness of her hands, Susan poured the widow a drink, and handed the cup to the bailiff. She rested her hand on his shoulder for the smallest moment, and felt her own fear dwindling. “Just a sip now, Lady Bushnell,” said the bailiff in a tone that allowed for no argument. Your sergeant’s voice? Susan thought as she sat in the chair next to the bed. “Very good,” he said when the old woman obliged him. “Can you tell us what happened?”
Never taking her eyes from his face, the widow nodded. She gestured weakly to the pile of old letters strewn by the bed. “I was going to ... to read these before I turned out the light.” She paused, as though the sentence had worn her out, and pressed her hand to her heart again. Tears of frustration welled up in her eyes.
The bailiff raised her other hand to his chest and held it there. “No hurry, Lady Bushnell. Take your time, please.”
