Page 51 of The Lady's Companion
She laughed. “I can’t count on that happening in this century,” she said. “He still isn’t brave enough to look in my direction for more than ten seconds at a time!” And heaven knows he’s never kissed me as you have, or sat in my bedroom chatting, or put his hands anywhere they don’t belong. I don’t think it would ever occur to him, and more’s the pity. She looked at the bailiff, and the smile that made his brown eyes dance, even in the half light of the inn yard. “And don’t remind me of your proposal!”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he assured her. “It would have been a bad idea, anyway, considering that there would be both of us with no income.” He looked then at the coachman, who was gesturing toward the mail coach like a hen after chickens. “Come on, Susan. We’d hate to miss a minute of our excursion toLondon.”
The mail coach was much emptier after Wambley, with other passengers remaining behind to make connections further south. They had the entire seat to themselves, and the same parson seated opposite who continued to smile benignly at them. He burped quietly several times—a natural consequence of a rushed meal at the inn—then sighed himself to sleep like an old dog before a winter hearth.
“Put your head on my lap, Susan,” the bailiff said as they started off. “No telling how long before we are sandwiched in here again.”
“I shouldn’t,” she protested, even as she swung her legs up on the seat and did as be said.
“If we’re going to talk about shouldn’ts, you should still be in London under your father’s care,” he said mildly, resting his hand on her shoulder.
In a few minutes his hand felt heavier and heavier, and she knew he slept again. I wish I could sleep anywhere, she grumbled to herself as she unfastened one hook on her skirt and settled her cloak around her. Perhaps I shall count sheep.
Sheep proved to be unprofitable, because they only reminded her of Ben Rich, and the Welsh boy, and then lanolin, and then David Wiggins, and then back to the problem of Lady Bushnell. You are all so complicated, she thought as she ordered her eyes to stay shut. All that resulted in was mental dialog: David, you promised good behavior to Lady Bushnell for ever and ever. You promised Lord Bushnell that you will always keep an eye on her. And young Lady B surely promised her husband, the unfortunate Charles, that she would always take good care of his mother, even if good care is too much care.
But I have promised nobody anything, she considered, and surprised herself with tears. I’m not bound to anyone by any promises, she told herself through her tears and sniffles. I couldleave tomorrow and no one could claim me, or hold me to a mark. She sniffed back the rest of her tears, determined not to wallow in self-pity.
“Susan, don’t cry,” the bailiff whispered as he handed her a handkerchief. It smelled of lanolin, and she sobbed harder. “You’re a silly widget, did you know?”
“I thought you were asleep,” she whispered back and then blew her nose. “I’m feeling sorry for myself, that’s all,” she explained in hushed tones, her eyes on the parson as she gathered her dignity about her.
She felt him chuckle. “Well, go ahead and cry then, Suzie. My overcoat’s had worse on it than tears, I assure you.”
He was still then, resting his hand in the warmth of her neck this time. She felt herself relaxing by degrees, until she heard the parson stir as he leaned forward.
“Is she all right?” he whispered to the bailiff.
“She’ll do,” he replied. “She gets this way sometimes.”
I do not! she wanted to protest, but she had the good sense to lie quiet
“In the family way?” the parson inquired.
She stiffened, felt herself blush from head to toe, then turned her face against the bailiff’s thigh so she wouldn’t laugh out loud.
“No, I don’t think so,” the bailiff said, his voice remarkably steady, considering how stiff his own leg was just then. “You know the ladies, sir, and how they are sometimes.”
That satisfied the parson. In another moment he snored. Susan rested her cheek against the bailiff’s leg again. “‘You know the ladies,’” she mimicked. “No, how are we sometimes, Mr. Wiggins?”
“Shut up, Suzie,” he whispered, and she could hear the laughter in his voice. Amazingly reassured by his unloverlike endearment, she slept.
London at two in the morning in front of a public house wasdifferent from London at two in the morning after a ball in the Mayfair district, she decided as she stood beside David Wiggins and waited for the coachman to hand down her bandbox. The inn yard was busy with farmers rattling in from the country, their wagons filled with produce and poultry for the great London markets. A yawning crofter’s lad maneuvered a hog past her as she leaped closer to the bailiff. There by the edge of the lamplight sat a beggar with no legs, his army overcoat bunched tight around him against the chill that rose like the tenth plague off the docks.
A prostitute stood closer to the inn door, her hair wild and matted from a night’s hard work. She eyed the bailiff and started in his direction until Susan grabbed his arm and glared at her.
“I think I can protect myself,” David assured her, a smile in his eyes. “Not exactly your part of London, is it?”
Susan shook her head, and did not relinquish her grip on the bailiff. “I wonder how many diseases she has?”
“More than you could ever imagine,” he whispered back. “Now be nice. Everyone has to earn a living, some by their wits, some on their back.”
How true that is, she thought as she waited for him to find a hackney. His presence seemed to command less respect in the London inn yard than it had at Wambley. He was shouldered away from the first two hackneys to come along by a drunken company of beau-nasties, who told him to stand back from his betters. The third hackney driver to happen along a half hour later insisted on seeing the inside of David’s wallet before he would take them anywhere farther than three or four blocks. “Ye can’t be too careful-like in this neighborhood,” the jehu assured them as he motioned them in. He looked significantly at the veteran begging by the inn. “I sees plenty of sorry heroes and scaggy hoors. Beggin’ your pardon, miss.”
They rode in silence through streets, which grew less crowdedthe farther they went from the unrefined, earnest heart of the city. The streets looked familiar now. My goodness, she thought as she learned against the bailiff in her exhaustion, was it only two months ago that I braved ice and snow on this street to an employment agency?
They stopped then in front of the Steinman Agency, dark now except for a lamp glowing in an upstairs window. “We’ll stay the night here,” David said as he helped her down, then paid the driver. “Joel’s expecting us.” He smiled at the look of surprise she knew was on her face. “I wrote him, too. My dear, remember this piece of advice: if you’re ever lucky enough to save someone’s life, you can always use him in outrageous ways!”
So she was smiling, too, when the door opened on Joel Steinman in nightshirt, robe, and cap. He was followed closely by his mother, who took her by the arm and tugged her inside, whisking her upstairs while the men chatted below.
