Page 8 of The Lady's Companion
His smile was beatific. She thought for one amazed moment that he was going to kiss her, but he sat down again, slapped the desk in triumph, and nodded to his mother. “Miss Hampton isgoing to put us out of our misery.”
Mrs. Steinman considered the matter a while longer, then slowly nodded her head. “There’s no one there beyond the bailiff ever to be tempted by Miss Hampton,” she considered, working through the matter out loud. “Not that he isn’t a nice man, but after all, a mere bailiff. We needn’t worry about her there, Joel.”
“Done, then,” Steinman exclaimed. He leaped to his feet and grabbed for his overcoat on the rack behind him, shrugging one-handed into it, then reaching for his muffler. “Don’t just sit there,” he insisted. “I’m going to see you employed before the morning is over.”
“Not until your muffler is wound tighter,” Susan said. She stood before him, and he stooped obligingly for her to perform this little service. She tucked the ends inside his overcoat. “Very well, sir, lead on.”
Blaming the snow, he took her hand in the street, hurrying along sidewalks empty of pedestrians, but full of drifting snow. After several blocks of concentrated walking, he slowed down when he noticed that she was breathing heavily and almost skipping to keep up with him.
“I’m sorry, Miss Hampton,” he said, smiling at her in such a way that she could never be out of sorts with him. “It will be such a treat to lift this burden from my shoulders and put it on yours!” She laughed, and he joined in, standing still for a moment while she tucked in his muffler again. “Lady Bushnell—widowed since Waterloo—is about to marry the colonel of her late husband’s regiment. She has been wanting to find a lady’s companion for her old mother-in-law, but she is a high stickler, indeed.”
“The old woman, too?”
Joel made a face, and managed to look contrite, all in the same expression. “If you survive the younger Lady Bushnell’s interview, she’s your second hurdle. Old Lady Bushnell insists that she wants nothing to do with a companion. She insists thatbetween her and David Wiggins ...”
“David Wiggins?”
“... the bailiff... they can get along quite fine,” he concluded, taking her arm more firmly and pulling her back as a carter splashed through the intersection. He sighed. “She declares that companions are only for old ladies with one foot in the grave.” He raised his hand and made a spitting sound onto his mittens. He looked sideways at her, apologetic. “Never tempt the devil with death, Miss Hampton,” he said solemnly as he started her across the street.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, wondering what kind of Hebrew charm Joel Steinman was working on her.
“So it stands. She tried other agencies without success, then turned to us. One or two of our companions got beyond the first scrutiny, but failed after a week in the Cotswolds with the dowager.” He paused to consider the matter, and she had to tug him out of the street. “Sorry.”
“Since then, Lady B the Younger has found fault with everyone we’ve brought over,” he said as they turned onto a quieter street off St. James Park. “It may be that you’ll do. Our other potential employees have been capable, but not particularly genteel. That you are, Miss Hampton.”
“Why, thank you,” she said, trying to keep the amusement from her voice.
He chuckled. “I do sound a bit managing, don’t I, Miss Hampton?”
“You do, sir. I will overlook it, if this gets me a job.”
They paused in front of an elegant town house not two blocks from Aunt Louisa’s residence. “Oh, I know this place,” she exclaimed. “And I do remember the windows draped in black and the black wreath on the door after Waterloo. And straw on the street to muffle the passing traffic.”
“Ah, yes. No, no, Miss Hampton!”
She had started up the front steps, but he tugged her back. “We use the servants’ entrance.” He indicated the flight of steps behind an iron grating. When she did not move, he touched her elbow lightly and spoke into her ear, his voice sympathetic. “Miss Hampton, I think that only the first step down is difficult. I’ll help you.”
So it is, she thought as she swallowed the lump in her throat and allowed him to help her down the shallow flight to the servants’ door. Her eyes filled with tears and she asked him to wait a moment before knocking. He did, fumbling inside his overcoat to draw out a handkerchief and dab at her eyes, his own eyes kind.
“Forward, Miss Hampton,” he said as he raised his hand to the door. “If Daniel can survive a discussion with lions in a den, you can stare down Lady Bushnell.”
He was well known belowstairs, everyone from the scullery maid to the footman greeting him as they made their way to the butler’s parlor, where they left their coats. The butler led them upstairs to a small parlor, where he suggested they make themselves comfortable.
It wasn’t a long wait. While her heart may have sunk to her boots during that longest journey down the servants’ stairs, it bounced back into Susan’s throat when the door opened. Joel was on his feet at once, shifting his feet to compensate for the overbalance of his missing arm. She rose, too, her hands clasped behind her to keep them from shaking in plain view.
Lady Bushnell nodded to them both, seated herself, and indicated that they sit, too. Joel accepted her offer of tea, but Susan declined politely, imagining the disaster that would occur if she dropped the cup in her nervousness. The maid withdrew to fetch tea.
There was silence for the longest moment, then Lady Bushnell directed her clear, unblinking gaze at Susan, even as she spoketo the employment agent. “Mr. Steinman, I do believe you are bringing me the infantry now,” she protested, her voice cultured but tinged faintly with resignation.
“My lady, I am quite twenty-five,” Susan said, her voice steadier than her hands.
To her relief. Lady Bushnell smiled at her. “I wish I were,” she said, the humor subdued, but evident in her voice. Susan relaxed slightly and began, unaccountably, to hope. “It’s obvious that you have more breeding than the usual scaff and raff Mr. Steinman brings to me,” she continued. “Who are your parents?”
“My mother was Maria Endicott of the Marling, Kent Endicotts. My father is Sir Rodney Hampton.” Susan looked Lady Bushnell in the eye and politely dared her to make something of it.
“Oh.” It was concise and said, “I know who you are,” as loudly as if Lady Bushnell had spoken it. She hadn’t needed to; Sir Rodney’s tattered reputation hung between them like a flag of surrender.
“You will understand why I need a position, my lady,” Susan continued.
