Page 11 of Miss Dignified
“I am not accustomed to flattery, Captain.”
“I do not flatter, I compliment. If you had spent four years living in leaky tents, marching on bad rations, and alternately shivering and sweltering, you would grasp how precious domestic comforts can be.”
To think of Marcus in those conditions, quiet, sweet Marcus… He would not have coped well.
Lydia took out the little notebook and pencil she carried with her everywhere. “What was the worst of it?” she asked, laying the paper and pencil on the tablecloth. “The sweltering or the shivering? The bad rations or the leaky tent?”
“The worst of it was the utterly stupid loss of life. The brewer’s sons and housemaid’s brothers cut down in battle, lost to disease, or felled by the heat. After twenty years of slaughter, we’re right back where we started, with France ruled by a monarch and Britain sunk perilously in debt despite all of Bottomless Pitt’s taxes. The only differences are that half of France is starving, and London is awash in former soldiers with no jobs to support them.”
Captain Powell cared about those former soldiers, for which Lydia should have adored him. Despite his manners and flashes of dry wit, Powell kept a distance, a reserve, that Lydia found both reassuring and disturbing.
Dylan Powell would never trifle with the help, would never steal from a niece’s dowry. Lydia had seen his correspondence and handled his laundry. He never came home late at night reeking of cheap perfume—or expensive perfume. His bills were paid on time and to the penny. He gambled rarely, if at all. Lydia saw the contents of his pockets, tossed casually onto a vanity tray. No markers or IOUs were among the detritus of his evenings.
He could play the gentleman convincingly—his family had means, and his manners were exquisite—but he reserved the majority of his energy for the discarded soldiers and their families.
“We are awash in widows and orphans as well, Captain, and though the wars are over, the government still feels entitled to toss the citizenry in jail for expressing honest opinions.”
A housekeeper knew that in a way an earl’s sister never could. Here in London, Lydia had enjoyed the occasional lady’s pint with the senior housemaid and first footman, and the grumblings in the tavern both fascinated and appalled her.
The ale was surprisingly good too.
“Tossing folk in jail is a venerable British tradition,” the captain replied, going to the sideboard and filling a plate. “Talk to me of roasts and hams andharicots verts, Mrs. Lovelace. I do so adore to hear you speak French.”
While she ate the ham, eggs, and toast the captain served her, Lydia prattled on about green beans, soups, and desserts, and all the while, the captain listened politely and did justice to his own plate.
“And for the callers at the back door?” he asked.
“Buttered bread, cheese, ham, and baked potatoes. I thought apple tarts with walnuts would do for a sweet.”
“Just hearing you speak makes me hungry,” he said, draining his tea cup and refilling it. “You and Ann Goddard could probably wax lyrical about your recipes. You believe my house is ready for guests?”
“I do. I will prepare another set of menus, in case your family arrives unannounced. We can review them tomorrow, if that suits.”
The menus were a formality, but one Lydia insisted on. Not only did she enjoy knowing the captain’s preferences at table, she liked sitting down with him for a weekly cup of tea—though she would never admit as much to him.
Dylan Powell still had the lean, whipcord toughness of the marching soldier. Lydia had seen him out in the mews, shirt off, a horse’s muddy foot resting against his thigh. He’d been muttering in his native tongue, doubtless cursing sprung horseshoes, London streets, and foolish beasts.
A prodigious pink scar ran from one shoulder down across his back, like a sash emblazoned on his skin. He was slender through the middle and through the hips, but his scarred shoulders were formidably broad and muscular. Those qualities, combined with his height and a demeanor that shaded from quiet to silent, made him an intriguing specimen.
She liked looking at him, which was very bad of her. His features were a little too worn to be handsome, his nose a trifle beaky. His hair was plain brown with a hint of curl. The feature she enjoyed most, though, was his voice.
No accent on earth could compare for sheer euphony to a Welshman speaking English. The music of his native language came through, infusing angular Anglo-Saxon words with a lilt that added both subtlety and beauty.
“I love my sisters,” the captain said, topping up Lydia’s tea cup. “But they will require a great deal of time and attention, and I am not inclined…”
Dylan Powell lost for words was vaguely alarming. “Captain?”
His characteristic reserve slipped for a moment, revealing profound exasperation. “Nobody has seen William Brook for a fortnight. He drinks too much, he’s not in good weight, and his landlady demands payment by the week, so he’s lost his lodgings and rendered Bowen homeless. William is half deaf from his years with the artillery, and thus he can’t hear trouble walking right up behind him. One hand is nearly useless. When I could be out looking for him, I’ll instead be mincing through a damned quadrille and discussing the weather. Pardon my language.”
“I will ask among the back-door callers. Perhaps William Brook is away to the countryside, thinking to find work at planting.” Lydia was learning how to question those men and the occasional woman who came around in need of a meal. Food first, inquiries only as an occasional afterthought, and never ask the same questions of the same person twice.
“Planting is still weeks away, though I thank you for the thought. You are kind, Mrs. Lovelace, though you hide it well. What shall we name our pantry mousers?”
Lydia was not kind. She was desperate to find Marcus, and thus she’d taken employment with the officer most familiar with the former soldiers now cast upon London’s streets.
“I had not thought to name the kittens.” Guinevere and Mab came to mind—queens and legends.
“Yes, you have. You will inform me of your choices when it suits you to do so. I have another topic to discuss with you, and it wants some delicacy.”
