Page 52 of The Mad Baron's Bride
A bustle followed, then the sound of footsteps striking the wooden floor. Leda imagined Grace humoring the girl, letting her make up the steps of a dance neither of them knew, and had likely never observed. Muriel had presented a rigidly unimpressed façade as Leda described how she’d met Muriel’s father, yet the girl had clearly been listening.
Giggles followed a larger thump, as if something had been knocked to the floor.
“Well, one of us has to be the lady! Is it you or me?”
Leda smiled to herself and knocked gently on the nursery door. Perhaps she was getting through to Muriel after all. “Is there an assembly within? I would very much like to?—”
A screech cut off her words, and the door slammed against her, pushing Leda back into the hall. The noises inside the room resembled the flutter and flight of frightened hens when a fox entered the henhouse. A rustle of fabric, the beat of hurried footsteps, then a slam. Leda pushed the door open.
“What in heaven’s name?”
Muriel stood in the center of the room, panting, her eyes spitting defiance above pink cheeks.
She was alone.
“What doyouwant?” she said in challenge.
“Where did Grace run off to?”
Leda looked around. Schoolbooks sprawled open on the table, the history book Leda had suggested for Muriel and a primer for one beginning to read. The shelf held its neat line of toys and books and a teapot with a jagged, broken spout. The immense wardrobe loomed with doors snugly shut, like a matron crossing its arms. The rocking chair in the corner, belowthe window, swung gently back and forth, as if rocked by a breeze, or a ghostly hand.
The door to the inner bedroom stood open, but the room was empty.
Muriel breathed in short pants, like a frightened animal. She glared at Leda, unblinking.
Footsteps rang from the hall, near the servant’s stair, and moment later Grace appeared in the doorway, a pile of fabric in her arms. “Mrs. Leech found your cloak, Miss Burnham, but says she don’t know where your bonnet coulda got to. I be thinking—oh, good day, Mrs. Wroth. Are you ready for our airing, then?”
The hair on the back of Leda’s neck rose. “How did you come from the hall? I thought I heard you in here.”
Grace regarded her warily. “I were downstairs, mum, fetching the things.”
Muriel’s nostrils flared. “I wasalone, miss.”
“Mrs. Wroth,” Grace corrected her sternly, coming into the room. “Will you change your apron to see your da, or go along like a flamtag in your dirt?”
Muriel raised her chin. “He’s playing in the mud, innit he? It’ll be my dirt, then.”
Grace fussed with outfitting Muriel, reporting that Mrs. Leech anticipated a fine drizzle. Leda closed the books on the table and capped the ink, which had been left open when the dancing began. A blob from the quill had been left on the page which held the beginnings of Muriel’s report on her book.
Next to the primer lay a slate in its wooden frame and a piece of chalk beside. The slate bore the beginning of letters: a shaky A, a large looping B, a C with the curve of an unpracticed hand.
“This cannot be your slate, Muriel? You already know your letters. Were you teaching Grace?” Leda wondered sometimes if Muriel would respond better if she addressed her as MissBurham, but Jack had made her feel as if the child were Leda’s own family. Someone it was upon her to look out and care for.
“I were in the kitchen all morning, mum,” Grace said nervously. “I hope it’s all right, but I asked Miss Burham to look after herself a moment. The peddler came round, and Mrs. Leech wanted a minute to look his things over.”
Muriel crossed her arms, creasing her fresh tucker. “I told you. I’m the only one here.”
Leda spotted the corn doll on the edge of the table, bound in one of the ribbons Jack had bought his daughter at market. Muriel had worn none of them save the one that Grace had fastened to her good hat. Leda wondered if this was because the girl suspected Leda had a hand in their acquisition, or if she was adamant about refusing overtures from her father.
“Are you bringing Nanette?” Leda asked.
Muriel recoiled as if Leda had slapped her. Her eyes flared, a combative light springing into them, and her entire body tensed. Then she followed the direction of Leda’s gaze and sprang forward to grab her doll.
“I’ll bring her.”
There was some unholy connection between Muriel and that doll. Something about Nanette that made even Grace flinch and dart Leda a look of apprehension, as if steeling herself, not for a fine drizzle, but a full-on storm.
Leda fastened the tapes of her cloak, shaking her head as they descended the stairs. She was not mad. She could trust the evidence of her ears and eyes.
