Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (28 page)

      
She appeared at the door, wringing her hands (she did that a lot) and looking worried. I considered her state of trepidation regarding entrants to the cottage somewhat late in arriving.

      
“Ah, Miss Wagner. Sorry about the eccentric greeting.” Harold climbed up from the floor, trying not to step on any of the frocks, underthings, and boxes, and gestured at the heap. Eyeing the girl's poorly fitting house dress and wrinkling his nose, he added, “It looks as if I arrived just in time.”

      
“Don't be snotty, Harold,” I said. “I'll have you know that's
my
dress, and I only wear it to clean house.”

      
He eyed me without favor. “And your husband doesn't object to this?”

      
“Cut it out, Harold.” I wasn't in the mood to listen to jokes about my husband or my fashion sense. “Why don't you two men clear out of here, and I'll help Marianne change and hang things up.”

      
Marianne turned her languishing blue gaze upon George, where it lingered for a couple of seconds before she transferred it to Harold, where it belonged, in my humble opinion. “I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Kincaid,” she said in a small, subdued voice. “You're all being so kind to me. I'm sure I don't deserve it.”

      
“Nonsense,” I said stoutly.

      
“It's nothing, really,” said Harold.

      
“Oh, no, Marianne,” George said in a voice Saint George might have used on the virgin before he slew the dragon. “Anything. Anything at all. We're at your disposal.”

      
I wanted to tell him to speak for himself, but didn't. I think my equilibrium was still a bit rocky because of the unpleasantness at home and my worry about breaking the law.

      
Not only that, but (and this is an awful thing to say) there was something about Marianne that generated within my usually tolerant bosom an urge to smack her soundly and yell at her to shape up. Don't ask me why. Maybe it's because she acted so darned helpless and kept looking to the men to rescue her, when
I
was the one who'd saved her silly hide.

      
One of Mrs. Kincaid's friends is an Episcopal priest named Father Frederick. He's one of the world's kindest gentlemen, and I've talked to him from time to time about my relationship with Billy. I'd never tell Billy this, or my mother, because they'd not only feel I'd betrayed them, but Ma's a die-hard Methodist who considers Episcopalians only slightly less pernicious than Roman Catholics.

      
However, some few weeks after the Marianne affair had finally ended, when I was at Mrs. Kincaid's house to conduct a séance, I asked Father Frederick if my attitude toward Marianne Wagner reflected poorly on my overall character and moral worth. I mean, I don't normally feel like smacking dumb animals, you know?

      
Father Frederick was a peach about it, patting me on the shoulder and assuring me that my reaction was normal. I guess I looked skeptical, because he went on to say that when somebody figuratively lies down in front of you and begs you to boot her down a flight of stairs, it's an unusual person who fails to oblige the beggar.

      
He also said that my own view of the world had been colored by my station in life and the responsibilities I'd been forced to carry. He didn't mean it in a snooty way, but in a way I understood, especially when he added, “You know, Daisy, there aren't many women as competent and smart as you. I'm sure the poor Wagner girl does her best, but I've yet to meet a woman to equal you.”

      
Well,
that
shocked me speechless, you can bet. I must have goggled, because he grinned and said, “I mean it, Daisy. You're one of a kind. I think it's a shame, too. The world would be a better place--and probably considerably more interesting--if there were more women like you in it. But don't worry about your reaction to the timid Miss Wagner, because it was perfectly normal. Believe me.” He chuckled. “You ought to have to hear confessions once or twice. That would
really
tax your restraint.”

      
Shoot. I wanted to ask him to telephone my third-grade teacher, Miss West, and tell
her
those nice things about me. All Miss West ever did was whack my knuckles with her ruler and tell me to pay attention. She sure never told me I was smart. Quite the contrary, in fact.

      
But that was weeks later. Right then, I ground my teeth and told myself to remain calm and compassionate because Marianne wasn't as accustomed to fending for herself as I was.

      
After the men scooted off to the bookstore to wait for me to join them, the two of us gazed down upon the heap of clothing, Marianne with bewilderment, I with an eye to organization. Since I knew Marianne to be useless, it was I who said, “Let's sort everything out before we do anything else. Put the underwear over here.” I gestured at the living room's one overstuffed chair. “Then we can shake out the dresses and see if anything needs to be pressed before wearing.”

      
A tiny voice said, “Pressed?”

      
I sighed. “You've never ironed anything, have you?”

      
She shook her head.

      
“Well, don't worry about it now. If some things are too wrinkled to wear, I'll bring down some flatirons and show you how to press clothes.”

      
“Thank you.”

      
Her tone of voice led me to believe she considered the skill of pressing clothes beyond her limited abilities, but I knew that was only because her abilities had never been educated in how to handle the necessities of life. I'd bet you anything she could play tennis better than any other ten people, and she could probably make pretty little watercolor sketches and pour tea like a princess.

      
Digging into the pile of fabric, I forced a smile. “Don't worry, Marianne. I'll teach you how to survive in the big, bad world. It might take a while, but you can do it.”

      
She reached down and lifted a pretty pink frock that was slipping off its hanger. “Do you really think so?”

      
“Of course, I do!” I sounded more confident than I felt, but figured we both needed some morale boosting. “Lay the dresses over the back of the chair.”

      
She did as I suggested, moving like an automaton, and it didn't take too much time to get Harold's offerings organized. I left Marianne to hang everything up and tuck the undies away, figuring she could use the practice, and I went to the bookstore.

      
I still had to have a woman-to-man chat with George Grenville.

Chapter Fourteen
 

      
“You
what
? I can't believe-- I've never-- How can you--” But George was too outraged to complete his sentence.

      
I thought about putting a hand on his arm to soothe him, but determined I'd better not. I didn't think George would strike a woman, but who knew? “I'm sorry, George. I didn't mean to offend you.”

      
He stood before me, gasping, his usually ruddy face a vivid red, his fists clenched. “I--I--” Again, words failed him.

      
I heaved a sigh. “Listen, George, I'm not casting aspersions on you. I'm sure you're a fine gentleman who'd never dream of taking advantage of a lady in distress--”

      
“It doesn't sound to
me
as if you're sure of any such thing! And if you don't think that's an aspersion, I don't know what . . .” His indignant speech trembled off into incoherent sputters.

      
Oh, boy. I'd been as delicate as I know how to be, which is pretty darned delicate. I mean, I didn't get to be a first-class, well-paid spiritualist medium by verbally behaving like a bull in a China shop. I guess there's no truly polite way of asking a fellow if he aims to seduce a girl, however, and George had taken my attempt at judicious inquiry amiss. In spades.

      
“Listen George, I've always thought of you as a true gentleman. But these are unusual circumstances, and I want to be sure Marianne comes to no . . .” Darn. I'd done it again. George was blowing up like a hot-air balloon.

      
Bravely daring, I put a hand on his arm. He didn't shake it off or hit me, so I guess it was okay. “I'm sorry, George. Please just know that my concern for Marianne is genuine and is based on deep worry about her and her situation.”

      
“And you believe mine
isn't
?”

      
It had never occurred to me that George Grenville, of all people, could be so touchy. “I'm sure it is.” I wasn't entirely sure what “it” was in this instance, but I wanted to placate him. “I want only the very best for Mari--” he broke off and cleared his throat. “For Miss Wagner.”

      
“I'm sure of it, George. And I certainly didn't mean to upset you. But the situation is one of the utmost sensitivity. We're conspiring to keep Miss Wagner from her family, after all, and that might be looked upon askance by the general public, not to mention the police.” Surely, even
George
could comprehend that.

      
He seemed to. Deflating a trifle he said, “I suppose I can understand that.”

      
Thank God for small favors. “So I'm sure you can also understand that my questions aren't intended to accuse you of anything the least bit unsavory. But . . . well . . . it seems to me that you might be becoming, maybe, a little bit interested in Marianne.” There. The truth was out. “And I don't want anything else of an upsetting nature to happen to the poor thing. She's been through enough.”

      
“I know that,” George said. He still sounded rather surly. “And I'd never do anything to hurt her, either mentally or . . . or physically.” At the last word, his face positively glowed with embarrassment.

      
“I'm sure of it.”

      
“As if I'd ever hurt Miss Wagner! Why, she's the loveliest . . . the most wonderful . . . the most precious . . .”

      
Oh, brother. “You admire her, I gather.” I tried not to sound tart.

      
“
Admire
her! Why, she's the most perfect . . . the dearest . . . the . . .”

      
I got the picture. “I see.”

      
We'd bidden a fond farewell to Harold several minutes earlier. Harold had tootled off in his Bearcat, aiming for Los Angeles and the Sam Goldwyn Motion Picture Studio, at which he worked. I'd thanked him heartily, but he'd brushed off my gratitude, telling me he was more than happy to help, especially after seeing Marianne in my fright of a house dress. I pretended to stamp on his foot, and he laughed at me, and I think everyone felt better after that.

      
My good mood hadn't lasted longer than the beginnings of my conversation with George. We now stood in the back room of his bookstore, having left Marianne contemplating a closet full of frocks that, if not brand-new, were at least cleaner than the dress she'd been wearing for the past two and a half weeks--and, if I'm to be honest, were certain to be a good deal more becoming to her than my faded blue house dress. Harold knew ladies' clothes. He'd brought a selection designed specifically for Marianne's insipid blond coloring.

      
I don't mean insipid. I mean . . . Oh, heck, I do, too, mean insipid. The girl was such a mouse, she drove me nuts. The bravest thing she'd ever done in her entire eighteen years was run away from home, and I guess the one outrageous act had sapped her supply of guts. Fortunately, I had enough for the both of us, and probably a couple of other people, too.

      
That didn't negate the fact that I wished Marianne had a backbone. If she were a girl of strong character, I wouldn't have had to insult George as I was doing. If he'd tried anything on her, Marianne would have belted him across the chops, and that would have been the end of it--if she'd had a backbone.

      
Eyeing poor George keenly, I said, “You admit that your admiration of Marianne is growing, then?”

      
“Admit it? OF course, I admit it! I mean, no, I don't admit-- Dash it, Daisy, there's nothing to admit! Admit is such a--such a--negative word. You make it sound as if I've committed a crime!”

      
I pressed a palm to my forehead, and wondered if my tongue belonged to me, or if I'd picked up someone else's by mistake that morning. I generally chose my words more carefully than this. “Calm down, George,” I said wearily. “Forget the verb if you don't like it. You admire Marianne? You're becoming fond of her?”

      
“Fond?
Fond
? Why, I--”

      
“A simple yes or no will do, George.” Good Lord in heaven, maybe the two deserved each other. If ever there was a damsel in need of a strong knight to rescue her, it was Marianne. And, while on the surface George bore no resemblance whatever to the saint whose name he bore, he was behaving like a darned knight of the darned round table. What's more, he was treating me as if I were the dragon instead of his faithful Sancho Panza--although I think he belonged to Don Quixote and not Saint George.

      
George didn't like it, but at last he managed to splutter, “Yes.”

      
“Good. I'm happy to hear it. Then you'll take care that no damage to Marianne's reputation occurs.”

      
His eyes started bulging, but I lowered my eyebrows and gave him one of my better steely-eyed stared, and he swallowed his indignation. “Yes.”

      
“Very well. In order to do that, you must make sure that no one sees her or even suspects that she might, by some remote chance, be hidden away in your cottage.”