Maggie MacKeever (2 page)

Laggard memory at last awakened, prompted by a certain ironic quality in the young lady’s tone. “Good Gad! Old Tolly’s girl! You’re a long way from Cambridge, Miss Minchin.” Mr. Smithton realized the significance of her mourning dress. “The devil! Old Tolly ain’t stuck his spoon in the wall?”

Miss Minchin reflected that Mr. Smithton, whose career at Cambridge had been memorable only for the quality of his pranks, had not in the interim between then and now developed a great deal of tact. Who was responsible for his dressing? He looked half strangled by that absurdly high cravat. But Perry was an amiable soul, as well as an amusing rattle, and Tabby was in need of a friend. Particularly a friend who stood on good terms with this very unaccommodating innkeeper. “I am afraid, Perry, that my uncle has indeed, er, stuck his spoon in the wall. And I am in a sad pickle because I must go to Brighton today.”

Here the landlord intervened, suspiciously. “You know this young person then, sir? In that case I have to tell you that this establishment don’t cater to her sort!”

Her sort? What sort was that? Mr. Smithton was distracted by the rooster, which was attempting to admire its reflection in his shiny boot. Understanding dawned, and Perry blanched. “She ain’t my doxy! She ain’t anybody’s doxy! My word on it!” he protested, then realized that he might have been a trifle rash.
“Are
you?” he hissed.

Tabby’s lips twitched. “Worse!” She sighed. “I am a governess, and I am probably about to lose my place. I’ll tell you something, Perry: It makes me positively sick of the mulligrubs to be as poor as a church mouse.”

Mr. Smithton could sympathize with this sentiment. Did he not find it nigh impossible himself to be beforehand with the world? Miss Minchin looked pale, he thought. She must be sweltering in those dark clothes. It made a fellow stop and think, old Tolly turning up his toes.

“Tell you what!” Peregrine said. “You must be feeling peckish. You need some nice mushroom fritters and apple pie and tea.” He recalled his own thirst. “Or ale!”

The landlord, who had been following this exchange with interest, interrupted hastily. Although he had decided that this dusty young miss wasn’t a bit o’ muslin looking to take profitable advantage of the influx of sporting gentlemen into the neighborhood, it was unthinkable that she should appear in the taproom, a woman in the bar-parlor being an outrage on the company and on womankind; and the other parlor was filled to the rafters with sporting gentlemen. But if Miss wouldn’t mind stepping around the corner, the innkeeper promised to provide her with a suitable repast at a rustic little table set beneath the gnarled branches of an ancient oak tree.

Miss wasn’t at all averse, and settled down happily with hot buttered muffins and cold pigeon pie, while the rooster made an equally good meal of the crumbs. Mr. Smithton settled down beside her and frowned. He might have done precious little studying during his brief stay at Cambridge, but he knew up from down. “See here,” he said sternly, “you shouldn’t be racketing around the countryside on your own. It ain’t the thing. Gives folks a very poor notion, if you know what I mean. But then, you always was a bit of an oddity, even as a brat. Prosing on forever about this and that. Too smart by half, which is a disconcerting thing in a female!”

Miss Minchin choked, perhaps on the notion that Mr. Smithton was qualified to proffer her advice. When she could speak again, she gasped, “Mrs. Phipps was to travel with me. She was our housekeeper, as you may recall. But she had an accident!” She then related to Peregrine the saga of the unfortunate Mrs. Phipps’s altercation with a marauding neighborhood hound, caught red-handed (so to speak) in the very act of filching a joint from off the kitchen shelf. Mrs. Phipps having an equally strong passion for mutton, a spirited chase had ensued, which led into the scullery, where the maidservant had left off scrubbing the floor to flirt with the apothecary’s boy. Mrs. Phipps put a foot in the scrub bucket and sprained her ankle, and the enterprising hound and the dinner joint got clear away.

Miss Minchin concluded the tale and wiped buttery crumbs off her chin. “And so here I am! On my way to Brighton to acquaint Sir Geoffrey Elphinstone’s daughters with such tidbits of knowledge that seem appropriate to young ladies of their position in life. Or I
was
on my way until that wretched accident. I had thought to hire a carriage.” She sighed. “But I doubt I could afford it. I don’t suppose—”

“That I could lend you mine?” Mr. Smithton confirmed the contention of his cronies that he thought more swiftly when his idea pot had been primed with a bit of the grape, or in this case a couple or more tankards of ale. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. I did have a rig. Had it this morning, in point of fact. Had it three hours ago! Then I made a little wager. To tell truth, Miss Minchin, I’m all to pieces. In the basket. Run aground.”

“Oh!” said Tabby, recalling her uncle’s opinion of Mr. Smithton as a shocking loose screw. “How very dreadful for you.”

Mr. Smithton grinned. “Don’t trouble your head about it! I promise you I shan’t. I’ll make a recovery. This ain’t the first time I’ve been at point nonplus!” It occurred to him that his companion was in a similar position. Naturally she could not be expected to meet such a challenge with the
sang-froid
possessed by a man of the world.

Poor puss! he thought, as he watched Miss Minchin crumble a muffin for the rooster. What a good sort of girl she was. Game to the backbone and full of pluck. A pity she should be reduced to such straits—set adrift, penniless, to make her way in the world, alone, without family to offer succor or shelter or advice—although in Peregrine’s opinion, a female with a classical education was just tempting fate. But old Tolly had been the best of the fellows at King’s College, as knaggy an old gager as ever drew breath, despite the bees he had in his head about learning Latin and Greek and Hebrew, divinity and moral philosophy. “Tell you what!” said Peregrine. “Something has to be done about this pickle of yours.”

“Oh!” Startled, Miss Minchin dropped the remainder of the muffin to the ground. The greedy rooster speared it on his beak and withdrew with his trophy behind a nearby bush. “Do you think you might help me?”

No such notion had occurred to Mr. Smithton, who was not accustomed to expending energy upon aught but himself. But he was not accustomed, either, to pretty damsels who gazed upon him as if he were a Good Samaritan. This novel experience—and, perhaps, the excellent quality of the innkeeper’s ale—recalled to him a circumstance that he had hitherto forgotten.

“Wouldn’t say I could if I couldn’t!” Peregrine said expansively. “Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before, except I was so surprised to see you, it flew right out of my head. Thing is, there
is
a room to be had. Mine!”

The expression that Peregrine had interpreted as admiration was in fact skepticism, and astonishment replaced it now.
“Your
room?” Tabby inquired warily.

Perry was embarrassed by her suspicions. “Good Gad! I ain’t going to be in it. Going back to town with some friends. No point in hanging around, since Vivien didn’t show.”

Miss Minchin displayed the quickness of wit that Mr. Smithton remembered. “A friend failed to keep an engagement with you?” she asked.

Peregrine was indignant. “I’d hardly suggest you take the room if Vivien was going to be here, would I? Even if he was to be in the neighborhood. ‘Twas he who hired it, you see. Had some notion of making a sporting cove out of me. A fellow don’t like to tell his friends that they have windmills in their heads, so here I am. Though Vivien may be a bosom bow of mine, for
you
to rub shoulders with him—take my word for it, Miss Minchin, it wouldn’t be the thing!”

Tabby was amused by the vehemence of her companion’s reply. “Is he very wicked, your friend?”

Peregrine recognized that note of interest invariably aroused by his friend Vivien in members of the fairer sex. Damned if he knew how Viv did it. Despite Perry’s own lack of inclination in that direction, he couldn’t help being a little envious of his friend’s success.

But little Miss Minchin wasn’t in Vivien’s style at all, which was no doubt to her credit, and her curiosity must be nipped in the bud.
“Very
wicked,” Peregrine said sternly. “On the pathway to perdition. Positively preoccupied with sin.”

Miss Minchin wrinkled her nose. “I don’t scruple to tell you I’m glad I shan’t have to meet your friend!” she said frankly. “He sounds quite dreadful. So you think you might arrange for me to have your room?”

Mr. Smithton thought this was a nacky notion. “Don’t see why not! Viv never showed up, probably because his fancy—er.” Perry was neither so want-witted nor so foxed as to discuss his friend’s penchant for fancy pieces with a young lady of gentle birth. “Er! So I don’t see why you shouldn’t have it, since I’m leaving and Vivien ain’t here. Eh?”

Tabby saw any number of reasons why she shouldn’t stay, unchaperoned, in an inn filled to the rafters with sporting gentlemen, in a room bespoken by a rake-hell. She also saw that she had little choice. It wouldn’t debauch her to spend one night here, surely. On the morrow she would resume her journey to Brighton, and no one would be the wiser. “What a splendid idea, Perry! I wish your friend no ill, of course, but how glad I am that he failed to meet you here!”

Mr. Smithton was glad also; it warmed his heart to be able to do old Tolly’s niece a good turn. Particularly since Miss Minchin was probably the only female in England who failed to appreciate Vivien. It was all that education, Perry decided. Miss Minchin had been too busy with Greek and Hebrew and moral philosophy to develop the usual female addiction to romance. He liked her all the better for it. A pity she wouldn’t meet Vivien. Peregrine would have given several ponies he didn’t have to see Vivien given a set-down.

He patted Miss Minchin’s hand. “You wait here! I’ll fix it up all right and tight!” he said, and went in search of the innkeeper. Within a short space of time, Tabby was in possession of lodging for the night.

Tabby gazed around the small room; at the narrow little bed, the chair, the small chest of drawers, the water pitcher and bowl on the comer stand. Then she collapsed on the hard bed. There she remained for an unconscionably long time, suffering the full force of the anguish of her separation from her home. Tabby missed her uncle very much. She wished she could share with him her impressions of the journey. She wondered if she would ever meet anyone who understood so well her sense of the absurd.

But she was very weary, and one didn’t die of the dumps, after all. Tabby rose from her cramped position and subjected her surroundings to a cursory inspection to ensure she wasn’t sharing the chamber with dust-bunnies and assorted insect life. Finding the room neat and clean, she gratefully exchanged her mourning gown for her comfortable old nightdress, blew out the candle, and climbed between the cool rough sheets.

Chapter Three

The hour was far advanced when yet another carriage drew up outside the little inn. Its occupants, too, had suffered the inconvenience of an accident. The driver of this carriage, however, could blame no mischief-making rooster for his mishap. It was his own inattention that had led to the upset—a surprising thing, for Mr. Sanders was a noted whip. But he had been in the midst of a brangle with his current ladybird, and his attention had strayed from the road.

This mortifying fact, the divine Sara—or Sara Divine, as she was known upon the stage—had not let him forget. “At last!” she said now. “What a wretched trip. Once you were very attentive to my comfort, but now—I do not know what I have done to turn you against me, but obviously I have done something, because to drag me out into the country like this is cruel in the greatest degree!”

Mr. Sanders handed his reins to a sleepy groom. “I do not immediately perceive how I have displeased you, my love,” he responded with commendable patience. “It was you who wanted to come along.”

“You do not understand?” repeated Sara incredulously. “Consider, Vivien! I do not see you for a week, and then you wish me to go into a neighborhood where a prizefight is being held. As if I should enjoy such a thing!”

Mr. Sanders helped her down from the carriage. “Then you should have said that you didn’t care to attend.”

“Oh, certainly!” Sara tossed her head. “Then you would feel perfectly free to go without me, which is probably why you invited me in the first place! You’re on the dangle for some other female, I know it! Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes!” Those fine dark orbs flashed.

Contrary to the oft-repeated accusations of his current light-o’-love, Mr. Sanders was not particularly interested in any other female. In point of fact, he was not particularly interested in Sara, either. Already today he had endured hysterics and a fainting fit. Now he was expected to coax her once more out of the sullens. Vivien didn’t think he cared to do so. Wondering why and how so initially amusing an encounter had turned into so tedious an alliance, he made his way toward the inn.

“Pray do not regard
my
feelings!” said Sara, as she trailed after him. “And do not trouble yourself to offer me any word of explanation, because I am very displeased with you.” As result of this comment, and innumerable previous comments of a similar nature, it was with considerable energy that Mr. Sanders assaulted the inn door.

That summons was answered by a maidservant, the taproom being long closed and the innkeeper long since asleep beside his cozy wife. The only reason that the maidservant was not snugly tucked up in her own bed was that she was en route to a tryst with one of the grooms. All thought of the groom fled as she surveyed the late-arriving gentleman. His hair was sun-streaked brown, his skin tanned, his shoulders broad and his physique muscular; his features were arrogant, and his eyes a startling green. Here was a gentleman, the maidservant thought, who would know instinctively what a lass had on her mind. He would have left behind him a trail of lasses turned topsy-turvy, not knowing whether they stood on their heads or on their heels.