The Savage Miss Saxon (18 page)

Profoundly grateful to be so quickly ignored by the astute old man, Rupert returned his attention to Alexandra, telling her how he had risen this morning to see the sun once again adorning the sky and his first thought had been to take the lovely Miss Saxon out for a ride in his high-perch phaeton.

“A high-perch phaeton?” Alix asked, not recognizing the term. “Sounds like something birds sit on, doesn’t it?” she joked, earning herself a low chuckle from her grandfather’s direction.

But Rupert was undaunted. “No, no, Miss Saxon,” he told her, forcing himself to laugh a little at her sally, “a high-perch phaeton is merely the most daring, most smack-up-to-the-mark conveyance made today.
Mine
has yellow wheels trimmed in black,” he added rather proudly.

“Ah,” Alix pursued, enjoying Anselm’s discomfort hugely. “Yellow and black wheels. Surely then I was in error. It’s not a vehicle for
birds
—it’s for the other half of that old axiom—it was made for the
bees
. All right, Mr. Anselm. If only for the chance to ride in this elegant-sounding equipage, I accept your kind offer of a ride, thank you.”

“I was sure you would,” Rupert smiled, bowing yet again.

“Damned presumptuous ass,” Sir Alexander snorted sotto voce as the two took their leave, and then he promptly took advantage of Alix’s absence by picking up a deck of cards and heading in the direction of the recuperating Harold’s wigwam.

Once outside in the clear, cold air, Alexandra dutifully admired Rupert’s new toy—privately thinking she was risking life and limb by merely standing near the delicately framed structure. But after being lifted up to sit beside Anselm on the lofty perch, she began to see the attraction of the phaeton and almost believed she could pass a few hours in Rupert’s company riding through the countryside without becoming bored to distraction.

And bored she was not. Rupert, it soon became obvious, was no good judge of horseflesh. His snowy white pair was showy, highly tempered, and totally in control of their driver—who was definitely out of his league in anything but a pony cart.

Fortunately, after a brisk, half-wild ride down the hillside outside the castle, Rupert’s showy cattle were content to plod along at their own pace, only mildly taxing Anselm’s whipmanship, and Alix could begin to enjoy a bit of fresh air after three days of nursing Harold. Not that the Indian was a bad patient—he was really quite stoically brave about the entire matter—but conditions inside the wigwam were not conducive to comfort over any prolonged period of time. Now she reveled in the breeze as it blew her long black hair about her, and she even smiled once or twice at the inanities Rupert spouted as to the beauty of her smile and the flawless perfection of her skin. His small store of flattery finally exhausted, and believing his duty to his mama fulfilled, he let a bit of his true self show through as he commented on the sad lack of activity to be found in the country during the winter months. “I find it insupportably flat, don’t you?” he asked her.

Alix thought back over her various adventures since first setting foot in Linton and suppressed a smile. “No, Mr. Anselm, I can’t say that I do,” she replied tongue in cheek.

“Ah, yes,” he went on condescendingly. “I do hear that young girls in the country amuse themselves by weaving fantasies about heroes like Byron and the like. Even some fellows of my acquaintance fairly wax poetic over living the simple life in the country—almost weeping over the innocent romantic times spent lolling about on hillsides with a blade of grass stuck in their mouths. I cannot understand it myself. I enjoy the hustle and bustle of town life—the thrill of having an entire city at my fingertips.”

Not having spent time in any city but Philadelphia, and having enjoyed her homeplace and its amenities immensely, Alix was interested in hearing all about London. She pushed Rupert—only the slightest of nudges was needed, actually—into telling her a little bit about the great metropolis.

If she had thought to hear about the many historic landmarks, architectural monuments, or artistic treasures of the city, she was soon to be disabused of this notion. Instead, Rupert launched himself into a recitation of his own activities in the city—an endless round of parties, balls, and gaming halls that had Alexandra openly yawning within the space of fifteen minutes. She almost hoped the horses would bolt—anything to shut Rupert’s boring mouth.

Seeing he was fast losing his audience, Anselm decided to tell Alix of one of his most recent excursions—a trip to Bedlam with a group of his cronies.

“Bedlam?” Alix asked, interested. “What is that—a museum?”

Rupert exploded with laughter, momentarily startling his horses into a brief canter. “A museum—oh, that is rich! No, no, Miss Saxon, Bedlam is no museum. It is a hospital—Bethlehem Hospital to be exact—devoted to the care of the hopelessly insane.”

“You
visit
there?” Alix asked, incredulous.

Rupert nodded his head in agreement. “They let you in for a few pennies every Sunday afternoon. It’s jolly good fun, really. We take a few bottles along with us, of course, and scented hankies for our noses, but it is totally natural to meet your friends in the promenade past the public cells—rather like attending the sideshow at the Bartholomew Fair, you know. Of course you must watch out for pickpockets.”

“Are you trying to tell me it is socially acceptable to pay money to gawk at poor unfortunates?” Alexandra pressed him.

Oblivious to her disgust, he happily expounded on some of the fine sights to be seen at Bedlam. He told her about the lion man, a very cunning fellow indeed, along with a group of longtime inmates who charge a penny to perform small dramas for the visitors. “Of course it doesn’t pay to get too close to any of them—they are liable to toss their chamberpots at you if you do,” he ended warningly.

“I don’t blame them a bit,” Alix countered, the heat of battle in her eyes. “Now stop this ridiculous vehicle at once and let me off.”

“Wha-what?” Anselm blustered, taking in the militant set of Alexandra’s chin. “Why, we are at least two miles from Saxon Hall. You can’t be serious.” His small, colorless eyes met and held her dark ones for a moment before his gaze faltered and he looked away. Not even his mama ever appeared so intimidating. He hauled on the reins and the phaeton came to a halt in the middle of the roadway. “Please, Miss Saxon,” he began to beg, remembering his mama’s order to do the pretty with this outrageous chit or pay the consequences, “you cannot possibly walk all the way back to Saxon Hall in this cold weather.”

Anselm’s entreaty seemed to give Alix pause for a moment as she tilted her head in thought. Then a small smile appeared on her face as she mentally recalled Anselm’s high-heeled slippers. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Anselm. No frail
woman
could possibly traverse the two miles to Saxon Hall on foot. On the other hand, the three or so miles to Linton Hall should seem as no more than a stroll through the park to a
man
, should they not?”

Anselm, who hadn’t exactly been brimming over with joy at the thought of escorting Miss Saxon in the first place, was beginning to regret he had ever been born. “Now, Miss Saxon,” he cajoled nervously, “you certainly can’t be saying that you wish me to abandon you out here in the wilderness alone simply because you dislike my taste in entertainment?”

“But, Mr. Anselm,” Alix responded with a dazzling smile, “that is exactly what I am saying. Do but think upon it a moment, Mr. Anselm. Which is worse—walking back to Linton Hall to face your mama, or returning to Linton Hall in your lovely new phaeton alone, to face Nicholas Mannering and, shortly thereafter, Sir Alexander Saxon. Gracious,” she trilled archly, “I do believe even Harold may have to force himself from his sickbed to take umbrage with a man who would leave a woman afoot alone in the countryside with highwaymen about.”

Alix could almost see the gears turning in Rupert’s head as he mentally listed the pros and cons of his situation. The highwaymen and his mama warred with the certain wrath of Linton, Saxon, and that fierce-looking savage—the last truly, he thought, an ugly customer—and quickly he made his decision.

Handing the reins to Alix he muttered wretchedly, “Good day to you, ma’am. Please be careful of my horseflesh. They have tender mouths.”

“They have mouths like shoe leather, thanks to your cow-handed driving, Mr. Anselm,” she replied pithily, “but I will take extreme care not to damage your fine yellow wheels. Good day to you, sir.” And so saying, she whipped up the horses and, turning them smartly, set off in the direction of Saxon Hall, leaving Rupert Anselm alone in the roadway to contemplate his fate.

“I still don’t see why we have to go haring off to Linton Hall, Alexandra,” her grandfather whined, holding on to one of the carriage straps for dear life as the ancient, badly sprung Saxon Hall traveling coach sought and found every rut and hole on the roadway from the castle to the Mannering estate.

“We are going, Grandfather,” Alix replied wearily, “because we returned their invitation to dinner in the affirmative—at least you did. I, if you recall, was all for chucking the blamed thing in the fire. It was you who said you’d enjoy spending an evening watching Matilda Anselm trying to look down her nose at us while that same appendage was so sadly out of joint.”

Sir Alexander chuckled, his enormous belly moving up and down as he shook with merriment. “By Jupiter, how could I forget! Can’t remember the last time I had such a good laugh. Even those hey-go-mad boys were near to splitting their sides when they came by to pick up that fool popinjay’s bumblebee contraption—told me Anselm near belly-crawled into Linton Hall jabberin’ that the nasty highwaymen were going to get him; his bloomin’ red sissy-shoes stuffed into his pockets. Oh, Matilda must have well and truly torn a strip off his hide. Yes, indeed, missy. When those boys told me we was invited to share their mutton Saturday night, I fair leaped at the chance to see that snooty dragon Matilda stewing in her own juice. Does an old man good to have a bit of a giggle once in a while, you know,” he ended, throwing Alexandra a broad wink.

Alexandra relaxed at her grandfather’s return of good humor and made a small half-bow in his direction. “I live only to please you, sir. Indeed, had I known how much enjoyment you would derive out of my insulting the Anselms, I assure you I would have done my utmost to have arranged with the highwaymen beforehand to have them meet up with poor Rupert upon the roadway and strip him of his fine clothes as well as his wallet.”

“I don’t doubt that you would have, either,” Sir Alexander roared back at her. “Ramshackle past reclaim, that’s what y’are, lass. Charles let you run wild, I can see that now.”

“Chas was more than a little preoccupied with his good works,” Alix ruminated cheerfully enough, “but he always saw to it that I was well taken care of. He gave me Harold, didn’t he?”

“Hummph, that he did—and more of an albatross around your neck I cannot imagine. No proper English miss drags a black-faced savage with her everywhere she goes. Ain’t proper; by Jupiter, it ain’t. Besides, if a female’s to have a second language, it’s supposed to be a few
la-de-da
words in that Froggie tongue, not some heathen gibberish that sounds like you’ve got something stuck in your craw and you’re tryin’ to get it out.”

Alexandra thought it might be prudent to change the subject before her grandfather got himself worked into a real temper, which wouldn’t auger well for the dinner party—or herself, for that matter. She carefully redirected the conversation to the evening ahead, telling Sir Alexander that she was looking forward to seeing her three co-conspirators—just to see if they would still be eating their dinner standing at the mantel as Jeremy had told her they had been.

“Ha! That would serve them right—if Mannering indeed had taken the birch rod to their behinds,” Sir Alexander chuckled. Much to the delight of his interested granddaughter, he then went on to reminisce about some of his own grasstime exploits—a recitation that neatly filled the time until they reached their destination at Linton Hall.

They found Mannering and his houseguests all assembled in the large saloon—waiting impatiently for the Saxons and the hoped-for diversion their visit should provide from the rather strained relations that had been evident around Linton Hall the last few days.

Jeremy, for one, could barely contain himself. His feelings of guilt over Harold’s injury—encouraged as they were by Nick’s lecture as to the folly of involving others in mad schemes—had kept him nervous and off his food for three whole days. Billy seemed to be likewise affected—taking to mumbling cant phrases under his breath and going off for hours to sit alone in the third branch of the old beech tree that overlooked the south lawn.

Only Cuffy appeared unchanged. He remained his usual urbane self, filling his days with seemingly aimless wanderings through the house and applying himself with the greatest civility to drawing out the shy, mother-dominated Miss Anselm. Most remarkable was that he kept his acerbic tongue completely off the hapless Rupert—perhaps seeing him as too easy a target and therefore not worthy of his sarcasm.