Authors: Joan Johnston
Miss Sheringham opened the leather valise and rooted through it. “I see what you mean, Reggie,” she said. “Every one of these shifts is exactly the same. What do you suggest?”
Reggie looked down at her white shift and found a spot of cherry tart, another of gravy, and several more that were just plain dirt. “I suppose it will not hurt to start the day in something clean,” she conceded.
Reggie watched attentively as Miss Sheringham stripped Becky bare.
“We will all have to wait for a bath until we reach London,” Miss Sheringham said. “But there is no reason why we cannot freshen our faces.” She took a cloth, dampened it with water from the pitcher on the dry sink, and wiped Becky’s face clean.
Reggie watched as her sister closed her eyes and tilted her face up for Miss Sheringham’s ministrations. Becky acted like the water was warm and the cloth was velvet dipped in violet-scented soap. They were no such thing. Just cold water on a raggedy cloth.
Miss Sheringham had placed Becky right in front of her—not facing her, like every governess they had ever had—but with Becky’s back against Miss Sheringham’s front. Then Miss Sheringham bent over, her arms surrounding Becky, and held the pantalets for Becky to step into them.
Before slipping the chemise over Becky’s head, Miss Sheringham said, “Arms up!” She crouched down and turned Becky to face her, tying the pink satin
ribbons to close the front. She then rose and picked up a shift from the bed.
“That one’s mine,” Reggie said.
Miss Sheringham compared it to the other she had taken from the valise. “How can you tell?”
“The sleeve is torn.”
“So I see,” Miss Sheringham said. “What a clever way of marking what is yours, Reggie. It must always be a problem to identify what belongs to you, when you and your twin are always wearing exactly the same thing.”
Reggie had not even realized that was what she was doing. Now that she thought about it, everything she owned was ripped or torn or spotted. Which was how she knew it belonged to her.
“Now, let us see what we can do with this hair,” Miss Sheringham said to Becky. She had taken the silver-handled brush and comb set from the valise. She sat down on the bed, her legs spread wide—a posture Reggie might have used to incense her governess—and pulled Becky back between them.
“I will try to be careful,” Miss Sheringham said. “But if I hurt you, just yell.”
Becky glanced at Reggie from the corner of her eye, and Reggie shrugged. No governess had
ever
encouraged them to yell. Not even when they were truly hurt.
Reggie found herself crossing to the foot of the bed, where she could be closer to Miss Sheringham. She watched intently as Miss Sheringham brushed out all the tangles, making jokes as she pulled straw from Becky’s hair, about how it would have made a wonderful nest for the kittens.
Reggie was sure Becky would yell at least once.
But Miss Sheringham never pulled at the tangles. She stopped and worked them out. “I used to have the same knots and snarls when I was your age,” she said. “Do you know how my mother solved the problem?”
“How?” Becky asked, peering over her shoulder at Miss Sheringham.
“Braids.”
“Father would not approve,” Reggie said in her best stern-governess-imitation voice, which was not nearly so good as Becky’s.
“Father isn’t here,” Becky pointed out. “I would love to have braids, Miss Sheringham.”
“Uncle Marcus won’t like it either,” Reggie said stubbornly.
“Since your uncle asked me to fix your hair, he will have to accept the way I do it,” Miss Sheringham replied with a smile. “Or do it himself the next time.”
“Uncle Marcus does not know how to comb a lady’s hair!” Becky protested.
Miss Sheringham grinned. “My point exactly.”
By then, Miss Sheringham had plaited two braids down either side of Becky’s head and gathered them into a single braid at her nape, which she then tied with the bow that had previously hung from the crown of Becky’s head.
Miss Sheringham sent Becky over to the looking glass above the dry sink to inspect herself. “What do you think?”
Becky’s face beamed when she turned around. “Oh, Eliza, my braids are beautiful. I love them!”
To Reggie’s amazement, Miss Sheringham held
her arms wide, and Becky turned and nearly threw herself across the room, right into them.
Reggie felt betrayed. If only she was as trusting as Becky, she might be the one being hugged right now. She watched her sister enviously. Perhaps Becky was not such a cabbage-head after all.
“Your turn, Reggie,” Miss Sheringham said, releasing Becky at last.
“I can dress myself,” Reggie heard herself reply sullenly. Nothing had changed really. Miss Sheringham had a motive for being nice. All the tenderness, even the hug, did not mean anything. They were done for a purpose.
“Of course you can dress yourself,” Miss Sheringham said. “So can Becky. But it is so much easier when one has help, do you not agree?”
Reggie nodded. She wondered how Miss Sheringham had figured out that Reggie would never go to her, and whether that was why Miss Sheringham walked over to take her hand. Reggie was surprised that she let herself be led back toward the bed.
Miss Sheringham wet the cloth again and wrung it out, then sat on the bed and pulled Reggie between her legs to wash her face.
“You have a scar I never noticed. Near your lip,” Miss Sheringham observed. “Now I will be able to tell you apart even without clothes,” she teased.
Reggie stared wide-eyed at Miss Sheringham. Not one governess had noticed the scar, though it had been there for as long as Reggie could remember.
She did not feel as embarrassed as she had thought she would when Miss Sheringham stripped off her clothes. She realized, now that she was the
one within those encircling arms, that she felt protected by them,
Reggie stepped into the clean pantalets and felt Miss Sheringham’s warm breath on her cheek as she leaned down to pull them up. Reggie caught herself watching Miss Sheringham chew on her lower lip as she studiously tied the pink bow on Reggie’s chemise. She asked Miss Sheringham to help her put on her stockings and half boots before the shift went over her head and was buttoned up the back.
Then it was time for her hair.
“Let me know if I tug too hard,” Miss Sheringham said.
Reggie held her breath, waiting for the quick, no-nonsense brushing she was used to.
Miss Sheringham took her time. She picked at the straw, her head bobbing around every so often to look into Reggie’s eyes and make sure she was not just pretending it did not hurt.
Reggie had never felt anything so wonderful in her life. The slow, steady brush strokes made her feel weak in the knees. She wanted the brushing to go on forever.
She waited for Miss Sheringham to ask her if she wanted braids. She wanted them, all right. But if Miss Sheringham asked, she would be forced to deny herself, because she was the one who had pointed out how both Father and Uncle Marcus would disapprove.
To tell the truth, she was not at all certain Uncle Marcus would disapprove. He liked to do a lot of things that Father thought were wrong.
Reggie swallowed past the lump of misery in her
throat. Miss Sheringham would be asking any moment now.
“There. All done. Go see how you like yourself in braids.” Miss Sheringham gave her a nudge toward the looking glass.
Reggie felt her heart thumping madly. She had braids? She reached up to touch. She had braids!
She walked over to the looking glass and studied the image reflected back at her. While she had been daydreaming, Miss Sheringham had produced braids exactly like Becky’s, even down to the bow at her nape. She loved them.
“Thank you, Miss Sheringham.” Drat! She should have called her Eliza.
“You’re welcome, Reggie. Anytime.”
Reggie was almost afraid to turn around, afraid Miss Sheringham’s arms would not be opened wide for her. But then she saw what she was looking for in the glass. Miss Sheringham’s gentle smile. And her welcoming arms waiting for a second little girl to turn and fly into them.
Reggie tried not to need it so much. Tried not to want it so much. Tried to slow herself down, so she did not look as foolishly exuberant as her sister had, leaping into Miss Sheringham’s arms.
Reggie pressed herself close, hid her face against Miss Sheringham’s chemise, and waited for those welcoming arms to fold around her. When they did, Reggie closed her eyes and exulted in the warm, lovely feeling.
Thank you, thank you, Eliza
.
* * *
Marcus could not believe he had agreed to, even insisted upon, escorting a single,
eligible
young lady from an inn near her home to someplace she had no business going. Especially when the only chaperons in sight were a crusty old soldier and a pair of eight-year-old girls. He doubted whether they would satisfy the highest sticklers, but he did not want to involve anyone else in this escapade. The fewer people who knew about Miss Sheringham’s adventure, the better.
He should be taking her back to Ravenwood. But that would mean admitting he knew who she was. For reasons he did not care to examine, he was not willing to do that.
He glanced at the upstairs window where the twins had disappeared. He had wanted very much to deliver Miss Sheringham’s traveling bag himself. Griggs had intercepted him and suggested the twins do it instead. Marcus had frowned at having his plans for an early morning tryst foiled. But Griggs had pointed out, quite reasonably, that if the twins took her bag upstairs, Miss Sheringham might be willing to do something with their hair.
Marcus had smiled ruefully and handed over the bag.
While he was standing on the porch of the White Ball Inn twiddling his thumbs, the twins came tramping down the outside stairway. He was pleased to see they were neat and clean and—wearing braids?
He grinned as they skipped up to him. “You look very different this morning, ladies.”
“We have braids!” Becky exulted.
“Eliza insisted,” Reggie said. Her expression turned mulish, and she settled her hands on her hips.
“Eliza said if you don’t like them, you can fix our hair next time yourself!”
Miss Sheringham must know he would never venture into such deep waters. “I like them. I like them,” he said, laughing, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender.
“Oh, so do I,” Reggie said with a dreamy look. She ran her hand softly over her hair. “Eliza was careful not to pull our hair. I thought at first she was only being nice to impress you, Uncle Marcus. But no one could like you that much,” she finished ingenuously.
“I suppose not,” he agreed, his mouth twisting wryly. “I assume Miss Sheringham gave you permission to address her familiarly.”
The twins nodded vigorously.
“Eliza wants to be our friend,” Becky said. “I like her, Uncle Marcus.”
“I do, too,” Reggie said.
“Then we are unanimous,” Marcus said. “I like her, too.”
Reggie’s stomach growled. “I’m hungry, Uncle Marcus. Can we have breakfast now?”
“Where is Miss Sheringham?” he asked.
“She is still getting dressed,” Becky said. “She said for us to go ahead without her. She will get something when she comes downstairs to eat along the way.”
Marcus fought back a stab of annoyance. Miss Sheringham seemed to have no regard for manners. One ate at the table.
Or in the stable
, a chiding voice reminded. “Let us go eat,” he said. “The sooner breakfast is done, the sooner we can leave.”
Miss Sheringham turned up at the stable door a full fifteen minutes after they had finished breakfast
with hot fruit tarts for everyone except Frances, for whom she produced a smelly fishhead.
“We sat down to eat an hour ago, Miss Sheringham,” Marcus said in tones that conveyed his displeasure at her late arrival. “At dawn.”
“They are warm from the oven,” she said, tossing him an apple tart he instinctively reached out to catch. “One whiff and I guarantee you will find an empty corner of your stomach in which to put it.”
“How marvelous!” Reggie said. “Another picnic!”
Marcus bit back a groan. They would be lucky if they left before time for luncheon.
Nevertheless, he found himself totally enchanted by Miss Sheringham as she strode from person to person dispensing smiles and fruit tarts. She looked even more enticing this morning, her hair hanging in chestnut wisps from beneath the hat. She sat herself down quite unself-consciously next to the children, right beside the mother cat and her kittens.
Marcus watched Miss Sheringham eat the apple tart with relish, wondering if she did everything with such gusto.
She glanced in his direction, and their eyes caught. She stopped chewing and stared at him. He tried swallowing a bite of tart, but the dough got stuck in his throat. He tried again. It was stuck fast.
He coughed, and Miss Sheringham leaped to her feet to pound on his back. “Are you all right, Captain?”
“Fine,” he said, nearly choking when Griggs gave him a hard blow on his back just as he was swallowing. “Fine,” he wheezed.
What was wrong with him? He had almost
choked to death because of that infernal woman! Miss Sheringham was just another bit of fluff, albeit taller and a little odder looking than the others he had bedded. Why should she discompose him so much?
He focused his attention on the twins. They had already gobbled down their tarts and—he shuddered to think what Alastair would say if he could see them—were licking their fingers clean. He opened his mouth to correct them, but realized there was not a napkin in sight. The only alternative was to wipe their hands on their dresses, which he thought could only be worse, since it would leave a permanent reminder of their barbaric eating habits.
His gaze slipped to Miss Sheringham, and he watched as she produced a damp cloth from her traveling bag to clean the children’s hands. He was amazed to see Reggie and Becky voluntarily, almost enthusiastically, turn up their faces one by one so she could remove any traces of apple tart from their mouths.
It took him a moment to realize that Miss Sheringham had turned in his direction and caught him staring. She sent him an inquiring look and held up the cloth in his direction.