Authors: Highland Fling
“She is Miss MacDrumin. Get up and greet her properly, you ass. Though he don’t look the part, may I present Lord Thomas Deverill, ma’am. I thought you were going out to drown yourself today, Dev. Did you forget?”
Maggie turned and stared at Carsley, certain she must have misheard him, but though his eyes held a lurking twinkle, Lord Thomas said morosely as he got to his feet, “Didn’t forget. As you no doubt recall, when your dashed unfeeling brother forbade me ever again to speak to my darling Lydia, I resolved first to poison myself, but not knowing where to effect such a deed, I resolved instead upon drowning. So today I hired a coach and ordered the jarvey to drive to Tower Wharf, intending to throw myself into the water at Customs House Key. I left the coach, intending never to return to it, but upon coming to the key, I found not only that the water was too low but that a dashed porter was seated on some goods there as if on purpose to prevent my demise.” He sighed. “The passage to the bottomless pit being thus shut against me, I returned to the coach and came home.”
“Lord Thomas,” Maggie exclaimed, appalled but fascinated, “you cannot truly wish to put a period to your existence!”
“Of course he doesn’t,” James said. “If he did, he would simply have cast himself off the bridge.”
Lord Thomas cast him a darkling look before saying to Maggie, “James has no soul. I shall no doubt cast myself off the bridge tomorrow, and then how will he feel?”
Carsley said, “You are soft in the head, Dev.”
“No, I ain’t. What would you have me do? If I weren’t a younger son, I’d be perfectly eligible to court your sister, wouldn’t I? If I were my own brother, they’d roll out the red carpet, but as it is, Rothwell wants none of me.”
“Where is Mrs. Honeywell?” Carsley asked abruptly.
“Gone out to fetch cutlets for supper.”
“Well, stir your stumps then, and fetch Miss MacDrumin a basin and pitcher so she can wash her face. And if you can find a comb or brush, bring that along as well. I’ve got to take her to Ned, and I won’t take her looking like she does now.”
For the first time, Lord Thomas looked directly at Maggie, who shifted her feet, embarrassed to think how bedraggled she must look. But when he only nodded and went away, her embarrassment vanished, and she felt almost like laughing.
“Never mind Dev,” Carsley said. “The poor fool can’t think of anything but my sister.”
“Does she care for him?” Maggie asked, moving to obtain a clear view of the river.
“She thinks she does,” he answered, “but I daresay that is only because Ned says she must not. A contrary wench, is Lydia.”
“Good gracious,” Maggie exclaimed suddenly, “this building hangs right out over the water!”
“Don’t fret. There are quite solid iron supports underneath the overhanging bits.”
“I cannot think why you haven’t painted this view a dozen times,” she said, “but there is not one picture of it amongst those hanging on the wall.”
“I won’t ask what you think of those. Most ladies are oversensitive to such stuff.”
She looked more closely at the paintings on the wall and grimaced when her gaze came to light on a portrait of a pair of female boxers in a ring, surrounded by cheering, leering men.
“Surely, you never actually saw anything like that, sir!”
“On the contrary, one sees it every Friday night at Figg’s Boarding House in Wells Street. Those females are from Billingsgate, which is peculiarly noted for its rough women.”
“Why is there gold showing between their fingers?”
“Women who box must hold gold coins so they don’t begin pulling each other’s hair out,” he told her. “If one drops a coin, she forfeits the match. You were quick, Dev,” he added when Lord Thomas returned, precariously carrying a basin and ewer. “Take care you don’t drop those things.”
“I won’t. Do you require aught else, Miss MacDrumin? I ain’t much of a lady’s maid, but I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you,” Maggie said, adding with a sigh, “I do not suppose you know where I can procure a new gown.”
Lord Thomas shook his head, but Carsley said suddenly, “Dev, I daresay if you were to nip down to the shops you might find a shawl or some such thing that she can cover her shoulders with.”
“Good Lord!” Maggie had moved to peer at her reflection in the mirror hanging over the little fireplace, and what she saw appalled her. She had known her skirt was filthy, but she saw now that her hair was tangled beyond belief, smudges covered her face, and the habit-shirt of her travel dress was not only as filthy as her skirt but her corset showed through several of its rents. Heat suffused her cheeks when she realized she had been carrying on a conversation with two gentlemen in such a state.
Speechless, she turned to pour water into the basin, and not until she had scrubbed everything that showed did she turn her attention to her hair. A few tentative tugs with the comb Lord Thomas had provided accomplished little, and she was about to give up when Carsley took it from her and began ruthlessly to drag it through her tangled curls.
“Ow! You’re hurting me! Remember my headache, sir!”
“Stand still. If you think I’m taking you to meet Ned looking like you’ve spent the day boxing the Billingsgate women, you’ve another think coming. I’ll get you something in a minute for your headache.”
“How dare you! Ow!” By the time he had finished, Maggie had tears in her eyes and would cheerfully have murdered him, but when he turned her to look again at her reflection, she had to admit that with his artist’s eye he had accomplished wonders with her hair. It would not really be tidy again until it had been washed and thoroughly brushed, but she had not thought anyone could make it look presentable, and he had done more than that. Fifteen minutes later, Lord Thomas returned with a soft moss-green woolen shawl, which she accepted gratefully. It would not cover the filthy gown, but it brought out the green flecks in her hazel eyes, and it felt warm and soft to the touch.
Carsley disappeared briefly and returned wearing a fresh shirt, a clean coat, and a tie-wig, and carrying a glass with cloudy liquid in it, and small parcel. He still looked very casually attired for a gentleman, and his wig was askew, but she supposed he believed he had dressed up for the occasion.
Giving Maggie the glass, he said, “Drink it. It will help your headache.”
When she had obeyed him, they bade Lord Thomas farewell, and Mr. Carsley hurried her out the door and along the footway to the north end of the bridge. When he turned toward the Old Swan Stairs, Maggie said, “Should we not take a coach, sir? Surely, it will take a long time for us to be rowed back up the river.”
“Not as long as it would take to negotiate the streets near it,” he said. “The distance is only a bit more than two miles, and the current is not so fast while the tide is coming in.”
He chose a barge with a pair of stout oarsmen, apparently unconcerned by the cost of the extra man, and Maggie sat back to enjoy yet another view of London. The sun was in front of them now, but it took less time than she had expected to retrace their route, and when they had passed Blackfriars Stairs, Carsley directed her attention to the Temple, then added, “Look yonder now. That tall archway leading into Essex Street is the only one of its kind on the river.”
Longingly Maggie looked at Essex Street, then glanced back at her companion, now pointing out decrepit tenement buildings and explaining that they comprised the once magnificent Essex and Arundel House estates. She wished she could convince him simply to order the bargemen to let her out at once, but she had already learned enough about Carsley to know he would refuse.
The breeze on the river was chilly, and she was glad to snuggle into the warm shawl. Looking back as they passed Somerset House, she decided that, except for the massive shape of St. Paul’s Cathedral looming above all else, the city looked like a vast harbor, its rooftops like ships with church-spire masts.
Carsley pointed out Cuper’s Gardens and Salisbury House before he fell suddenly silent. Maggie realized then that the sun was now on their right, the great river had curved. She could see another bridge not far ahead, nothing like London Bridge, for it bore no buildings and its footings were wide apart. She started to ask a question, but just then the bargemen changed the pace of their strokes, angling the vessel toward the shore. Looking at Mr. Carsley and seeing his jaw tighten, she kept silent, knowing they had reached their destination.
Her heart began to pound. The houses they approached were enormous—clearly homes of the very wealthy. The trepidation she had felt before—when she had realized the enormity of invoking Rothwell’s name in the courtroom—had eased considerably in the comfortable little house on London Bridge; but now, as the barge glided into place at the stone steps between the two largest houses, and she saw Carsley’s gaze fix on the one on the right, she experienced twice the apprehension she had felt before. Everything she had heard about the earl told her he was a man to be reckoned with, one powerful enough to have been awarded vast estates in the Highlands after the uprising, and a very wealthy man besides. Certainly, rents from MacDrumin land had not paid for Rothwell House. What on earth, she wondered yet again, had she got herself into?
Allowing Carsley to help her from the barge, she felt increasing nervousness when he opened the gate at the top of the steps and commanded one of the two footmen in the passage to pay the bargemen. Annoyed to think she was near panic, she strove to control her fears. The house was large, but it was only a house. The footman was only a footman. Breathing deeply, feeling calmer, realizing her headache had practically disappeared, she went with Carsley through the doorway on the right, up a flight of steps to a terrace overlooking the river.
The view was spectacular, and for a moment she forgot her nerves, but Carsley allowed her no time to savor the scenery. His hand tightening on her elbow, he propelled her through a door held open by another liveried footman.
“Fields,” he demanded when a stately butler entered from another room, “Where’s his lordship?”
“In the bookroom, Master James. May I—”
But Carsley did not wait to hear the rest. He sped Maggie through the high-ceilinged, elegantly appointed room, on through a stair hall with a soaring spiral staircase and a splendid domed ceiling, past another wooden-faced footman, into a room that was clearly the library. He came to a halt so quickly that she almost expected to hear his heels squeak on the polished floor, and she found herself staring at a large, elegantly dressed man seated behind a massive desk. When he looked up in mild surprise, she felt her apprehension melt away, for if this man was Rothwell, she need fear no more. He was nothing but a fop.
R
OTHWELL CONCEALED HIS ASTONISHMENT
with difficulty. He had not seen James for a fortnight, and he could not for the life of him think what the lad was doing dragging a disreputable female into Rothwell House library, but since he rarely gave way to ineffectual emotional outbursts, he said only, “Hello, James. Ought I to have been expecting you? My memory, you know, is so rarely to be depended upon that I suppose I must have forgotten.”
“Your memory is excellent, Ned, as you know perfectly well. Not only were you not expecting me, but I had no intention of setting foot in this house for a good long time after my last visit. Well, not my last
visit
, precisely, but the last time we exchanged words. Blast me, that’s not what I meant to say either, but I daresay you understand me well enough.”
Rothwell allowed himself a slight pause, knowing that if he spoke too quickly he would reveal his amusement, then said, “I do comprehend your tangled periods, so I must suppose that your reason for bursting in upon me in this fashion is a singularly important one. Do you mean to present your companion?”
James flushed and said angrily, “If you are thinking that I have come to you for money, let me tell you plainly that you have never been more mistaken in your life.”
“But I have taken great pains neither to think nor to say any such thing. I asked only if you mean to present this female to me. You behave as if I’d asked you if you brought her here to illustrate how low you have sunk into squalor.”
The young female’s eyes flashed, and he saw with flickering interest that they were a singularly greenish shade of hazel. She had scrubbed her face and hands, and attempted to arrange her hair with some style, but beneath the cheap shawl, her gown was as filthy and bedraggled as that of any street wench. She looked as if she would dare to speak to him, but James forestalled her.
He sputtered, “I have not sunk anywhere, Ned. If you only made an effort to understand
my
feelings, we would not be at odds so often. You may be an all-round brilliant fellow where others are concerned, but you don’t know a thing about me.”
“Not so, dear boy. I know you believe you have cast off the trappings of wealth—except when you run short of funds, of course—and that you find meaning in numerous activities that do not generally interest a gentleman but lack the discipline to succeed at any of them. I have not yet attempted to bring you to heel, but only because you have done nothing yet to force my hand. I devoutly hope this young person’s presence in my library does not indicate an unhappy change in that state of affairs.”
“Lord Rothwell,” the young woman said sharply, astonishing him, “I cannot allow you to continue to speak of me as if I were a drab off the street. I’ll have you know I am no such thing.”
“Dear me,” Rothwell said, raising his eyeglass and peering at her through it in sudden suspicion that she was no ordinary street wench. She was not at all in awe of him, for one thing, and spoke as if to an equal. She was therefore either demented or of gentle birth. “I believe I have misjudged you, young woman. You speak rashly, but you speak in educated tones.”
“I am very well educated, sir, though I cannot see what that fact has to do with the point at hand. I fell into a predicament from which your brother was moved to rescue me, and though he insisted upon presenting me to you, I see now that he erred in doing so. Therefore, if he will be so kind as to escort me to the door, I willna trouble you further.” She turned as if assuming that James would comply, and Rothwell wondered if he had really detected the slight accent or if he had misheard her.