Supervising Sally (6 page)

Phoebe didn't mind. It was all new, and all exciting. Sally was proving to be a lively, friendly companion, and Phoebe enjoyed her company. She was beginning to think this was the easiest job in the world, enjoyable too.

They had been in London for just over a week before the Earl of Wrekin appeared. He had, Beatrice explained, been occupied with his own estates since he left Ridgeway Park, and had a few matters to deal with in London before he would be ready to escort them to Brussels. This could take several more days, but as he was coming to dine that evening, they would discover what his plans were.

Phoebe felt unaccountably nervous as she dressed in one of her new gowns, a pretty pale-blue sarsenet trimmed with
lace. Perhaps it was Sally's remark that Zachary had not wanted to escort her to Brussels, and was only doing it to please Beatrice. Or it may have been the thought of meeting him again. She could not banish from her mind the recollection of that waltz, the feel of his arm about her waist, the faint male scent of him.

‘He's a high stickler, no fun at all,' Sally complained, as they returned from a shopping expedition. ‘He's old, too; thirty, I suppose.'

He hadn't seemed old to Phoebe.

‘He's stuffy,' Sally added.

When she descended to the drawing-room with Sally before dinner, and found him already sitting with his sister, Phoebe cast him an anxious glance.

‘You know Sally, of course, and Phoebe,' Lady Drayton introduced them.

He nodded to Sally, and shook hands with Phoebe. Then he looked enquiringly at his sister. ‘I hadn't expected to meet you here, Miss Kingston. But where is Sally's chaperon? Is she not to join us this evening? I had hoped to meet her.'

Beatrice laughed. ‘Phoebe is Sally's companion, Zachary.'

He stared at her for a moment, frowning. ‘Phoebe? Miss Kingston? Beatrice, are you out of your mind? How can a chit like this, who is no older than Sally, possibly be her chaperon? It's ridiculous, and I refuse to become involved. Either you find someone older, more suitable and responsible, or I refuse to escort Sally to Brussels.'

Phoebe felt as though she had been punched in the stomach. So this was the end of her dreams, the end of her attempt to escape from the stultifying atmosphere at Jane's house. Was she to be sent home in disgrace, a failure before she had even
started on her job? Then she experienced a wave of fury and decided she was not giving in so meekly. She flung up her head and glared at the earl.

‘I am three and twenty, my lord, and that makes me six years older than Sally. I have been accustomed to keeping house for my mother for four years, and controlling her finances. I'm no green girl.'

He frowned. ‘Being able to deal with figures and do the marketing does not make you a suitable chaperon, Miss Kingston.'

Phoebe gasped. ‘I did rather more than that, sir!'

He went on, ignoring her interruption, ‘My sister tells me you have never even been to London before. How do you expect to go on in the sort of cosmopolitan society presently in Brussels? What authority can you exercise over a girl your own age? All right,' he added, as Phoebe opened her mouth to protest, ‘a mere six years older.'

‘I think I might have more influence,' she stressed the word and tossed her head, ‘with Sally just because I am nearer to her in age and better able to understand her than an elderly spinster would!'

‘I wouldn't dream of imposing a spinster, elderly or otherwise, on my niece. I expected, and I am going to insist on having, a mature, sensible woman who was or had been married and knows her way around. Beatrice,' he went on, swinging round to face his sister, ‘how could you be so imprudent? '

Beatrice looked far too unwell to deal with this, but she made a spirited reply. ‘Zachary, don't be tedious. I have known Phoebe for years, and she is a sensible, intelligent girl who has dealt with a great deal of responsibility since her father's death. I think I might be permitted to know what will suit a girl like Sally better than you, a bachelor.'

‘And I don't want anyone else!' Sally said. ‘I like Phoebe,
and I promise I'll obey her when we get to Brussels. I'd hate to have a stuffy, old embittered widow spoiling everything I want to do, and if you force one on me I'll – I'll behave so outrageously you'll be sorry!'

Phoebe looked gratefully at her two supporters, struggling to suppress a grin at Sally's threats. Before she could speak, Lady Drayton, holding a hand to her head, spoke.

‘Let us all calm down, and talk about this after dinner, which must be ready by now.'

Promptly, as though he had been listening outside the door, her butler came in and announced, with great solemnity, that dinner was served. The earl, compressing his lips and frowning, offered his arm to Beatrice, and left the room. As they followed, Sally grinned at Phoebe and leant towards her.

‘Don't be concerned. Aunt Beatrice will change his mind, you'll see.'

The earl looked at his sister with concern. She had eaten almost nothing, pushing away untasted what he knew were some of her favourite dishes. She was flushed, and he wondered whether the argument before dinner had really offended her. It was unlike Beatrice to get upset over trifles. But then, it was unlike her to make such rash decisions as this choice of a chaperon for Sally. Later, when he could talk to her alone, he would be able to put his point of view without those two chits interrupting.

He accepted that it must have been a blow to Phoebe, expecting to go to Brussels and be involved in all the gaiety there. He would, of course, when he sent her back to her home, give her a sum to compensate for the salary she was expecting. And surely she could soon obtain another
position. Being a companion to an elderly lady would be a far more suitable occupation than chaperon to his sister's wilful niece.

Phoebe was taking it well, he had to admit. She was smiling, talking quietly to Sally about the places they had been to during the past week, and ignoring the sullen responses. She avoided looking at him, however, and he felt a sudden twinge of remorse. He had enjoyed her company in Yorkshire, where she had seemed a sensible, well-educated girl, open and straightforward, employing none of the usual feminine tricks towards him, tricks which irritated him intensely. He admitted to himself he would have enjoyed more of her company, but she was quite unsuitable as a chaperon, and he wondered briefly if his sister had been subject to a mental aberration.

When Beatrice rose to leave the dining-room, Zachary held open the door for the ladies, while the butler placed a decanter of port on the table for him. Beatrice gave him a weary look as she passed. Sally glared at him and muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath. Phoebe, her head held high, walked past quickly without glancing in his direction, but he frowned when he realized she was holding her skirts to one side, as though fearing contamination should they come into contact with him.

He downed one glass of port swiftly, and poured a second. Tilting his chair he sipped at this, wondering whether there were any suitable women amongst his acquaintance who might be induced to chaperon Sally. No one came immediately to mind. If they were married they would be unable to leave their husbands and families. The widows he knew were mostly occupied with their children, and in a few cases, supervising the running of the estates left to them. One or two middle-aged spinsters, such as the sisters of an indigent peer whose land marched with his, living in straitened
circumstances, might have welcomed the opportunity, as well as the salary, of a respectable occupation which enabled them to mingle with the
ton
. There was one ancient aunt, living alone in Kensington, but he doubted his ability to persuade her to leave her fireside and her cats during the winter. He regretted his impetuous words earlier, and wondered whether he might with dignity change his mind about not employing a spinster.

Setting down his almost full glass he decided to confront the ladies at once. As he went slowly up the stairs to the drawing-room, the door opened suddenly and Phoebe ran out. She didn't see him, but ran swiftly up the next flight, holding up her skirts and revealing shapely ankles.

What the devil had got into the girl, he wondered irritably? She had not, in Yorkshire, struck him as hysterical or prone to tantrums, but it looked as though the prospect of not being permitted to go to Brussels had finally overset her, however stoical she had appeared during dinner.

Shrugging, he went on into the drawing-room, to find his sister laid prone on a sopha, Sally fanning her with a copy of
The Ladies' Magazine
, and Annie standing behind the sopha wringing her hands and burbling something about burnt feathers.

‘Beatrice! What's happened?' he demanded, striding across to her.

‘She fainted, and it's all your fault for being so obnoxious!' Sally said. ‘Couldn't you see she isn't well, and not in a condition to bear your bullying?'

At that moment Phoebe came back into the room.

‘My lord, please stand back, she needs air,' she said briskly, pushing Sally gently out of the way as she knelt beside Beatrice. She held a small bottle under the lady's nose, and whatever it was seemed effective, for his sister opened her eyes and grimaced at the smell.

‘Oh, do take it away,' she said faintly. ‘I hate the stuff and will be quite well in a moment.'

‘You have been unwell for days,' Phoebe retorted. ‘You are in no fit state for arguments or decisions; you need to be in bed and not having to worry about anything.'

She rose to her feet and glanced at the earl.

‘My lord, can you carry her ladyship up to her room?'

About to suggest it might be better to call two of the servants, he encountered Phoebe's look of doubtful enquiry, and stepped forward to scoop his sister into his arms, ignoring her protests that she was quite capable of walking.

‘Nevertheless I mean to carry you. Beatrice, I hadn't realized you were so ill. You should have stayed in bed today.'

Phoebe had squeezed past him and when he arrived in his sister's bedroom she had the covers turned back, Annie was busy with a warming pan, and Beatrice's maid was warming a nightdress in front of a cheerful fire.

‘Thank you, my lord, you can leave her to us now,' Phoebe said briskly, and the earl, somewhat to his surprise, found himself pushed out of the bedroom and the door closed with a snap behind him.

Lady Beatrice grew worse during the next few days, and Phoebe spent most of her time nursing her. The doctor forbade visitors, and Lady Drayton tried to insist that Phoebe and Sally kept away from her, for fear of infection. Phoebe ignored these commands.

‘I looked after my mother through far worse,' she said. ‘Your maid cannot do it all by herself, and you refuse to hire a nurse.'

‘I much prefer familiar faces around me when I am feeling
ill,' Beatrice said. ‘I already feel better with your care. What is Sally doing? How is she occupying herself?'