The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet (33 page)

“And so,” he said, “having discovered what a great heiress you had become, you were so filled with excitement and the desire to exchange one sort of life for the other that you rushed from your employer’s home in the north of England, carrying only the clothes on your back and a reticule, in order to walk to your new home in Hampshire. You are an impetuous young lady. But then, who on hearing of such a reversal in fortune would not be?”

She flushed and leaned back in her seat. “It was not quite as you imagine,” she said. “But close enough to be embarrassing.” She smiled at him to reveal a dimple in her left cheek—not to mention white and even teeth. Her eyes sparkled with merriment and with mischief. Yes, definitely. And he would wager that she knew the effect of that smile on her male victims. On his guard as he was, he felt his stomach attempt a creditable imitation of a headstand. Yes, indeed—an accomplished ladybird.

“They were to send a carriage for me,” she said, “and servants. I was very tempted to wait for them and to tell my employers of my good fortune. They had not been kind to me, you see, though the children were dears most of the time. They made pretensions of being grander than they were and treated me as if I had been born of a lesser breed. I know that they would have turned instantly and despicably obsequious if they had found out. They would have fawned on me. I would suddenly have become their dearest friend in all the world, one whom they had always loved as if I were truly a member of their family. It was tempting. But it was also sickening. I did not wish to see it. So I did not wait for the carriage to arrive. I left very early one morning without giving notice—though that did not matter since I had not been paid for the last quarter anyway.”

He pursed his lips. He had to admit it was an amusing story. He could almost picture her mythical governess self striding down the driveway of the home of her erstwhile employers, not looking back, her plumes nodding gaily in the breeze.

“And so,” he said, “you left without even enough money in your reticule to get you to Hampshire—unless you either walked or begged rides.”

She flushed again, more deeply than before, and he felt almost sorry for his unmannerly words.

“Oh, I had enough,” she said. “Just. I bought my tickets for the stage and still had enough with which to buy refreshments on the way and even a night or two of lodging if necessary. Unfortunately, I put both the money and the tickets in my valise for safekeeping.”

And the valise had been stolen
. It was priceless. Actually, the predictability of her story was proving more amusing after all than originality might have been.

“My valise was stolen,” she said, “while I was changing stages. I left it for no longer than five minutes in the care of a woman with whom I had been traveling. She seemed so very kind and respectable.”

“I suppose,” he said, “no thief worth his salt would advertise his profession by appearing unkind and unrespectable and expect naive travelers to entrust property to his care.”

“No, I suppose not,” she said, looking up at him again. She smiled fleetingly. “I was very foolish. It is too embarrassing to talk about.”

And yet she had talked about it to a complete stranger.

“And so,” he said, “you have been reduced to walking.”

“Yes.” She laughed softly, though she was clever enough to make the laughter sound rueful rather than amused.

“And do you,” he asked, “have enough money in your reticule to feed yourself as you walk?”

“Oh yes.” Her eyes widened and the flush returned. “Yes, indeed. Of course I do.”

A nice little display of confusion and pride. But really, how much money
was
in her reticule?

He had not noticed the approach of the village—a strange fact since it was the approach of villages and towns and inns with which he had attempted to relieve his boredom during his journey. The carriage was slowing and then turning into an inn yard. It was a posting
inn, he guessed. Time to change the horses and have something substantial to eat.

“Oh.” His companion turned her head to look out the window. She too seemed surprised—and a little disappointed. “Oh, here we are. I do thank you, sir. It was kind of you to take me up and save me a few miles of walking.”

But he had not yet heard about the advantageous marriage. Besides, perhaps she was hungry. No,
probably
she was hungry. And besides again, only the very smallest of dents had yet been made in his massive boredom.

“Miss Gray,” he said, “will you give me the pleasure of your company at dinner?”

“Oh.” Her eyes grew larger, and he read unmistakable hunger in their depths. For a moment she was forgetting to act a part. “Oh, there is no need, sir. I can buy my own dinner. Though at the moment I am not hungry. I will walk to the next village before stopping, I believe. But thank you.”

“Miss Gray,” he said, “I will take you on to the next village. But first I must dine. I am hungry, you see. And if you are to sit and watch me eat, I shall be self-conscious. Do force yourself to take a bite with me.”

“Oh.” He knew suddenly for a certainty that she had not eaten that day and perhaps not yesterday either. It must have been yesterday, not today, that she had been tossed out of that other carriage. “You will take me one village farther? How kind of you. Very well, then. Perhaps I can eat just a little.” She laughed. “Though I did have rather a large breakfast.”

He raised his eyebrows as he vaulted from the carriage and handed her down the steps. He escorted her toward the private dining room that Hollander had already bespoken for his use. A gentleman and his ladybird. He read that interpretation in the eyes of the ostlers in the
yard and in the eyes of the innkeeper when they went in and in those of the barmaid they passed inside.

Well, let them think what they would. Even gentlemen had to be amused at times. And even ladybirds suffered from hunger when they had been abandoned by their protectors and had not eaten for a day or longer.

HE WAS SORRY SHE HAD ACCEPTED THE INVITATION TO
dine with him. She was sorry she had been tempted by his offer to take her just one town farther along her way. Her legs were shaking so badly by the time she stepped inside the private dining room he had bespoken—he must be
very
wealthy—that she wondered they still held her upright. Her hands shook so badly that she would not for the moment try raising them in order to untie the ribbons of her bonnet.

She was so very accustomed to being invisible. Well, almost so anyway. It was true that the male guests Mr. Burnaby had brought to the house far too frequently for Mrs. Burnaby’s liking—he was a gentleman who enjoyed shooting and hunting and used them as an excuse for having company and carousing for days and nights on end—it was true that those guests sometimes noticed her. It was true too that she had sometimes had difficulty in shaking off their attentions. But on the whole she had crept about the house in her gray garments and been invisible to both the servants, of whom she had not been quite one, and the master and mistress of the house. Mrs. Burnaby had even insisted that she wear a cap in order to douse the one splash of color she might have carried about with her—her hair.

She was certainly not accustomed to being looked
upon as if she were an actress—ironical that, really—or a wh—. But even in her mind she could not fully verbalize the word. Her hands developed pins and needles as well as the shakes. And yet that was exactly how everyone outside and inside the inn had just looked at her.

“Miss Gray,” the gentleman said from behind her in his characteristic voice of hauteur—and yet it was a light and pleasant voice, she thought—“do please take a seat and make yourself at home.”

“Thank you.” She collapsed in a rather inelegant heap onto the nearest chair and reached for her bonnet ribbons. But no, it just could not be done. The offending monstrosity must remain where it was for a while longer.

And then she realized another cause of her distress, which had been drowned out so far by the looks she had been given as she entered the inn. There were strong smells of cooking food in the air. Her stomach clenched involuntarily, and she swallowed convulsively. She drew her gloves off one at a time, holding her hands in her lap so that she could control their shaking. And then her stomach protested with a loud and deep and prolonged growl.

“The horses will be changed here,” the gentleman said, not waiting for the room to grow silent again. “I wish to press on as far as possible until nightfall. I find travel somewhat tedious. Would you not agree, Miss Gray?”

He was making an attempt to save her from embarrassment. She wondered if he knew she had lied about the large breakfast. She liked him. It was true that he was handsome and elegant and looked more than a little haughty and even bored, but he had been kind to her. It seemed such an age, an eternity, since anyone had been kind—or courteous. He had shown her courtesy despite her appearance and circumstances. She had almost forgotten
what her own voice sounded like, except as she used it with the children during their lessons. But he had listened to her story and prompted her with questions and had seemed genuinely interested in her answers.

And now he was going to buy her dinner and take her a little farther on her way.

“Yes, I do, sir,” she said in answer to his question, and she smiled at him.

His eyes dropped a fraction from hers. She had the feeling that he was looking at her dimple. Her dimple always embarrassed her. It seemed somehow childish. And Mrs. Burnaby had once told her she must bring it under control or else cease to smile at all. She had ceased to smile.

He sat down on the chair opposite hers, the table between them. The door opened again at the same moment, and the innkeeper himself came in carrying a tray from which rose steam and a smell that set her stomach to clenching again. The innkeeper set a bowl of oxtail soup before each of them, and a basket of fresh rolls on the table between them.

She swallowed and tested her hands in her lap, squeezing each in turn. Yes, the shaking had gone. She would be able to pick up her spoon and eat. She tried not to rush and waited for the gentleman to pick up his first.

“Miss Gray,” he said as he did so, “do you have another name to go with the surname?”

She stared at him for a moment, desperate though she was to eat. No one had used her name, her given name, for so long that she no longer thought of it as public property. It was her own, private to herself, as certain parts of her body were. But there was no impertinent familiarity in his manner. He was looking at her in polite inquiry. His gray eyes, she thought irrelevantly, were so light that they might almost be described as silver. They were keen and rather lovely eyes. She wondered briefly
if he was married. How fortunate his wife was to have such a handsome and such a gentlemanly husband.

“Stephanie,” she said.

For a moment his eyes appeared to smile. She had noticed a similar expression a few times in the carriage as she talked.

“Alistair Munro at your service, Miss Stephanie Gray,” he said and lifted his spoon to his mouth.

She did likewise and immediately thought that the idea of swooning with ecstasy was not quite as silly a one as she had always thought it.

“Ah,” he said. “A cook of indifferent skills. A pity.”

She looked at him in surprise. Food had never tasted even half as good as this soup did—and as the rolls did when she tried one, though it was true that it was a trifle doughy in the center.

“It is obvious, Mr. Munro,” she said in the sort of voice she had sometimes used on the children, “that you have never had to go hungry.”

His spoon paused halfway between his mouth and his bowl, and his face became coldly haughty. Then he half smiled at her.

“You are quite right,” he said. “For a moment, Miss Gray, you sounded far more like a governess than a, ah, an heiress.”

She laughed. “I have not become at all accustomed to the knowledge that I am wealthy,” she said. She really had not. The reality of it still amazed her. She still expected to be able to pinch herself and wake up. “But I hope I will never cease to be grateful for my good fortune. I hope I will never squander my wealth or hoard it all selfishly to myself.”

“Or complain about food that is indifferently prepared,” he said.

She felt herself flushing. She had scolded him even though he was showing her incredible generosity.

“One has a right to an opinion,” she said. “You are paying for my meal, sir. Perhaps that gives you a right to complain about your own.”

The innkeeper returned with two plates piled with hefty portions of steak and kidney pie and with potatoes and vegetables. He removed their empty soup bowls and bowed himself out of the room. If she could only eat every mouthful of the dinner, Stephanie thought, it would surely fortify her for the rest of today and even tomorrow.

“And what
do
you plan to do with your riches, Miss Gray?” Mr. Munro asked. “Perform philanthropic good deeds for the rest of your life?”

She had a thought, suddenly. She flashed him a smile of bright amusement and noticed that his eyes stayed on her face even though he had already taken up his knife and fork.