Mrs. McVinnie's London Season Page 2

  “Well, I like that,” Jeannie declared. “I am not above twenty-four!”

  Galen laughed. “Jeannie, remember, we do not know this man. Nor does he know you.”

  “Then we should not be reading his letter,” she said crisply. “I feel like a Peeping Tom. Oh, bother it all! Let me finish. There isn’t much more. Where was I?”

  In short, I need someone who will not be flummeried by a headstrong chit just out of the schoolroom. My dear Miss McVinnie, I rely on you to drop whatever it is you are currently involved in and hurry to Number 3, Wendover Square, where my sister has engaged a house for the Season.

  I await your arrival with considerable interest. It has been twenty years since we have laid eyes on each other, although I have enjoyed your occasional letters over the years. I trust I have improved since our last meeting, although I do not know that I will satisfy your expectations. I certainly never satisfied anyone else’s.

  I remain yours truly and desperately,

  William Summers,

  Captain of His Majesty’s Venture

  Jeannie stared at the letter another minute. “I am no wiser than I was when I began this letter, Galen. How odd! Can you make anything of it?”

  Her father-in-law took the letter from her and reread the concluding paragraphs. The crease between his eyes deepened for a moment and then disappeared. He was smiling.

  “All right, sir, out with it! He cannot possibly be referring to me.”

  “Indeed, he is not,” Galen agreed. “My dear, this is delicious! I only wish she was here to savor the moment.’’

  “Who are you talking about?”

  Galen tapped the letter. “This … Captain Summers can only be referring to my aunt Jean McVinnie. You never knew her, and more’s the pity. Delightful woman, if a trifle outspoken.”

  “Oh, how unlike the McVinnies I know,” Jeannie quizzed.

  “Baggage! Seriously, she died—well, it wouldn’t have been too long after that affair at Trafalgar that the good captain mentioned.”

  “Then there really was another Jeannie McVinnie?” Jeannie asked. She looked at the letter. “And she was—”

  “A nanny.” Galen finished her sentence. “Indeed she was, for five years. When Mother died, she returned here to Kirkcudbright to keep house for Father.” He chuckled. “And I don’t believe she was sorry to shake the dust of London off her shoes. Bless me if she didn’t refer to this very Captain Summers as—oh, let me see, I must get this right—‘a thoroughly denatured son of Satan.’ ”

  Jeannie gasped and then giggled.

  “And as I recall, that was one of her kinder phrases.” Galen leaned back on the sofa, his eyes meditative. “Yes, yes, it was Will, because George was a decided slow-top. My dear, you would have loved her letters home. Come to think of it, they must still be about here somewhere.”

  Jeannie picked up the envelope and shook out the draft on a London bank signed by Captain Summers. “I suppose this is for the mail coach and posting houses,” she said. “Goodness, it is a substantial sum. Does this give us some indication of the degree of desperation?”

  “A sea captain stuck in the middle of a come-out,” Galen said. “It does make the blood run cold.”

  Jeannie handed him the bank draft. “I suppose you can write ‘void’ upon the draft and send it back. You probably should accompany it with a letter, Galen.”

  “I am sure that would be best, Jeannie, although …” His voice trailed off and then he began to laugh. “Oh, the things Aunt Jeannie used to write about the Summers boys! I would almost give a year of my pension to see the look on William Summer’s face if you were to show up in Jeannie’s place!”

  Jeannie smiled indulgently at her father-in-law. Men will have their little jokes, she thought as she returned the letter to the envelope. She retrieved the draft and placed it with the letter on the mantel, where it would remind Galen to reply.

  Her cloak must be dry by now. Nodding to her father-in-law, who was still in the grip of a huge good humor, she went into the other room and picked up her plaid.

  She was smoothing out the fabric when the idea took hold of her. So Captain William Summers wanted a woman of good sense, did he? And he wanted Jeannie McVinnie, in particular.

  She went to the desk and looked at the calendar there. April, May, and June. Was that not the extent of a London Season? It would amount to a few balls, suppers, and parties to occupy her agreeably while Galen McVinnie went to his regimental reunion and trout-fishing in the Highlands.

  Jeannie knew that he would do none of these things if she remained in Kirkcudbright. He would remember his promise to his dying son and stay to look after her, even though he longed to be elsewhere. She shivered. Even though you so politely wish me elsewhere, Galen McVinnie.

  “You McVinnies are so stubborn,” she said out loud. “If you will not do what is best for you, then I must. And surely one Jeannie McVinnie is as good as another.”

  She gave the idea several minutes’ thought. When nothing surfaced to wave her away from it, Jeannie went to the door of the sitting room. Galen was still there, only he was rereading his well-read note from Laird Ross. He looked up at her and Jeannie made her decision.

  “Father McVinnie,” she declared, “I have a wonderful notion. Tell me what you think of it.”

  Chapter 2

  Jeannie’s first glimpse of London was disappointing in the extreme. Because of a loose wheel, their entrance in the city had been delayed until dusk. The rain, which had been threatening all day to fall, thundered down, obscuring what little else she could have seen.

  Her back ached from the discomfort of sitting upright hour after hour. She longed to curl up in a dark corner and abandon herself to sleep. Food could wait; clean linens could wait; she wanted to sleep.

  The mud-spattered coach pulled into the Bull and Hind with a flourish of the horn and a great squeak of water-soaked brakes. It remained only to reclaim her baggage and procure the services of a hackney.

  The several hackneys for hire were quickly bespoken for by the other occupants of the mail coach, who danced about in the sodden roadway, raising their hands to attract the attention of the drivers and then leaping back to the curb in time to avoid an accident.

  I can never do that, thought Jeannie. I will be forced to stand here until spring at least, or until someone takes pity. She was the only unescorted woman remaining in what was obviously an unsavory neighborhood. That thought, plus a sudden rush of water down the back of her neck, compelled her into the street. She waved her arm vigorously, and to her infinite relief, a jobbing cab stopped.

  “And where’ll ye be heading, now, miss?” asked the driver.

  “Three Wendover Square, if you please,” she replied.

  The driver whistled. “That’s a mighty fine direction, miss,” he said, and leaned down from his box. “Now you’ll not be offended if I ask ye to show me some money first, will ye? It’s a bit of a way to go.”

  And I look none too prosperous soaking wet, she thought grimly as she dug about in her reticule and salvaged a handful of coins. The driver nodded and tipped his hat to her, and she climbed inside.

  Once she was out of the rain, she had to smile to herself, thinking how carefully she had assured Galen that she could manage perfectly well by herself. And so she could, once she had learned to overlook the stares of innkeepers and the bold glances of men drinking in taprooms. Jeannie had spoken to no one in the four days of her journey, save a vicar outside of Leeds, who rode for only a few miles, and a governess on her way to Nottingham. In silence she had ridden, one hand firmly on her reticule and her eyes fastened upon the dreary scenery of late March.

  She must have slept then in the hackney, leaning against the window, her hand tight to the strap. The monotony of the rain, along with last night’s sleepless sojourn in a noisy, overcrowded inn, sent her into a slumber that she did not wake from until the hackney had stopped and the driver opened the door to admit the rain again.

  “Here you are, miss. Watch your step, mind.”

  Jeannie paid the driver, gathered her sodden skirts about her, and descended to the roadway. Whistling to himself, the driver plopped her bags down beside her, tipped his hat again, and drove into the rainy night.

  Jeannie picked up her bags, took two steps toward the house, and then set down the bags again. The doubts that had been niggling at her almost since the moment they crossed the border seemed to loom before her now in monstrous proportion. As she stood peering at the large house through the dark and the rain, Jeannie McVinnie knew, deep in her self-critical Scottish heart, that she had erred.

  She also knew that she could not return to Kirkcudbright. Galen had locked up the little house on McDermott Street, and Mrs. MacDonald had left for Skye to spend the spring with her oldest daughter. To cry off now would mean that her father-in-law, gentleman that he was, would be forced to leave his Highland trout stream and the agreeable company of old comrades-in-arms.

  What had seemed a clever idea less than a week ago was now only a foolish escapade. Jeannie knew that Scottish humor was a piquant thing. Suppose the English were different? She had no experience among them. Her mouth went dry and her hands felt cold and clammy inside her gloves.

  How could I be so stupid, she berated herself. What happened to my perspicacity?

  A cart tumbled by, flinging water across her cloak. If I remain here much longer, I will be a fetching sight, she thought. Courage, Jeannie. You got yourself into this so gracefully, now you had better get yourself out.

  She squared her shoulders and picked up her bags again, compelling herself to move forward and up the front steps. She knocked on the door, praying that no one was at home even as she saw lights glowing in the windows and heard the mumble of voices w
ithin.

  The bags felt as heavy as Presbyterian sin, and she set them down again, a little to one side, as she waited for the door to open.

  It opened so suddenly that the motion nearly threw her off balance. Jeannie blinked and jumped back as an overstuffed woman in an apron and cap grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her inside.

  “We thought you would never get here,” the woman railed as she pulled Jeannie into the room. “Lady Smeath is about to fall into a foaming fit, and the captain … Oh, God help us!”

  Jeannie could only stare, openmouthed.

  The housekeeper peered at her and spoke in more kindly tones. “Dearie, take off your cloak. My, you look as if you had traveled miles and miles, instead of only from Bond Street. I suppose it’s that kind of a night. Hurry up, now. There’s work to be done. That’s my dearie.”

  Numbly, Jeannie handed over her cloak and thought only fleetingly of her bags on the front steps. Whatever address she had once possessed deserted her entirely. She started to say something, but the housekeeper had her firmly in tow and was tugging her up the stairs.

  A quick glance at the top of the stairs took in the beautiful rooms, the portraits on the walls, the thick carpeting underfoot. She peeked in one open door as the housekeeper hurried her along. A curly-haired gentleman was struggling with a neckcloth.

  “Blast and damn, Pringle,” he shouted as she was hurried past. “Damn and blast! I’d rather be under fire and hip-deep in swash!”

  “Aye, aye, Captain. Surely we’ll come about, sir.”

  Jeannie’s ears caught the burr of a Scottish voice in that reply, but the housekeeper was racing her down the long hall to another room, where she stopped, out of breath. The housekeeper took a closer look at Jeannie and a frown appeared between her eyes.

  “Well, didn’t Madame Coutant send you with some thread at least? A pair of scissors?”

  Jeannie shook her head and the housekeeper sighed in exasperation. “Those frogs haven’t the sense of a pound of butter. Oh, go in. I will get thread.”

  The woman propelled Jeannie into the room and left her there. A young girl stood in front of Jeannie, her eyes red with weeping. An older woman sat on the bed. She was dressed in the latest fashion, her dress a perfection of lace and silk, but her face was pale and she appeared on the ragged edge of a spasm. The woman rose laboriously to her feet when she saw Jeannie and drifted toward her as if she had not the strength to navigate to the door.

  “You can tell Madame Coutant that after this night, I will no longer suffer her with our patronage. Now, what are we to do about this, I ask you? And I suggest that you have a remedy.”

  With a languid hand, she motioned Jeannie forward. “Stand still, Larinda, and quit sniveling. We haven’t time for cucumbers on your eyes. Let the dressmaker see you. Now, I ask ….”

  Jeannie came nearer and the problem was obvious immediately. The dress was too big, nothing more. Jeannie smiled and reached out to touch the girl on the arm. “I can have this ready in a trice. Don’t fret so. Now, take it off, like a good lassie.”

  The young woman pulled back when Jeannie touched her.

  “You are a trifle familiar with your betters,” she snapped even as she turned around for Jeannie to unbutton the garment.

  Resisting the urge to slap her, Jeannie unbuttoned the dress and pulled it carefully over the young woman’s hair, which was already arranged with diamonds and flowers. “Wrap a dressing gown around yourself, my dear,” she said. “Ah, here we are.”

  The housekeeper had returned with a workbasket. Jeannie whisked the dress inside out and reeled off a length of thread. Deftly she pinned another seam inside the first one and threaded the needle. She perched herself on the chest at the foot of the bed and started to sew. She thought about attempting some light conversation, but a quick glance at the young lady—was her name Larinda?—and her stormy eyes and a peek at the older woman’s white mouth convinced Jeannie to keep her own counsel. As she hunched over the material, she vowed to leave this unpleasant house, leaving no one the wiser. If they thought her the dressmaker’s assistant, that was well and good.

  Jeannie bent her head diligently over her work, looking down at the exquisite pink muslin dress across her lap. Her glance caught the tiniest movement of the bed ruffle.

  Curious, she stuck the needle in the fabric and picked up the bedspread. Gazing back at her was a little girl, finger in her mouth, dark eyes wide.

  “Oh, you precious,” Jeannie exclaimed despite the tension that seemed to sit in the room like a fog. “Oh, do come out. I’ll not bite. Truly, lassie, I haven’t a mean bone.”

  The little girl smiled around the finger still in her mouth, but she did not move. With a sigh of profound ill use, the housekeeper pulled her out from under the bed, picked her up, and set her against the wall. She wagged a finger at her. “Don’t you move a muscle now. We haven’t time to spare for crochets.”

  The little girl’s eyes clouded over and for a moment Jeannie thought she would cry. The child took a quick, sidelong glance at Larinda’s companion, uttered a shuddering breath that went straight to Jeannie’s heart, and remained where she was in the shadow.

  Jeannie dragged her eyes back to the dress and continued her tiny stitches. She quickly altered both side seams, clipped off the thread, and held out the dress to Larinda, who snatched it from her.

  “Help me,” she ordered.

  Her lips set in a tight line, Jeannie rose to her feet and snapped the scissors shut in her hand with an audible click. Her head went back and her eyes narrowed. “Say please.”

  Larinda gasped. The other woman—she could only be Larinda’s aunt—made a strangled sound deep in her throat and waved her vinaigrette about like incense while the housekeeper coughed.

  “Your impertinence defies belief,” the aunt said as soon as she regained the use of her voice. “Tomorrow Madame Coutant will have a full account of it, and I hope she turns you off without a character.”

  Jeannie looked around at her tormentor. “Yes, ma’am, you tell Madame Coutant every little detail.” She turned an inquiring eye on Larinda, who stood, as if rooted to the spot, still clutching the dress.

  “Please.”

  The word was softly spoken, but Jeannie heard it.

  “Very well.”

  Larinda held up her arms as Jeannie stood on tiptoe and dropped the gown over the curls and jewels that glittered in her hair. She did up the buttons and smoothed the fabric over Larinda’s hips, stepping back for a better look.

  “It is too long, but that is all. If you will allow me, I can have that hemmed in a jig and jiffy.”

  After a glance at her aunt, Larinda nodded.

  In a moment, the dress was spread over Jeannie’s lap again. Quickly she pinned in another hem and set to work.

  The chest was too high to perch upon comfortably, and the pain laced through her shoulders as she leaned forward over the material.

  And then someone was sliding a footstool under her shoes. Gratefully she looked over and smiled into the face of a countryman.

  He could only be a fellow Scot, with his frank blue eyes, square jaw, and liberal dusting of freckles. He must belong to the voice Jeannie had heard from the captain’s room. She looked at him, a question in her eyes.

  “The captain will be needing your assistance when you are finished here, miss, if you will be so obliging.”

  “She is not obliging,” burst out Larinda’s aunt with a sob in her throat.

  “I am very obliging,” Jeannie said firmly, and smiled at the light of recognition that her accent brought into his eyes. “I am merely a stubborn Scot.”

  The man—Summer’s valet?—stood where Larinda’s aunt could not see his face and winked at her. She smiled back, grateful to know that she was not Scotland’s only expatriate in London.

  The man went to the door and stood there until the housekeeper shooed him away.

  Jeannie hemmed swiftly, wondering what the captain wanted. He could have no idea who she was. I do not think I will ask him to say please, she told herself, and the thought made her chuckle.

  While she worked, the women left the room. Jeannie heard them quarreling in the hallway. Someone stamped her foot several times and there were noisy tears. Jeannie shook her head. Nothing could force her to remain in this disjointed household. Agnes would simply have to open her home in Edinburgh to one more body, for she was going there as soon as she knotted her last knot and saw to whatever it was the captain wanted. It might make for a long spring, but at least it would be a tolerable one.