Mrs. McVinnie's London Season (17 page)

Jeannie came away from
the fireplace, glad enough with the thought of her own bed. She
took a last look at Clare, sleeping with her hands tucked under her
cheek. To her way of thinking, she did look like the captain. But I
was looking for that, she thought, and I found it—or thought I
did.

She opened the door
into the hall and then turned back to Captain Summers, who stood by
the window, watching her. “You can still change this, you know.”
She dropped her eyes, nonplussed by the intensity of his gaze. “I
only wish I could be here to help.”

He sighed. “And I can
only regret that you got on the bad side of the Beau. Well, I could
have used your assistance this London Season.” He raised his hand
in a half-humorous salute. “But I don’t wonder that, given the
circumstances, I would have said the same things to him. Good
night, Mrs. McVinnie. It seems we are always saying good night, and
soon good-bye.”

“
It
does seem that way,” she agreed. “So good night to you. And I did
have a fine time at Almack’s. It is something I will
remember.”

Dawn was still far
enough away to consider at least a few hours in bed. Jeannie
undressed and pulled on her nightgown. The bed looked so soft and
the pillow so inviting, but she went to the window seat instead and
made herself comfortable. I shall think on this matter for the
captain, she told herself.

In another moment, she
slept.

J
eannie woke as she always did, as though someone had
been calling her name and had only just left off. She could feel
the warmth on the other side of her eyelids, but she had no
curiosity about it, so she wriggled onto her side and kept her eyes
closed.

Sleep was out of the
question. She was awake, her mind already busily traveling down the
road it had veered onto last night when it was so rudely
interrupted by sleep. Is it possible, she thought, that no one has
ever loved Captain Summers?

Jeannie tucked her hand
under her cheek and scrunched herself lower. Consider the
situation, she told herself. He went to sea at twelve, Lord love
us, and we have been at war ever so long, and he has been on the
blockade, well, long enough. When would a man like that have a
chance to love anyone, outside of that dreadful woman in
Oporto?

There was nothing wrong
with the way he looked, she decided, if one discounted the
thin-lipped, provoking stare of his, which she suspected was there
for the purpose of reducing the marrow to jelly in the interest of
duty. He was tall and there was enough of him to hang on to, if one
should choose to do so. Jeannie smiled to herself, remembering how
Tom would growl and tickle her when she said something about so
much of him to love.

True, the captain’s
hair was thinning in front, but it was curly and a trifle at odds
with the excruciating correctness of his carriage and uniform. She
thought he possibly had a dimple, but she couldn’t be sure. He
didn’t smile enough for her to recall offhand. His eyes were a
marvelous, deep-sea green and quite his best feature.

There is no reason why
you should remain unloved and alone, Captain Summers, Jeannie
decided. If he was a posted captain, he had adequate income, and he
had mentioned something last night about prize money. There was
likely his share of income from the Summers estate, too, and where
on earth would a man on the blockade have an opportunity to spend
it? He was a good whist player, surely the best she had ever
partnered. He wasn’t the kind of man to be susceptible to
indiscretion in play and pay.

True, he had an
unfortunate air of command about him. Captain Summers was not used
to disagreement. She considered that aspect of his character a
moment. He needs merely to find a cozy little lady who likes to be
bullied a bit, and he will be happy enough, Jeannie thought. I must
admonish him to dance a little more at Almack’s the next time he
escorts Larinda there, and stay out of the whist room, where his
only companions would be octogenarians and dowdy widows. She smiled
at last night’s memory and filed it away. If Lady Smeath can be
compelled to exert herself, surely she could bring to his notice
some female of her acquaintance. Of course, this paragon would have
to be an independent lady who does not mind solitude for great
stretches, someone who wouldn’t worry overmuch if a letter does not
come regularly.

Oh, but then, that
would not be love, she told herself crossly, and found that her
thoughts had neatly circled about again and were running down the
same useless track: Is it possible that no one has even loved
Captain Summers?

I must mention to
Captain Summers that he should take advantage of this London
Season, she thought. Think of all the lovely young ladies at
Almack’s last night. They cannot all be brainless and vapid.
Nothing would bring out the bully more in Captain Summers than a
totty-headed female; it would make him retreat even farther from
Parson’s Mousetrap. I will see what I can do.

Oh, mercy, tonight is
the theater. Why am I worried about Captain Summers?

The thought of facing
Mr. Brummell produced an agitation that would find relief only in
movement. Jeannie hurled herself over onto her other side and
nearly rolled out of the window seat. Someone giggled, and she
opened her eyes, startled.

Mary, her face filled
with laughter, stood close by, holding a can of hot water. “Begging
your pardon ever so much, Mrs. McVinnie,” she asked, the laughter
barely suppressed in her voice, “but does no one in this house
sleep in a natural way?”

“
I
cannot answer for the other inmates of this peculiar establishment,
but I was merely trying to think last night in the window seat,”
Jeannie said with dignity as she hugged the blanket around her.
“Did you cover me with this? How kind you are.”

Mary’s eyes still
danced. “Did you do a lot of thinking, Mrs. McV?”

“
Scamp,” declared Jeannie. She sat up, tried to stretch, and
winced. “I am too old for window seats.”

“
I
looked in on Edward last night early, before you returned, and
there he was with his precious guidebook draped over him,” said
Mary as she set down the water and tidied about the wash stand.
“This morning Clare had one of the captain’s gloves clutched to her
face. Heaven knows where she got it.” Mary leaned closer. “And
between you and me, I don’t think that the captain ever sleeps. He
must be a dreadful trial to his midshipmen.”

“
Is he
about already?” Jeannie asked as she stood up and stretched out her
arms to the midmorning sun, which was streaming in the open
window.

Mary poured the water
in the basin and tested it with her finger. “Up and gone, like a
hound on a hare. And do you know what? He took Clare with him.”

“
Did
he?” Jeannie exclaimed.

Mary handed her a
towel. “He did. The two of them sat together in the breakfast
parlor, Clare sitting on that stack of books and the captain deep
in his morning paper. Such a comical sight. Clare would peek around
the paper until he had to fold it and put it away, but he was
smiling.”

Jeannie hugged herself
and then whirled about. Good for you, Captain, she thought as she
laughed at the expression on Mary’s face.

“
And
do you know, he helped her finish her baked egg, wiped her mouth,
and then asked her quite solemnly if she would like to take the
morning air with him. And then off they rode, as proper as you
please and looking as fine as five pence in the late master’s
barouche.” Mary looked about her with a conspiratorial expression.
“I begin to think that Captain Summers really is a fine figure of a
man, especially when he wears his uniform and sits up so
straight.”

“
I
wonder where they can have gone?”

“
I
heard the captain say something to Pringle about an errand that
wouldn’t wait and then a morning call on Lady Jersey.”

“
Lady
Jersey?” Jeannie wondered out loud. “Whatever can he be up
to?”

“
I am
sure I would never have the nerve to ask. Will you be needing my
help, Mrs. McVinnie?” Mary asked as she backed toward the
door.

Jeannie shook her head,
but then she put up her hand to stop the maid. “One moment. Is
Pringle about?”

“
Ma’am?”

Jeannie hurried to her
desk and scribbled a note. “Give this to him, please. And
Edward?”

Mary stopped at the
door again. “That reminds me. The captain told Edward most
specifically that he was to be your dog-robber today.” Mary’s eyes
were full of questions. “I wonder what he can mean. And there is a
list for you on the breakfast table. I believe it is from Lady
Smeath.”

That will be my errand
list, Jeannie thought as she locked the door behind Mary and gave
herself a quick wash. She hurried because the room was cold. Even
the hot water in the basin could not compete with the chill, and
she soon had a towel draped about her shoulders.

She stood still then,
suddenly oblivious to the cold, and she realized that this was the
first morning in many more mornings beyond a year that Tom had not
occupied her first thoughts. She wrapped the towel tighter about
her and sat on the bed, leaning against the bedpost.

“
It is
this way, Tom,” she said out loud. “Clare and the captain really do
occupy my mind at this moment.”

Jeannie dressed herself
thoughtfully, looking again at the dress she had worn to Almack’s
last night, which Mary had hung up carefully in the dressing room.
She had left the beautiful garment in a tangle about her feet when
she stepped out of it last night. “I have become quite dissipated
with all this rare living, Tom,” she excused herself as she
dressed.

Her collection of
dresses was truly meager and looked especially sparse hanging in
the generous dressing room. She contemplated the evening to come at
the theater and looked about her for something appropriate.

“
What
does one wear to a character assassination?” she asked herself as
she fingered one dress and then another. “I dare not wear the
captain’s silk again, at least not so soon. There is always my gray
silk.” She held it out. “We are such friends, but no one here knows
that.”

Jeannie traced her
finger over the plain neckline. Perhaps a new collar and a little
gathering of flowers at the neck would make all the difference. But
that would only declare her to be a complete dowd. She had noticed
no one at Almack’s last night wore anything remotely resembling a
collar, lace or otherwise. It was all décolletage and diamonds.
Jeannie looked down at her own décolletage and sighed. “Hopeless,
hopeless.”

She let go of her gray
dress and leaned against the door. “It is a lowering thought, Tom,”
she whispered. “Why did I ever say such things to Beau
Brummell?”

Jeannie gave her head a
toss. Such reflection was only slipping her deeper into melancholy,
and she was grateful when a knock at the door interrupted her
unprofitable thoughts.

“
Mrs.
McVinnie, I say, Mrs. McVinnie.” It was Edward. “Are you about yet?
Uncle Summers has given me a commission.”

Jeannie patted her hair
into place and opened the door. Edward stood before her, dressed in
nankeen breeches and coat, his guidebook tucked under his arm, his
hair still wet from a good combing. She pulled him into the room.
“No elephants, I trust?”

Edward peered at her
and permitted himself a smile. “Not a bit of it,” he declared. “I
am to direct you to Amalie’s on Bond Street to pick up some foo-fra
for Larinda.” He jingled some coins in his pocket. “Uncle Summers
says we are to take a hackney.”

“
That
is by far too expensive,” Jeannie said as she settled her chipstraw
bonnet on her curls and tied the bow under one ear.

Edward shook his head.
“The captain told me that if you were to say that, I was to ignore
you.”

She laughed and fluffed
out the bow. “Very well, Edward, if he insists that we go in style,
we can only be grateful it is his money.”

Edward allowed her only
the briefest stop in the breakfast room for tea and toast and then
led her into the bright blue of a March morning. He hailed a
hackney and gave directions.

Jeannie settled herself
among the cushions. “That was well done, Edward,” she said.

“
I
used to be afraid of them,” he confided, and then blushed. She
patted his knee and cast her eyes upon the morning scene. A sedan
chair, borne by two servants, swayed gently on its long poles,
while a querulous voice from within demanded to know where they had
learned to drive. Jeannie smiled. Her attention was drawn to a
grinder man with a hunched back, who had set up shop on the street
corner and brandished his knives at the urchins who capered about
him, trying to touch his hump for luck.

And there was a pie
man, talking to himself as he walked along under the smell of hot
mincemeat and rum. Edward watched him too, leaning out of the
carriage.

“
Don’t
you do it, Edward,” she admonished as they passed right by the pie
man and the fragrant temptation balanced on his head.

Edward only grinned at
her and ducked back inside. “I would have liked some mincemeat,” he
said, his tone suddenly wistful. “But Aunt Agatha swears it is
troublesome for my digestion. “

“
Your
digestion,” Jeannie declared. “I think there is not a subject less
troublesome to young boys.”

Edward nodded. “So I
told Aunt Agatha once, but she reminded me that I am delicate.”

Jeannie shook her head.
“No one who rides an elephant is delicate, Edward.”