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Authors: Katherine Greyle
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he responded in dry tones.
"Uncle thinks you are an escaped Bedlamite. He has already sent inquiries."
"Really?” Carolly responded, raising an eyebrow. James suddenly became sphinx-like. He settled into his chair, his features carefully blanked of all expression.
"Oh, yes," continued Margaret, clearly imparting as much outrageous gossip as possible. "Henry, the footman, overheard you telling Uncle you were an angel, but Miss Hornswallow says you are just a cheap tart. Cook thinks you are a tart, too. One who has been beaten many times about the head."
"Oh, my!" Carolly was stunned. Obviously Margaret knew all the household gossip. But what was even more fascinating was how the girl became much more lively, much less of a stifled lump, as she spoke. Her eyes sparkled in quite a lovely fashion, plus she began to bob up and down on the couch as she spoke, shifting her shoulders left and right even though she was still too repressed to move her hands.
"Don't stop," urged Carolly. "What else do they say?"
"Well, the footmen just talk about . . . about your legs." Margaret grimaced.
"Men can be so singled-minded at times." Carolly didn't dare look at James. He was probably on the verge of a stroke.
"And the stablehands all want to meet you."
"They're probably hoping I'm a tart."
Margaret appeared to consider this, then nodded. "Probably," she said sagely.
There came a choking sound from James.
"What about you, Mags? What do you think?" Carolly asked.
The young girl silently considered, tilting her head as she inspected Carolly from head to toe. It was hard sitting still for such a thorough examination, but Carolly did her best, all the while trying to remember what genteel nineteenth-century women looked like.
"I think," began Margaret, "that I agree with Mrs. Potherby."
"The housekeeper?"
Margaret nodded. "She thinks you are just a lonely lady who is pretending to be an angel so you can poke your nose into other people's business."
"Oh." What could she say to that? She could tell that the little girl felt sorry for her, that deep down Margaret didn't want her to be lonely.
"So which are you?" the little girl pressed. "An angel or a tart?"
James pushed away from his desk. "I think we have had enough of this for now."
Carolly sighed, sensing James had reached his limit. The man obviously didn't want her confessing to being a pre-angel to his impressionable niece. But she planned to do it. Children tended to be much more accepting of miracles than adults. She couldn't do it now, though. James would only confound her explanation and muddle the whole thing up.
She reached out and touched Margaret's hand. "I'll answer your question, Mags. But not right now." She glanced significantly at James. "Don't worry," she said, looking back to the child and investing her voice with the strength of a vow, "I won't fail you."
Then she smiled, deciding to arrange another visit while James was still tolerant. "So when shall we meet next? Perhaps tomorrow afternoon? We can do anything you like." She folded her hands in her lap, imagining a long giggling chat about boys and clothing. It was one of the things she missed most now that she was dead—curling up with her sister and talking ad infinitum about the male gender.
Margaret hesitated, glancing nervously at her uncle. "I can really pick whatever I want?"
Carolly grinned, already envisioning wonderful times. "Absolutely."
"Providing it is not too dangerous," declared James.
Carolly made a face at him, then turned back to Margaret with an encouraging smile. "Come on, Mags. What is it you want to do?”
Clearly screwing up her courage, the young girl took a deep breath. "Insects."
"What?”
"I want to go collecting insects."
Carolly felt as if she'd been kicked right in the stomach. "You're kidding, right? Don't you want to talk about boys and dresses and make-up?”
Margaret shook her head, her eyes shining. "No. I want to collect insects and put them on pins in a
"Uncle thinks you are an escaped Bedlamite. He has already sent inquiries."
"Really?” Carolly responded, raising an eyebrow. James suddenly became sphinx-like. He settled into his chair, his features carefully blanked of all expression.
"Oh, yes," continued Margaret, clearly imparting as much outrageous gossip as possible. "Henry, the footman, overheard you telling Uncle you were an angel, but Miss Hornswallow says you are just a cheap tart. Cook thinks you are a tart, too. One who has been beaten many times about the head."
"Oh, my!" Carolly was stunned. Obviously Margaret knew all the household gossip. But what was even more fascinating was how the girl became much more lively, much less of a stifled lump, as she spoke. Her eyes sparkled in quite a lovely fashion, plus she began to bob up and down on the couch as she spoke, shifting her shoulders left and right even though she was still too repressed to move her hands.
"Don't stop," urged Carolly. "What else do they say?"
"Well, the footmen just talk about . . . about your legs." Margaret grimaced.
"Men can be so singled-minded at times." Carolly didn't dare look at James. He was probably on the verge of a stroke.
"And the stablehands all want to meet you."
"They're probably hoping I'm a tart."
Margaret appeared to consider this, then nodded. "Probably," she said sagely.
There came a choking sound from James.
"What about you, Mags? What do you think?" Carolly asked.
The young girl silently considered, tilting her head as she inspected Carolly from head to toe. It was hard sitting still for such a thorough examination, but Carolly did her best, all the while trying to remember what genteel nineteenth-century women looked like.
"I think," began Margaret, "that I agree with Mrs. Potherby."
"The housekeeper?"
Margaret nodded. "She thinks you are just a lonely lady who is pretending to be an angel so you can poke your nose into other people's business."
"Oh." What could she say to that? She could tell that the little girl felt sorry for her, that deep down Margaret didn't want her to be lonely.
"So which are you?" the little girl pressed. "An angel or a tart?"
James pushed away from his desk. "I think we have had enough of this for now."
Carolly sighed, sensing James had reached his limit. The man obviously didn't want her confessing to being a pre-angel to his impressionable niece. But she planned to do it. Children tended to be much more accepting of miracles than adults. She couldn't do it now, though. James would only confound her explanation and muddle the whole thing up.
She reached out and touched Margaret's hand. "I'll answer your question, Mags. But not right now." She glanced significantly at James. "Don't worry," she said, looking back to the child and investing her voice with the strength of a vow, "I won't fail you."
Then she smiled, deciding to arrange another visit while James was still tolerant. "So when shall we meet next? Perhaps tomorrow afternoon? We can do anything you like." She folded her hands in her lap, imagining a long giggling chat about boys and clothing. It was one of the things she missed most now that she was dead—curling up with her sister and talking ad infinitum about the male gender.
Margaret hesitated, glancing nervously at her uncle. "I can really pick whatever I want?"
Carolly grinned, already envisioning wonderful times. "Absolutely."
"Providing it is not too dangerous," declared James.
Carolly made a face at him, then turned back to Margaret with an encouraging smile. "Come on, Mags. What is it you want to do?”
Clearly screwing up her courage, the young girl took a deep breath. "Insects."
"What?”
"I want to go collecting insects."
Carolly felt as if she'd been kicked right in the stomach. "You're kidding, right? Don't you want to talk about boys and dresses and make-up?”
Margaret shook her head, her eyes shining. "No. I want to collect insects and put them on pins in a
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