Baxter was such a dragon that Bertha knew she could not possibly do it, even though it was one of her duties to take Baxter up her morning cup of tea.
Feeling like a very ordinary London chambermaid and not at all like a heroine of the revolution, Bertha pushed open the door of Baxter’s bedchamber and went in and deposited the cup of tea, innocent of anything except tea-leaves, on the table beside Baxter’s bed.
A dismal cough greeted her ears as Baxter came awake. Bertha turned round. Baxter’s nose was red and her eyes were streaming. ‘Got a code,’ groaned Baxter.
Bertha immediately saw the chance of pleasing Frank while not harming Baxter. ‘Then you oughts to stay in bed,’ said Bertha.
‘Miss wants to go walking in the Bark,’ said Baxter through her nose.
‘Oh, you shouldn’t do that,’ cried Bertha. ‘You could die of an inflammation!’
The chambermaid tripped off to Fiona’s room and scratched at the door and went in. Fiona was awake and reading a morning newspaper. Bertha bobbed a curtsy and said breathlessly, ‘You must speak to Miss Baxter, miss. She has a terrible cold and ought to stay in bed. But she says as how she has to go to the Park.’
Fiona climbed out of bed and pulled on a wrapper. ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘Henry, the footman, will do just as well.’
And so it was that Mr Callaghan had the pleasure of seeing Fiona walking across the grass of Hyde Park accompanied only by a footman. He was so pleased that he even contemplated paying Frank some wages.
He waited until Fiona was about to walk past him and bowed low. Fiona inclined her head and walked on. Mr Callaghan skipped in front of her and bowed again. Again, Fiona nodded. Mr Callaghan darted off round a stand of trees to appear in front of her once more. Fiona stopped. ‘You are making yourself appear ridiculous, sir,’ she said calmly. ‘Pray do stop running about the Park like a March hare.’
Mr Callaghan flushed. He was wearing his newest bottle-green coat and his swansdown waistcoat. Surely the combination of both was enough to melt a heart of stone.
‘I have seen you before,’ went on Fiona, scrutinizing this Pink of the
ton
with uncomfortably shrewd eyes. ‘You seem to spend a great deal of your time in Holles Street.’
‘I confess it, madam. I confess. I watch and wait for even the slightest glimpse of you.’
‘Are you so deeply in debt?’ asked Fiona with interest. Mr Callaghan looked at her in a baffled way. But Fiona’s train of thought was quite simple. Mr Callaghan, she had quickly decided, spent a fortune on showy clothes. He wanted to know her; he probably wanted to marry her, having heard she was an heiress, and so he was now chasing her in the Park.
‘I may as well add that I am never going to marry anyone,’ said Fiona.
‘I could melt your heart,’ cried Mr Callaghan. He clutched his heart and sank to one knee on the path in front of her.
‘Shall I clear it away, miss?’ asked Henry, surveying Mr Callaghan with dislike.
‘I do hope that will not be necessary,’ said Fiona. ‘Do rise, sir, and stop making a cake of yourself.’
‘Can I be of assistance, Miss Macleod?’
Fiona turned to face Lord Peter Havard, who was walking quickly towards her.
Mr Callaghan leaped to his feet, his face aflame. ‘Dear me, Callaghan,’ drawled Lord Peter. He took out his quizzing-glass and walked around the embarrassed fribble, scrutinizing his clothes. Then he gave a shudder. ‘I can think of nothing worse, Miss Macleod,’ he said, ‘than having such clothes thrust under one’s nose on a sunny day.
‘Are you insulting me?’ cried Mr Callaghan.
‘My dear chap,’ said Lord Peter, ‘I am simply making an observation. Don’t kill me. Kill your tailor.’
Fiona to Lord Peter’s disgust, suddenly gave Mr Callaghan a warm smile. ‘I suggest, sir,’ she said, ‘that you ask my chaperones for permission to call. Good day to you.
Mr Callaghan puffed out his buckram-wadded chest
Feeling like a very ordinary London chambermaid and not at all like a heroine of the revolution, Bertha pushed open the door of Baxter’s bedchamber and went in and deposited the cup of tea, innocent of anything except tea-leaves, on the table beside Baxter’s bed.
A dismal cough greeted her ears as Baxter came awake. Bertha turned round. Baxter’s nose was red and her eyes were streaming. ‘Got a code,’ groaned Baxter.
Bertha immediately saw the chance of pleasing Frank while not harming Baxter. ‘Then you oughts to stay in bed,’ said Bertha.
‘Miss wants to go walking in the Bark,’ said Baxter through her nose.
‘Oh, you shouldn’t do that,’ cried Bertha. ‘You could die of an inflammation!’
The chambermaid tripped off to Fiona’s room and scratched at the door and went in. Fiona was awake and reading a morning newspaper. Bertha bobbed a curtsy and said breathlessly, ‘You must speak to Miss Baxter, miss. She has a terrible cold and ought to stay in bed. But she says as how she has to go to the Park.’
Fiona climbed out of bed and pulled on a wrapper. ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘Henry, the footman, will do just as well.’
And so it was that Mr Callaghan had the pleasure of seeing Fiona walking across the grass of Hyde Park accompanied only by a footman. He was so pleased that he even contemplated paying Frank some wages.
He waited until Fiona was about to walk past him and bowed low. Fiona inclined her head and walked on. Mr Callaghan skipped in front of her and bowed again. Again, Fiona nodded. Mr Callaghan darted off round a stand of trees to appear in front of her once more. Fiona stopped. ‘You are making yourself appear ridiculous, sir,’ she said calmly. ‘Pray do stop running about the Park like a March hare.’
Mr Callaghan flushed. He was wearing his newest bottle-green coat and his swansdown waistcoat. Surely the combination of both was enough to melt a heart of stone.
‘I have seen you before,’ went on Fiona, scrutinizing this Pink of the
ton
with uncomfortably shrewd eyes. ‘You seem to spend a great deal of your time in Holles Street.’
‘I confess it, madam. I confess. I watch and wait for even the slightest glimpse of you.’
‘Are you so deeply in debt?’ asked Fiona with interest. Mr Callaghan looked at her in a baffled way. But Fiona’s train of thought was quite simple. Mr Callaghan, she had quickly decided, spent a fortune on showy clothes. He wanted to know her; he probably wanted to marry her, having heard she was an heiress, and so he was now chasing her in the Park.
‘I may as well add that I am never going to marry anyone,’ said Fiona.
‘I could melt your heart,’ cried Mr Callaghan. He clutched his heart and sank to one knee on the path in front of her.
‘Shall I clear it away, miss?’ asked Henry, surveying Mr Callaghan with dislike.
‘I do hope that will not be necessary,’ said Fiona. ‘Do rise, sir, and stop making a cake of yourself.’
‘Can I be of assistance, Miss Macleod?’
Fiona turned to face Lord Peter Havard, who was walking quickly towards her.
Mr Callaghan leaped to his feet, his face aflame. ‘Dear me, Callaghan,’ drawled Lord Peter. He took out his quizzing-glass and walked around the embarrassed fribble, scrutinizing his clothes. Then he gave a shudder. ‘I can think of nothing worse, Miss Macleod,’ he said, ‘than having such clothes thrust under one’s nose on a sunny day.
‘Are you insulting me?’ cried Mr Callaghan.
‘My dear chap,’ said Lord Peter, ‘I am simply making an observation. Don’t kill me. Kill your tailor.’
Fiona to Lord Peter’s disgust, suddenly gave Mr Callaghan a warm smile. ‘I suggest, sir,’ she said, ‘that you ask my chaperones for permission to call. Good day to you.
Mr Callaghan puffed out his buckram-wadded chest
Similar Books
