Authors: Cupboard Kisses
He went on to recommend that she move, which was an impossibility, of course, as she owned the boarding-house. In that case, the officer suggested, she might take in a soldier at reduced rent, to help guard the premises. Cristabel sniffed disdainfully, thinking of Mac, waiting outside where no one could see his black eye. The Runner got the idea she wouldn’t let a man in the house. Too bad, too, for if she was dressed up a bit…
“Then, ma’am, I can only advise you to get a big dog and a pistol. A lot of housebreakers are discouraged by the barking, and at least you are warned in time to get the gun. I don’t usually like to see ladies with weapons like that. Too often they shoot their husbands, coming home from a late night at the clubs, you know, thinking he’s a burglar. At least that’s what they say, the widows, that is. But in your case…”
In her case it sounded like an excellent idea. Mac should be good for that; at least he could teach her how to shoot. Not that she would ever have to fire the pistol, actually. Cristabel was certain that pocket-bully Nick Blass would be frightened by the very sight of a weapon in her hand. She would be.
The next day brought a lot of changes to 15 Sullivan Street, a house that had already seen more than its share of comings and goings over the years. The first was new locks.
“Boy, before you go to fetch back a locksmith, I’d like to see this watchdog we have. I didn’t hear it bark last night or anything.”
“He’s real mean though,” was her answer, on the way down to the kitchens. A big, black, mangy cur lifted its head to snarl at her when she bent to inspect it. He was mean all right.
“Are you sure the animal is safe?”
“Sure. Feed him and give him a soft place to sleep upstairs, and he’ll guard his territory and his next meal.”
So Cristabel gathered the scraps under Boy’s direction and the beast’s yellow-eyed stare and pushed the bowl closer to the animal with her foot, saying “Nice doggy,” and feeling stupid. He was not a nice doggy. He was not even a male doggy, Cristabel could see now. He, she, rather, was also flea-bitten and filthy.
“Do you think she could have a bath if I am to have her in my bedroom?”
Boy looked doubtful, scratching his head. Cristabel wondered if he was considering whether the dog would hate the bath and bite, or whether Miss Swann was crazy to worry over a little dirt and insect life. “I know,” she advised, “I bet the dog would do just fine if you got in the tub with her.”
“But I was cleaned up yesterday, mopping the steps.”
“Marie said your new shirt would be ready this afternoon. You wouldn’t want to put that on until you’ve had a proper bath, would you? Here, I’ll fetch the soap and some towels. You set the water on to heat”
Boy made more fuss than the dog, which, having eaten, only wanted to sleep by the fire. Boy also came out of the tub improved; the old bitch stayed mangy and mean. Cristabel led the dog upstairs, at a distance, by trailng pieces of muffin. She took up that stained brown dress she’d worn to polish the brass, the one she left to be used for rags, and neatly folded it into a mat at the foot of her bed.
“Here, Dog,” she called, that being all Boy had used as name for the animal, naturally. “No, I cannot refer to you as Dog. You shall be…Meadowlark, yes Meadowlark, for Miss Meadow, a fierce old bitch if there ever was one. Good doggy, here’s your bed.” She put the rest of the muffin down and gingerly reached out to pat the grizzled old head.
Meadowlark swallowed the muffin, suffered the pat, pawed the dress into a lumpier nest, and collapsed onto it, fast asleep, having wind.
Cristabel left in a rush to send Boy off on his errand. When the dog never even stirred at the locksmith’s presence, Boy told her, “Front door ain’t his territory.”
Cristabel did enough growling herself at the locksmith, who charged double for coming out on an emergency, it being Sunday, so Boy’s explanation seemed reasonable enough. She knew as much about dogs as Boy knew about Dorian tetrachords and diatonic intervals. She was going to learn a lot more about them a lot sooner than she planned.
“You brought me a what?”
“It’s a foxhound pup. Isn’t he a beauty? Fellow I went to for your pistol had a litter of them.”
“I can’t hear you, Mac. Tell the dog to be quiet.”
“You don’t want him to be quiet, Belle. You need a good loud dog to wake you up if there’s an intruder.”
“More likely he’ll wake the whole neighborhood, all night. Besides, if he barks all the time, how will I know if something is wrong?”
“He won’t keep it up, he’s just excited. See, he’s quieter already.”
“That’s because his mouth is full. He’s chewing on the curtains! Make him stop, Mac.”
“Here, sir, down. Down I say, not the tassel on my boots, damn you. Don’t worry, Belle, it’s just high spirits. He’ll make you a fine watchdog.”
“He’s making a fine mess on the rug.”
The new dog, who came with the appellation Beau, was excused to the tiny bare spot behind the house, where he could guard the rear entry. Tied to the kitchen stair post, he could stay there until someone, Mac or Boy, had time to teach him house manners. Boy found an old bone to keep him quiet, meantime, although Cristabel vowed to see the animal sent off to a better home in the country as soon as possible. Any country.
“Bringing me the dog was really thoughtful, Lyle, but did you get the pistol?”
“As sweet as can stare!”
The weapon didn’t look sweet at all, to Miss Swann. It looked cold and deadly, heavy and intimidating. Its pearl inlays would have appealed more as silverware handles.
She touched it with the same enthusiasm she’d shown patting Meadowlark. (Beau hadn’t stood still long enough to be petted.)
“The only thing is, Belle, we’ve got nowhere to practice. I mean, you can’t fire it in the house, and out here the yard is too small to set up a target, and you can’t just waltz into Manton’s Shooting Gallery like a gent could, so I don’t know what’s to do. Maybe we could rent a carriage and go for a ride in the country.”
And drop off the dog, she thought, but didn’t say. She also didn’t say the beast might make a perfect target for one of the irate neighbors if it didn’t shut up. “That’s fine, Lyle,” she did say. “If you just show me how to load it and what to do if I should want to fire it, that will be enough for today. I think the weapon is more to give me confidence than anything else, you see. Just knowing I have it and can wave it around makes me feel more secure.”
That reasoning made no sense whatsoever to Major MacDermott, who often carried a pistol and a knife in his boot, along with his sword and the skean dhu of his regimentals. He demonstrated how to load the thing anyway, then let her try. He held it out and sighted down the barrel, then let her try that. Of course, the nodcock had bought her a showy piece with a hair trigger that he’d neglected to mention. The gun went off, defoliating a neighbor’s shrub, setting Beau to howling, and bringing Mr. Haynes outside to complain.
“Miss Swann, this is the outside of enough. Hammering, barking, gunshots—on a Sunday, no less! My one day free when I could get a great deal accomplished, after church of course. I am afraid I cannot stay here any longer.”
Mac started to explain that the house was quieter than it had been for years, but Cristabel silenced him with a glare. Taking Mr. Haynes by the arm, she led him back indoors. “All is quiet now, you see? I was about to go to church myself. It’s just across the square. Will you join me?”
“What about that dog? He looks like he’s going to keep on barking.”
“Oh, no he won’t,” said Miss Swann, tossing the dog one of the leather gloves Mac had removed in order to explain the fine points of the pistol. “Thank you, Major,” she added sweetly.
After church Cristabel and Marie, who was too distraught to attend services, held a conference, the end result of which was another sign in the front windows of the house. This one read: FINE DRESSMAKING AND ALTERATIONS BY MLLE. MARIE
.
If there were many more signs in those poor windows, no light would get in the house at all.
“It won’t work,” Marie whimpered. “I know it won’t. No one will come, and I’ll have no rent money or food or—”
“It’s bound to be successful. There are so many ladies who cannot afford the Bond Street modistes, they’ll be happy to find someone reasonable, closer to home. And meanwhile you can make Fanny’s and Boy’s uniforms, finish the green silk gown you started for me, and not worry about the rent. It’s not like there’s no space. We can even take the room next to yours upstairs and make it into a real showroom, or a sewing studio, so you can have try-on alcoves and all. Fanny will help, I’m sure. As for food, we can all take potluck together.”
“And you really think I can make enough money to support myself?”
“You can certainly try, can’t you?”
“And maybe save enough for a dowry?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Marie snuffled into her hanky. “I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t think I ever can.”
“You can start by not being such a watering pot. Please don’t get tear stains on the green silk. I don’t have time to embroider any more butterflies.”
* * *
This eventful day then saw one of Cristabel’s prayers answered: boarders. Real, honest, paying boarders. A young newly wed couple by the name of Todd took Mac’s suite. They wished to stay in Kensington while their first house was under construction a few blocks away. The Douglas sisters, two genteel spinsters, claimed an upstairs bed-sitter, and a Mrs. Flint, a prepossessing lady of a certain age, had come to London to have her wardrobe refurbished now that she was out of mourning. Mr. Flint must have been vastly successful at whatever he did, to judge by his widow’s jewels, baggage, and the number of servants she wished housed in the attic level. She did not like the noise and dirt of the city itself so was pleased with quiet accommodations. She was also pleased with Cristabel’s gown and hired Marie on the spot. Unfortunately, she was not pleased with the remaining upper suites, so Cristabel volunteered her own rooms, at a higher price, naturally, and payment in advance—for the season. Two hundred pounds! She was finally a real landlady! And a music teacher, again. A turbaned dowager arrived with two young ladies in tow, causing Mr. Haynes to rethink demanding his advance rent monies returned; he could not stay in such a chaotic environment. One look at the twin sugarplums sitting mumchance on the chintz-covered sofa, however, had him reconsidering. He returned upstairs to his muse, inspired.
It remained only for Cristabel to move her belongings to the two rooms across from Marie’s, regretting mostly the library downstairs, even with its still-empty shelves. She made the change with help from Fanny and Boy, accompanied by her latest, least welcomed new boarder, another dog. Mrs. Flint, it seemed, never traveled without her bowlegged, barrel-bodied and black-faced pug, who wheezed with every breath. None of which stopped the midget moonling from immediately falling passionately in love with Meadowlark, the noisome bitch who could only be coaxed up to Cristabel’s new bedroom by the offer of a mutton shank. The treat pleased the flea hound into wagging her tail, which whapped the diminutive Don Juan seven ways to Sunday, knocking Pug back down the stairs. Two hundred pounds could buy a lot of books, however, and a lot of music lessons, and a lot of lavender water for Meadowlark. For two hundred pounds she could even tolerate the wheezes and whines of the rat-sized Romeo.
The final, and perchance greatest, surprise of the day came in the form of a letter from Captain Chase, of all people. The shock wasn’t just that he’d finally remembered common courtesy enough to inquire as to her welfare; the jolt was his kindness and humility in asking her pardon for the unfortunate contretemps. If there was anything she recalled about the captain, it was not his humility! A more arrogant, overbearing—no, she wouldn’t start.
The letter was charming, in fact, written in terms almost of friendship. She felt that she knew him, or he knew her, to trust her with private thoughts, in hopes of understanding.
He had been ill, he wrote, and sick with worry over what was to become of him. Having recently lost his ship and his men, and being set adrift himself, he could not at the time accept responsibility for her, as any gentleman would have done. He begged her forgiveness and asked if there was anything he could do to assist her now, however belatedly. Did she require additional monies? Was the property situated conveniently for her? Could he offer the services of the messenger waiting for a reply, his man Sparling, or himself, now that he was no longer incapacitated? Could she forgive him?
It really seemed to matter to the man, Cristabel sensed, with wonder. She sent Marie down to tell Sparling there would be no immediate reply; she needed time to think.
“Thank him very warmly for me and for his offer of assistance.” Mr. Sparling was even then helping the men carry in that mountain of baggage Mrs. Flint deemed a few “necessities.”
“Why don’t you take him to the kitchen and fix him some tea?” She didn’t want the boarders to see Marie all red-eyed and droopy while the girl still looked more like a jilted lover than a fashionable modiste. At least Cristabel needn’t worry over anyone encountering Mac, who still resembled the loser of a barroom brawl, not when there was work to be done and better impressions to be made at a later time. Miss Swann had seen that light of pound notes gleam in Mac’s eye, the one that wasn’t purple and puffed closed, when she’d described the nabob’s widow.
Meantime, she had to respond to Captain Chase’s note. But how? Should she complain or admit her difficulties to him and accept his offer of aid? An offer, incidentally, which came now that things were on their way to being resolved.
Men! she thought, pacing between her new small bedroom and her adjoining, small sitting room, stepping over the drowsing Meadowlark every circuit, frowning at the drooling pug. Bah!
There was that nodcock Lyle, an empty rattle with the smile of a cherub and the heart of a cardsharp, only out for money, of which she had none to spare anyway. Lord Winstoke—she hadn’t thought about him for at least ten minutes—was only after her virtue, which she was absolutely, positively, rock-hard, and immovably in no danger of losing, she hoped. Now here was Captain Chase, that old reprobate, finally acting like a gentleman and wanting to be her friend. Who was a girl to trust? Herself, that was who!