Ridiculous (6 page)

“And so I model myself on a cat, disdaining fashion to dress comfortably and pleasing myself with my manners.”

“Of which you have none,” came the slurred voice of the chaperone.

“How much brandy did you give her?” whispered Millicent.

“Just enough,” Lady Beth whispered back and a faint smile turned the corners of her mouth.

“Excellent,” said Millicent, as a snore arose from the blankets covering Mrs. Fleming. “Lady Beth, pray tell me, what sort of cat would you like to be?”

“I hardly know,” said the girl uncertainly, glancing toward her brother.

The man shifted on the seat and his soaking wet thigh came into burning contact with Millicent's leg. She was so shocked by her own body's melting reaction that it took her fully five seconds to pull herself away. She stared at the floor as she tried to bring her breathing back under control. How could it be that such a casual touch could so disconcert her? She had ridden in post carriages with men on both sides, even while dressed as a woman, and felt nothing – except fatigue, but the slightest touch of this man's flesh and she was afire.

She concentrated on his rumbling voice to try and gather her scattered wits, but it so warmed her flesh she was surprised steam did not rise from her clothing.

“Now I think on it,” said Shoffer, entirely unaware of her discomfort. “I should like to be the big black bully of a tomcat who, back in my father's time when guests visited, would appear in the front hall to examine them. It really was quite amazing how he would sniff their boots, walking around each and every person and growling deep in his throat if they should move away before he completed his examination. It was as if he thought our house his. In good weather, he would position himself on the very top of the statue of a lion that guards the main steps and gaze out over his domain. I was quite in awe of him as a child. That cat was the only being my father treated as an equal. That tom would seat himself on a bookshelf in my father’s study and my father would greet him with respect each morning.”

Both Millicent and Beth laughed, Millicent being careful to keep her voice deep and laugh with her mouth open instead of giggling.

“Now you, my dear Beth,” continued Shoffer.

“Well, I do remember on a charity visit I saw an old woman sitting beside the fire. The cat in her lap was a tiny golden kitten so curled up that I could not see her ears or her tail, but just a little bundle of fur. When the old woman stroked her, the purr was so loud the house shook with it.” Lady Beth smiled at her brother. “I should like to be that safe and happy.”

“And so you shall,” replied her brother.

“But is that the only cat you wish to be?” pressed Millicent.

Seeming startled at the thought she could be two, the girl considered.

“Well, I did see a cat once that I admired riding a horse.”

“Do you tell me so? I cannot believe it,” cried Millicent. “A cat? Riding a horse?”

“Oh, yes.” Now animation came to Lady Beth's face and color to her pinched white lips and cheeks. She leaned forward to punctuate her tale with waving hands. “The horses were out in the field when a tiger-striped cat jumped onto the back of the lead stallion and dug in her claws. Well, he was so surprised he reared up and I was most certain that the cat would be tossed off and killed. But no, she dug her claws in and when the stallion took off across the field as fast as he could; she rode him all the way. And when she passed me, I swear, I saw such a grin on the cat's face as I have never seen before.”

“She was having fun?” inquired Millicent.

“Oh, yes. I should like to have fun.”

“I am certain you shall, if you wish it,” said Millicent.

The animation faded from the girl’s face. “I think not.”

“Why ever not?” asked Millicent, glancing across at Shoffer. “Is your brother so unkind as not to let you ride?”

“Oh, no, I am certain Timothy is everything that is kind.”

That comment caused Millicent to raise her eyebrows and turn her face toward the dark visaged giant at her side.

“My sister and I have not been much in each other's company,” he said by way of explanation. “Since the death of our parents she has lived with our grandmother. It has been decided it would benefit Beth to spend time at my estate before attending a few summer house parties, in the hope it will give her confidence to face another season.”

Lady Beth shrank back against the squabs and hid her face in the folds of her cloak's hood.

“You have had a London season?” asked Millicent in her softest voice.

The answer was the barest nod.

“And it did not go well?”

An even smaller shake was her answer.

“Whatever is wrong with London?” demanded Millicent.

Lady Beth gave a tiny giggle, but did not answer. Millicent was about to question further, but a touch on her sleeve stopped her. She glanced over to the man beside her and saw him shake his head. Millicent nodded and sat back trying to ignore the discomfort of her soaked and chilled clothing. Obviously, the London season was a forbidden subject.

So be it, for now.

Chapter Three

Their arrival at Mr. Prichart's home was exactly as that worthy man had warned. No sooner did Millicent, Shoffer, Lady Beth, and Mrs. Fleming cross the threshold than Mrs. Prichart collapsed on the staircase leading to the upper house weeping and wailing that the whole world would know about her failed housekeeping. She was not prepared for the arrival of four guests instead of one; therefore, she had failed as a wife, a mother, and a hostess.

Millicent was shocked by the clamor the woman produced and wished she could take herself far from this embarrassing scene. Mr. Prichart, his hat caught in both hands, knelt at his wife's side begging her to calm herself and tend to their guests. For a moment, remembering how Felicity disliked surprises and how distressed her poor mother became when there was a disturbance to her housekeeping, Millicent felt some pity for Mrs. Prichart. But then she saw the woman's eyes scanning her audience, gauging their reactions to her performance. Those were not the eyes of a distressed woman, but a manipulative old fox. Millicent, with chill water making her clothing cling to her skin and her woolen trews chaffing her thighs found no patience with this production.

“Mrs. Prichart,” began Millicent. “Surely you are not saying that you should have foreseen unexpected guests being blown in by a storm.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” cried the lady, mighty bosom heaving as maids ran around for handkerchiefs and hartshorn, the housekeeper stood wringing her apron and the cook stood watching from the servant’s staircase. “What is to be done?”

It was clear to Millicent in a moment that Mrs. Prichart's moods, high or low, ruled this household and nothing would or could be done except at her will.

Pushing past the frozen servants, Millicent took Mrs. Prichart by the hand, hauled her to feet, and hustled the woman into the front parlor. When Mr. Prichart moved to follow Millicent seized the door and pulled it half shut.

“Please, Mr. Prichart. I feel it is my duty as the person who has brought this chaos to your door to attempt to calm your wife. Please see to the comfort of my friends.”

And with that Millicent shut the door and crossed to where Mrs. Prichart lay slumped on the sofa, her cries increasing in volume when she saw the door was shut.

Millicent sat on the footstool and took one of the large woman's hands in hers, patting it gently to gain her attention.

“Mrs. Prichart,” said Millicent, “I know your type. I have seen it before. You learned early in your marriage that if you wept your husband would do anything to calm you.”

Millicent frowned. The woman's eyes narrowed showing she was attending to every word despite her noise.

“Now,” continued Millicent, “I am not your husband. I am, however,
his landlord
. Mr. Prichart has summoned me to show me the reasons he should not have his proper rents levied. Under these circumstances, if I do not like his excuses I am fully entitled to turn him and all his family out to make way for someone who will pay the rent.”

Mrs. Prichart’s cries ceased in an instant. Millicent continued in an even softer voice.

“I do not like loud noises, Mrs. Prichart. I do not like them at all. If you make a sound louder than a mouse’s whisper in all the time I'm here, then I will turn your family out. Do we understand each other?”

The woman opened her mouth, but thought better of it and nodded instead.

“Excellent. Now, you are going to go out there and escort Lady Elizabeth and her chaperone up to the room you set aside for me. Mr. Shoffer and I will use this parlor and you will permit the housekeeper and cook to use their best judgment to take care of our servants. Now, get up and do your duty for your household, family, and husband. And Mrs. Prichart? No word of this to your husband. That would not be wise.”

Mrs. Prichart leapt to her feet and fled the room. Millicent remained where she was. She did not hear the orders given so soft a voice did Mrs. Prichart use, but within a few minutes she heard many footfalls hurrying through the house.

Mr. Prichart, hat still in hand and with Mr. Shoffer on his heels, wandered into the parlor looking back over his shoulder appearing slightly awed.

“You are a miracle worker, that you are, Mr. North. I have never seen anyone calm m’wife so fast. I hope you will teach me your secret.”

“It's a gift I regret I cannot share with you,” murmured Millicent with a wry grin. “I wonder if you might have some towels or blankets fetched as I have no wish to drip mud over your carpets. And my green valise from the carriage. It has my shaving kit and a set of dry clothing. Everything else can wait until the weather is better.”

“Oh, yes. And for you, Mr. Shoffer?”

Shoffer described his own small trunk.

“I will have it brought in right away,” Mr. Prichart assured them. “And you will be wanting some brandy, too, I will be bound.”

“Tea for me,” said Millicent.

“Myself as well,” said Shoffer.

Mr. Prichart bowed himself out of the room.

Millicent sat back on the footstool and started working to remove her soaked boots. The parlor was narrow and wide, with furniture of different styles, ages, and conditions crowding it. Despite the variety of furniture, it contained nothing big enough for her to hide behind. She had just put herself into the strangest of situations. She had been pretending to be a gentleman long enough that deferring to a lady's need was now automatic. But that left her having to share a sleeping chamber with a man, to have to remove her clothing in the presence of a real man! Now that she could think Millicent cursed herself for not suggesting she should have one parlor while Shoffer the other – although that might have increased the inconvenience to the family; it was better that she had not.

Felicity was right. She was risking being revealed as a fraud – worse, a thief – at any moment with her bold behavior. While she sat, one ruined boot in her hands, a boy who looked so like Mr. Prichart with his broad, weathered face, and gap-toothed grin that he could only be a son, ran in with blankets and towels in both arms followed by a taller son with the requested valise and trunk.

“Ma says as how she will send in some hot water for washing as soon as the ladies are settled upstairs,” cried the younger boy before fleeing the room.

Millicent stood in the middle of the room, her hand on her soaking cravat and wondering what to do next even as her face warmed with a blush. Did gentlemen ask each other to turn their backs when they undressed? Or could she ask for a dressing screen to be brought in?

She remembered a tale her father used to tell about a time when he was tutor to a rather well-to-do family where the boys of the family had gone swimming in a river together, naked. She considered turning her back and hoping Shoffer would not notice or comment on the cravats around her chest when she heard Shoffer go to the door to call the young boys back into the room.

“Tell me, lad,” he said. “Does this house have a withdrawing room, or do you have commodes about the place?”

“No commodes,” was the reply. “We have an outhouse just out past the kitchen garden. Just follow the stone path.”

Shoffer groaned and the boys giggled. When Shoffer left the room, Millicent let out the breath she had been holding and rushed to wedge a chair under the doorknob. Once done she stripped naked faster than she had done in all her life, and had fresh clothing on and a new cravat hiding her throat before the next knock on the door.

By the time Shoffer returned from the outhouse, the chair was back in its place, Millicent was dry, her hair combed and she was settled on a couch sipping tea and flipping through a book on farming she had discovered on a shelf.

“Tea, for the love of God,” cried Shoffer, ripping the cravat from his throat and dropping it in a sloppy pile at his feet. “I am frozen half to death.”

He loosened the top few buttons before pulling his shirt over his head and adding it to the pile on the floor. He bent over to pick up a dry blanket which pulled his breeches tight across his buttocks. Millicent stood and turned her back to the sight, a blush flooding her face and busied herself at the tea tray.

“Cream, no sugar,” added Shoffer.

“To drink or to wear?” shot back Millicent, glad her tongue had finally separated from the roof of her mouth where it had lodged at the sight of a man's solid, hair-sprinkled chest.

When she had undressed the dead Mr. North she had kept her eyes closed most of the time. What glimpses she had taken of his form had been disappointing since Mr. North was a narrow-chested, wasted individual who had taken no exercise, not even horseriding, due to his poor eyes. It occurred to her as she concentrated on stirring her tea that this was a good opportunity to discover what a healthy male’s body looked like. There might be some part of her disguise that could improve with that knowledge. Drawing a deep breath she flashed a glance toward the half-dressed gentleman.

Mr. Shoffer's body was appropriately impressive to carry around his brilliant smile and fine eyes. His shoulders were wide and well muscled, as were his arms. A testament, she supposed, to years of riding and curricle driving. His abdomen was hard and rippled with muscle and the vee of dark hair that marked his chest narrowed to a line that descended down to his trousers. For a moment her fingers itched to follow that line and explore his body. To discover the mysteries the falls of his trousers concealed. Shocked at the path her thoughts followed, she forced her gaze away and concentrated on the tea pot.