Carola Dunn (10 page)

 Bea had just time to decide he looked most impressive. Then she found herself swathed in draperies and peering out between a head shawl and a veil which covered all of her face but the eyes. Mrs. Dinsmuir was similarly enveloped, but for the veil. Molly—

 “Gracious heavens!” Bea pulled the shawl from her head and flung it over the transparent gauze which revealed most, if not quite all, of the maid’s charms.

 “English clothes!” bellowed Mr. Dinsmuir. “Please,” he went on in a voice taut with self-control, “bring English clothes in the present style for my mother and me, and restore Lady Beatrice and her servant to their own attire.”

 “Really? Pity, that slave-girl is worth a second look.”

 “Really!”

 “No need to shout, I’m doing my best. There, is that better?”

 Mr. Dinsmuir was now attired in a bottle-green morning coat which might have been fitted by Weston; a ruffled shirt, and a snowy cravat expertly tied with an emerald glittering in its folds; biscuit coloured waistcoat and Inexpressibles; Hessians with that shine only displayed by the finest leather; and a glossy beaver, curly-brimmed, which he hastily doffed and set on the table.

 If he had been impressive in Eastern garb, he was now complete to a shade, an elegant figure fit to mix with the most fashionable gentlemen of the Fashionable World. And with the ladies, too, thought Bea, relieved at the reappearance of her sprig-muslin. Mrs. Dinsmuir was the very picture of a handsome, well-bred widow, in black silk and jet beads, with a frilly, beribboned cap on her head.

 “Excellent,” said Mr. Dinsmuir.

 “I must ‘a’ bin dreaming,” said Molly, sitting up in her grey calico.

 “Not a slave-girl, by the way, Jinnee. As Lord Chief Justice Mansfield decided in 1772 in the case of the negro Somerset, slavery cannot exist in England.”

 “Is that so!” said the Jinnee in surprise. “Where does that leave me, I wonder? I’d better get back to Headquarters and find out.”

 He started to fade. Bea found it somehow even more disconcerting than his previous abrupt disappearance. Molly squawked and buried her face in her hands.

 “Wait!” Mr. Dinsmuir commanded. “First bring us a meal, if you please, a feast fit for a birthday celebration.”

 “That’s more like it,” the Jinnee approved. “I hear and obey, O Master.”

 He vanished. When he returned an instant later, he remembered to keep his size reduced, but the circular tray he bore was as vast as if he were still a giant. Ignoring the table, he set it on the floor, then looked round in a dissatisfied way. He snapped his fingers, and around the tray appeared three plump cushions, covered in brocade in glowing reds and blues, with gold fringes and tassels.

 The Jinnee frowned, still not quite satisfied. Again he snapped his fingers. Bea found herself kneeling on carpet instead of stone. Though nothing in the room had discernibly moved, the floor was now covered by a superb Persian rug, a Tree-of-Life design interwoven with birds and flowers.

 “If there’s nothing else for the moment,” said the Jinnee, “I’ll be off. Just rub if you want me.” With a wave, he rapidly faded out of existence.

 “Is he gone?” asked Molly, cautiously lowering her hands.

 “Yes,” Bea assured her. “I hope he is not gone for good, Mr. Dinsmuir. Loath though one must be to profit from slavery, perhaps you should have kept him in ignorance until your future affluence was assured.”

 “Perhaps I was a trifle precipitate,” he admitted ruefully.

 “We shall do very well, dearest,” said his mother. “Why, the carpet alone is of great value, and just look at the tray and the dishes on it. They are all gold and silver, and you my be sure it is not mere plate. Recall the story of Aladdin! We may live in luxury until you are admitted as solicitor, or in comfort for many years.”

 All very well, thought Bea, but it was not enough to persuade her father to let her marry Alan. With a sigh, she quoted another of Miss Dirdle’s favoured maxims, “No use crying over spilt milk.”

 “None at all,” Mrs. Dinsmuir agreed. “Will you dine with us, Lady Beatrice? There is plenty for your maid, too, I am sure. Alan, help me put the dishes on the table.”

 “Oh no,” said Bea, “it will be more fun sitting on the cushions in the Eastern style, like a picnic, if you will not be uncomfortable, ma’am. Molly, pray go and tell Ephraim and Coachman to go to the inn in the village and get something to eat. Here is a crown for them. They may pick us up in an hour.”

 “If you please, my lady, I’ll go too. Not a bite o’ that witched food’ll pass my lips,” the maid said ominously, “not if it was everso.”

 “As you choose. But don’t say a word of what has happened.”

 “Likely no one’d believe me anyways, my lady. Think I’m moon-addled, they would. I’ll keep mum.” She bobbed a curtsy and left.

 Mrs. Dinsmuir denying the possibility of discomfort, they all took their places on the cushions. The intricately chased gold tray was a good four feet across, crowded with silver bowls and platters, flagons and goblets. All the dishes were covered, some with silver domes, some with damask napkins.

 When Alan lifted the dome nearest him, cinnamon-scented steam arose from a concoction of saffron rice and lamb, studded with currants and pistachio nuts. Mrs. Dinsmuir found a stew of meat and apricots, while the crisp, layered pie before Bea turned out to contain chicken and eggs, sweetened, with onions and mixed spices. There were various vegetables, recognizable and exotic, some stuffed, some pickled. Quinces and apples rubbed shoulders with pomegranates and small orange fruits which—by the stones— must be fresh dates. Flat bread and oddly flavoured pastes, tarts and fritters: more food than ought reasonably to fit on the tray.

 The flagons contained wine, fruit sherbets, and something which smelled like sour milk.

 “I daresay it is intended to be sour,” said Bea doubtfully, bravely taking a sip. “Everything else is perfectly presented, if a trifle strange.”

 “A trifle!” Alan exclaimed. “It’s not quite the birthday feast I had in mind for you, Mother. I’m sorry.”

 “Nonsense, dearest, most dishes are simply delicious.”

 “Think of it as an adventure, Alan,” Bea suggested. Blushing as she realized she had used his christian name, she went on hurriedly, “Just the thing for a birthday surprise, even if one will be quite content to return to roast beef and green peas tomorrow. Beef in one form or another is always my cousin Tom’s first choice. But perhaps you prefer mutton, or ham, Mr. Dinsmuir?”

 “I prefer ‘Alan,’ Lady Beatrice,” he said softly.

 “Oh!” Her face flaming, she stammered, “My family and friends call me Bea, two syllables, Be-a, not bee like a bumblebee. Oh dear, I am babbling. But will you, please...?”

 “Of course, Bea dear,” said Mrs. Dinsmuir kindly, though she seemed rather dismayed, “if you are truly sure you wish it.”

 “I do.” The unintended echo of the marriage service further disconcerted her. She peeped at Alan.

 He said nothing, but the besotted bliss on his face was enough. Their fingers met and intertwined.

 The door knocker sounded. “Is that there monster in there?” came Molly’s voice. “I’ll wait out here for you, my lady.”

 “Have I been here so long?” cried Bea, jumping up. “Mama will be wondering where I am. I shall be shockingly late for dinner and unable to eat a bite. I am coming, Molly.”

 “Wait a minute.” Rising, Alan reached for the lamp. “If I have not ruined everything, the Jinnee will transport you home in a trice.”

 Bea shook her head, half regretfully, half in relief. “It will not do. I hope I am not so poor-spirited as to be afraid of rushing through the ether, but Molly would die of fright—and so might the horses! Also, if Ephraim and Coachman find out about the Jinnee, everyone will soon know. I think it best that Papa does not discover what means you use to...to...” She stopped having worked herself into an inextricable position.

 “To turn myself into an eligible suitor,” Alan said soberly. “It will take some doing, even with the Jinnee’s help. Without, it may prove impossible.”

 “We shall manage, somehow. Mrs. Dinsmuir, may I call upon you tomorrow afternoon?”

 The widow sighed. “Yes, dear. I can only hope the two of you know what you are about. Alan—”

 “My lady?” Molly called nervously.

 “Coming.” Bea looked up at Alan.

 Tenderly his lips brushed hers. “Until tomorrow, darling Bea.” He went to open the door.

 Alan watched from the threshold until Bea disappeared behind the hedge. Then he listened to the thud of hooves, jingle of harness, and creak of wheels, fading away until a robin’s song rang louder. He turned and went into the cottage.

 His mother had lit a tallow candle and moved two dishes from the tray on the floor to the table. As she returned for more, he caught her by the waist in a big hug, lifting her inches off the floor.

 “She loves me!”

 “Put me down, Alan! I agree that Lady Beatrice appears to have taken a liking to you, but I put no faith in such sudden attraction. Very likely she will think better of it tonight and not turn up tomorrow.”

 Alan hardly heard a word. “Is she not wonderful?” he demanded, attempting to lift the tray. Failing, he helped to transfer the dishes to the table. “When the Jinnee appeared, her first concern was to succour that widgeon of a maidservant, though I know she also was terrified, for she clutched my hand.” He laid said hand against his cheek and stood for a moment in rapt contemplation.

 “A very pretty-behaved young lady,” Mrs. Dinsmuir concurred, “but a Lady, and far above your touch, dearest.”

 “Not with the aid of the Slave of the Lamp, Mother.”

 “Whom you have released from his bondage.”

 “I could not do otherwise. The law is the law.” Alan dropped despondently onto a chair and sat with his chin in his hand, gazing at the window, outside which dusk was gathering. “Perhaps he will continue to serve me out of gratitude.”

 “The Jinn in the stories are not noted for their gratitude upon release,” his mother pointed out, busy combining the left-over food in a few dishes and setting the empty ones aside to be washed. “Have you forgot the story of the fisherman who freed the Jinnee from the bottle and as a reward was nearly done to death?”

 “That was an Afreet, an evil Jinnee. Ours is one of the good ones. I think. I wonder, if we used the proceeds of selling this gold and silver to go to America, to one of the slave states, would he be bound to serve the owner of the lamp again? I could have him amass a fortune for me there, then come back and woo Bea—or rather Lord Hinksey—in proper form.”

 “It would scarcely be fair to her to ask her to wait for so uncertain an outcome, dearest.”

 “She will wait,” Alan said confidently. “She loves me. Still, perhaps it won’t be necessary. I’ll see if the Jinnee will answer my summons. Where is the... But I keep forgetting, Mother, the lamp is yours, not mine.”

 “It is the person who holds it, not who owns it, that counts. I shall not give it back, because it is quite the most exciting birthday present ever given me, but I am perfectly content to let you do the rubbing!” She found the green-tarnished lamp among the gleaming silver dishes and handed it to him. “Otherwise, I should take some sand to it and give it a good polishing.”

 “Let that be his first task,” said Alan, laughing in spite of his suspense, “if he comes.”

 Heart in mouth, he rubbed his knuckles across the lamp.

 A gale, heard and sensed rather than felt, swept through the room, disturbing not a hair on their heads. A tang like the smell of sea-brine made Alan think of small ships setting out across vast, uncharted oceans. Above the table between him and his mother, a column of writhing mist began to form.

 As its top reached the ceiling, a pair of flaming black eyes glowered through the haze. “To the deuce with this furniture-fixated society,” grumbled an irritable voice.

 The mist hopped down to the floor and solidified into the Jinnee, in his large but manageable form.

 “At your bidding I come, O Master,” he announced unnecessarily. “What is your command?”

 “Does this mean you are still slave to whoever holds the lamp?” Alan asked.

 “Not exactly. I’m a free Jinnee as long as the lamp is in a free country, but it seems I inadvertently engaged myself to serve you. An implied contract, they call it. A quarter’s notice on either side, and I hereby give notice. From your point of view, the catch is that you have to pay me for the next three months.”

 “Pay you what?”

 “It’s for you to make an offer, for me to accept or refuse.” He grinned cheekily. “There is one stipulation: my wages cannot consist of anything I myself have provided.”

 “You will not...” Mrs. Dinsmuir faltered, “...you will not kill him if he fails to propose a suitable salary?”

 The Jinnee drew himself up to his full height, incautiously growing until his head hit the ceiling. “Ouch! Madam, do I look like an Afreet?” he enquired, affronted.

 “Not in the least,” she hastily assured him. “That is the second time you have knocked your head. Is it sore? I have some comfrey balm which is excellent for bruises.”

 “Most kind!” The Jinnee was restored to good humour. Indeed, he looked quite gratified. “My turban protected me, madam, but I do appreciate your sympathy. By the Great Roc, no mortal has ever before proposed to do anything for me!”

 “I should very much like to do something for you,” Alan broke in, “to wit, to pay you an appropriate wage. However, so far I have racked my brains in vain. Do the rules allow me to request your own suggestions?”

 “Good question. I have no notion. I had best go and enquire.”

 As he began to fade, Mrs. Dinsmuir reached out to touch his sleeve. “Before you go, Mr. Jinnee,” she said, “I have one very small favour to ask. Will you be offended if I say the state of your lamp is unworthy of so powerful a being?”

 “I have often thought so myself, madam. My lamp, you say? To be sure, it belongs to me more than to its temporary possessors. Unfortunately, I cannot clean it without an order, and none have given me such an order.”

 He looked hopefully at Alan, who still held the lamp. Alan obliged. “Please polish it.”