Carola Dunn (11 page)

 In a twinkling, the lamp gleamed coppery in the candlelight. The Jinnee beamed. “Thank you,” he said.

 “Thank you,” said Mrs. Dinsmuir.

 “My pleasure, madam. Do you know, I cannot see the need to trouble Headquarters again in so small a matter. What I should like, sir,” he continued, almost shyly, “is to live with you as your servant, instead of having to dash here from the back of beyond whenever you summon me. I have never had an opportunity to observe the mortal world at leisure, just those bits and pieces I happen to catch sight of when on an errand.”

 “And that would be reward enough for your service?” Alan asked in surprise, and some dismay, eyeing the still-massive figure in his turban, robe, and billowing trousers.

 “Why not? Think about it: For millennia I’ve been at the beck and call of any fool who happens to pick up
my
lamp.” As he stressed the possessive, he cast an approving look at Mrs. Dinsmuir. “It’s been ‘Come here. Do this, do that, do the other. All right, we don’t need you any more, off you go to the nether world and kindly don’t reappear until you’re summoned.’ Positively demeaning, when you consider it.”

 “Most unfair,” Mrs. Dinsmuir said warmly.

 “You would not mind, Mother? Having the...gentleman about the place?”

 “Not a bit, dearest. I daresay Mr. Jinnee would not mind giving a hand with the housework now and then.”

 A trifle taken aback, the Jinnee glanced about the kitchen-parlour. “Surely, sir, you will not remain in this place—charming as it is, madam—” he put in hastily, “now that I am here to serve you. A palace, with a large staff, can be yours in the twinkling of an eye.”

 “Now wait a bit!” Alan exclaimed. “Let us not be too precipitate. This is going to take a great deal of thought. I must consult Bea as to the best way to win her father’s consent to our marriage. Her father is a marquis, you see, Jinnee, and I am naught but a poor scholar.”

 “Aha!” said the Jinnee. “So that’s the way of it. I suspected something of the sort. A delightful young lady, if I may be so bold, sir, though far from modestly dressed.”

 “She was perfectly modestly dressed,” Alan said hotly (much of the heat coming from a sudden memory of Bea emerging from the Cherwell, naiad-like, in skin-clinging, near-transparent muslin), “for this time and place. Which brings me to the question of your attire, Jinnee. If you wish to become part of the household, you will need to wear clothes that are rather...er...less remarkable, so as to avoid gossip.”

 “You don’t expect me to wear one of those strangling things around my neck, do you?” the Jinnee asked in horror.

 “A cravat. Yes.”

 “And tight trousers? And no turban?”

 “I’m afraid so. And if you could reduce your size a little more, it would help.”

 The Jinnee heaved a long, gusty sigh. As he exhaled, he shrank, until his eyes were exactly on a level with Alan’s, though he remained considerably bulkier. At the same time, his robe and voluminous trousers metamorphosed until he was properly garbed for an upper servant—except for the turban.

 “No turban?” he asked wistfully.

 “Let him keep it, Alan,” urged his mother. “People will just assume he is an Indian. I am sure India nabobs sometime bring back native servants to England.”

 “Very well, at least for the present.” Alan found he was too tired after an emotionally exhausting day to consider the extraordinary situation from every angle. All he wanted was to be alone to hug to himself the knowledge that Bea loved him.

 “Thank you, sir.”

 “We shall see tomorrow what Bea thinks about the turban. Jinnee, I must return to college tonight, but you had best remain here, or you are free to go home—if that is the appropriate word—if you wish. Mother, I’m off. I’ll be back in the morning after chapel.”

 He kissed her cheek and turned towards the door. Before he reached it, he found himself flying through the night sky. Bright stars twinkled above, and as he swooped down Headington Hill the twinkling lights of Oxford came into sight below. He swept over the gleaming ribbon of the Cherwell. An instant later he was standing in his study-bedroom in Wadham College.

 Catching his breath, which he had held for the entire journey, so short a time had it taken, Alan dropped into a chair. He had not ordered the Jinnee to bring him here. If his new servant, with his shaky understanding of modern English life, had decided to lend a helpful hand without awaiting instructions, only trouble could ensue!

Chapter III

 Bea lay awake half the night. Part of the time she luxuriated in loving and knowing she was loved. Part of the time she wondered whether Alan Dinsmuir could possibly be as wonderful as she remembered him. And part of the time she wondered whether a gentleman so clever as to make a serious study of the law could possibly truly love anyone so frivolous as her unworthy self.

 Being young, she rose in the morning showing no sign of her restless vigil. On the contrary, she was full of confidence, determination, and energy.

 The energy demanded an immediate outlet. After a large breakfast with her father—she responded with sunny smiles to Papa’s ominous mutterings about girls who turned down the heirs to dukedoms coming to regret their folly and ending up as old maids—Bea set off across the park to climb Hinksey Hill.

 It was another beautiful day, the air crystal-clear. Though no great prominence, the hill afforded an excellent view of the city of Oxford. Bea had brought a map of the city and her father’s spy-glass. Seated on the dry turf, she amused herself with trying to pick out the buildings of Wadham College.

 Alan must finish his degree, she thought. He only had a few weeks to go. Who could tell when it might be useful?

 Papa might prove obdurate. Lowering the glass, Bea surveyed the vast Palladian mansion below, and sighed. She supposed it was natural that the owner of Hinksey Hall would refuse to let his only child wed a threadbare scholar whose home was a tiny cottage. With the Jinnee’s continued help, which was by no means certain, Alan would cease to be a threadbare scholar, but he would still lack a noble family.

 And what if something went wrong, as it did with Aladdin, whose wife and palace had vanished overnight? He had recovered them with the aid of a magic ring, but Alan had no such alternative Jinnee to call upon.

 Bea had some money of her own, fifteen thousand pounds she would come into on her twenty-first birthday. It sounded like a lot of money, if one did not spend hundreds of guineas on ball-dresses and such extravagances. However she had not the least notion whether it would suffice for three people to live on in modest comfort. Better to consider it a supplement to Alan’s earnings.

 “Gracious, how practical I am growing!” she said aloud with a little laugh.

 “I beg your pardon, my lady?” said a familiar voice behind her.

 “Oh!” Bea swung round, hand to thudding heart. “How you startled me, Jinnee.” Taking in his changed appearance, she went on doubtfully, “You are Mr. Dinsmuir’s Jinnee, are you not?”

 “After a fashion, my lady,” he said, bowing. “I apologize for startling your ladyship. Mr. Dinsmuir and I have come to an agreement over the terms of my service, but it was Mrs. Dinsmuir who sent me to speak to your ladyship. Madam is most concerned lest the master has misled himself in attributing your ladyship’s kindness to—ahem—warmer feelings.”

 Bea blushed. “No. You may tell Mrs. Dinsmuir that I am quite determined to marry her son. That is, if he...”

 “Your ladyship may rest assured that the master is...’heels over head’ was the expression madam used, I believe. Madam affirms that a mother cannot be wrong in such cases. I must say, the lad looked to me pretty far gone,” the Jinnee added confidentially.

 Throwing her arms around him, Bea stood on tiptoe to kiss his swarthy cheek, which promptly turned a dusky pink.

 “We’ll bring your father round, never fear,” he said in a gruff voice.

 At that moment, the church bells in the village began to ring for the morning service. “Bother, I shall be late for church,” Bea said. “See, the carriage is already at the door. Mama will be in high fidgets.”

 “I’ll take you down,” offered the Jinnee.

 Before Bea had time to accept or refuse, she was whisked through the air, and before she had time to gasp in shock, she was set down gently behind a pillar on the front steps.

 “Not far enough to get up a good speed,” the Jinnee’s voice grumbled in her ear. She spun around, but he was invisible. “I’m off back to madam,” he said. “Until later.”

 In a thoughtful mood, Bea went down the steps to the carriage. By luck or good management, no one seemed to have observed her whirlwind arrival. Nonetheless, the notion that the Jinnee had not awaited an order, or even a request, alarmed her. What might he take it into his head to do next?

* * * *

 After church, Bea persuaded Miss Dirdle that she really ought to call on the mother of the young gentleman who had saved her from drowning.

 Bea did not want to take Molly with her. The maid had convinced herself that yesterday’s horrid apparition was the result of eating something which disagreed with her. Best to leave her with that belief.

 Miss Dirdle, on the other hand, had introduced Bea to the Arabian Nights tales in childhood. A confirmed romantic at heart, the governess had sighed longingly over the exotic settings and magical happenings, and especially over the happily-ever-after love stories. What was more, she sympathized with Bea’s refusal to marry a man she did not love, however exalted his station.

 Hoping her dear Miss Dirdle would sympathize equally with her desire to marry a man she did love, however humble his station, Bea set out with her companion in the barouche.

 They drove through the city and across Magdalen Bridge. Miss Dirdle shuddered at the sight of the peaceable stream which had so nearly claimed her life.

 “Indeed, I owe Mr. Dinsmuir my hearty gratitude,” she affirmed. “You are right, my dear, though naturally one cannot call upon a gentleman, one may hope to encounter him at his esteemed parent’s abode, and there to express one’s thanks.”

 As they started up Headington Hill, Bea caught sight of a figure ahead of them, striding along the high, embanked footpath beside the road. Though last time she saw Alan walking away from her he had been shabby and soaking wet, she would have recognized him anywhere. Her heart gave an odd little jump, and she ordered the coachman to stop beside him.

 “Mr. Dinsmuir,” she said breathlessly, gazing up at his beloved face, high above her, “may we offer you a lift?”

 “My dear Lady Beatrice,” he said, his obvious elation on seeing her giving way to a grin, “the very sight of you lifts my heart so high, I am afraid of knocking my head against the sky. But if you will have your coachman move along to the next steps, I shall be delighted to come down and— Good Lord, what on earth?”

 He turned and stared up the hill.

 Bea became aware of an approaching clamour, dogs barking, boys cheering. She stood up and peered past the coachman.

 “Looks like the circus is coming to town, my lady,” he observed, pointing with his whip.

 He had to put it down suddenly as the racket made the horses sidle nervously. Bea knelt on the forward seat and steadied herself with a hand on its back.

 Down the hill came an extraordinary procession. In the lead, at a stately pace, came a beautiful girl in a robe embroidered with gold and studded with jewels. On her head she balanced a golden bowl covered with gold brocade, also gem-studded, glittering in the sunshine. At her side walked a plump African in voluminous white trousers, a brief jacket open down the front, and a turban. Behind them came another couple, just the same, and another, and another....

 “Jinnee!” swore Alan.

 Scrambling, he lowered himself from the embankment onto the barouche seat beside Bea, stepped to the floor, and thence sprang to the ground. While Bea collapsed in helpless giggles and Miss Dirdle sat open-mouthed, he ran to the first eunuch slave.

 “Stop!” he shouted.

 Without pausing in his pace, the African answered with a stream of liquid, incomprehensible syllables. The Jinnee’s magic translation effect apparently only worked for him in person.

 Alan stepped in front of the front pair, arms spread wide. The column simply parted to flow around him. The parade continued down the hill towards the city.

 Hurrying back to the barouche, Alan jumped in. “Go on, Coachman,” he cried, “and make haste!”

 “Yes, do,” Bea seconded him, as the coachman turned to her for orders. She no longer felt like laughing. In a lower voice she said to Alan, “I dread to think what Papa will do if they reach Hinksey Hall.”

 “I’ll have that Jinnee’s blood!” Alan vowed vengefully.

 “If he has anything as mundane as blood in his veins. But, darling, he is just trying to help us. That is exactly what he did for Aladdin to win the Sultan’s consent, is it not, Miss Dirdle?”

 “Aladdin?” said Miss Dirdle in confusion. “Really, Lady Beatrice, I cannot conceive—”

 “My apologies, ma’am,” Alan said. “You must think us fit for Bedlam. Indeed, you may be right. My brain is in a whirl.” He clutched at his head. “Bea, you had better explain.”

 “First let me introduce you properly. Miss Dirdle, this is Alan Dinsmuir, the gentleman who fished you out of the Cherwell yesterday.”

 Miss Dirdle’s effusive thanks took them the rest of the way up the hill. The barouche turned off the main road, and Bea had time for only a brief explanation, which left Miss Dirdle more confused than enlightened, before they reached Mrs. Dinsmuir’s cottage.

 With a grim “Excuse me, ladies,” Alan sped through the gate in the hedge, shouting, “Where’s that Jinnee?”

 The footman who jumped down from the step at the back to hand down the ladies was not the disapproving Ephraim, Bea had made sure of that. Reuben used to smuggle her sugar-plums when she was in disgrace as a child. She swore him and Coachman to secrecy, sent them off to the inn for a pint of ale, then preceded an apprehensive Miss Dirdle up the garden path.

 The cottage looked bigger. Not conspicuously, with an extra wing, or storey, or even more windows—just as if it had been stretched in all directions. The impression was confirmed when Bea stepped in through the open door. The ceiling was higher. The kitchen area had vanished behind a partition. The remaining space easily accommodated the table and rush-bottom chairs she recalled, as well as a set of low, comfortably cushioned divans, where before three cushions on the floor had scarcely fitted.