Mrs. McVinnie's London Season (2 page)

The house was quiet.
Mrs. MacDonald was most likely still doing battle with the
butcher.

“
Is
that you, Jeannie?” Galen asked from the next room.

“
It
is, Father.” Jeannie removed her cloak and shook it before the
fireplace before draping it over the chair. The smell of damp wool
made her wrinkle her nose. “I am coming.”

Galen was standing by
the window, hands clasped behind his back, a letter in them. She
admired his balance, noting with pride that he looked good again,
not thin and worn. The military set was back in his shoulders. He
turned around and held out the letter to her.

“
It is
another note from Laird Ross. And he has sweetened the pot,
Jeannie.” He scratched his head. “Indeed, he is making it
impossible for me to refuse attendance at the reunion in
Dumfries.”

She took the letter
from him, reading it swiftly. She looked up at him, and he smiled
into her face.

“
Ah,
Jeannie, when I see that dimple in your cheek, I know you’re not
precisely oblivious to the hatching of this plot,” he declared.
“Thomas used to declare that you had a military turn for
strategy.”

They could talk about
Thomas now, if they spoke carefully and avoided each other’s
eyes.

She handed back the
letter. “It would seem, sir, that you are about to be kidnapped.”
She could not resist. “And led in chains to a trout stream in the
north when the reunion has run its course.”

“
Yes,
a scurvy plot, Jeannie, and one that I am powerless to combat,” he
replied with a grin. “And Major Ross outranks me. Our majorities
were purchased two days apart, so he is my senior. Now, what can I
do?”

“
Nothing except submit to the rule of authority and go to
Dumfries, Father.”

Only do not smile at me
like that, she thought. You remind me so of Thomas.

Her return to sobriety
brought Galen McVinnie to earth again. “But, Jeannie, I cannot
leave you here alone for the summer. I cannot. I promised Thomas
that I would look after you.”

No one could argue with
the kindness of Galen McVinnie’s words, but there was something in
the saying of them that stung like a pin under the fingernail. Was
she imagining, or could she almost hear a sigh as he spoke, as if
he wished Tom had not extracted such a promise?

“
So
you did promise,” she said quietly. “And you have done such a
lovely job of it. I can manage here.”

“
Still, it is not right.”

Jeannie saw the signs
coming of what Thomas had dubbed the “great McVinnie dig-in,” that
look of stubbornness and duty that was nearly impossible to argue
with. She glanced about her for something to distract her
father-in-law, and found it on the mantelpiece.

“
Father, is there a letter for me?” she asked
suddenly.

“
Yes.
I forgot. Clumsy of me.”

She went to the
mantelpiece and picked up the letter. The handwriting was
unfamiliar. She ran her finger over the paper and immediately knew
it was of the best quality. The letter had been franked by a lord.
The word “Taneystone” was scrawled across the top. She frowned and
looked at her father-in-law, who shrugged and stumped closer.

“
It is
no one I know.” Galen managed a mild joke. “Jeannie, my dear, are
you in trouble with the lairds of England? A lowering reflection
for a Scottish lassie, I vow.”

She shook her head. “I
haven’t a clue. I suppose nothing will suffice but I must open the
thing.” She faltered. “I only wish it did not look so
official.”

Her last official
letter had led to her widowhood. She shook off the feeling that
threatened her somewhere behind her eyelids and accepted the
penknife Galen handed her. She opened the letter and spread out the
closely written page. Jeannie motioned her father-in-law closer and
held it out to him so they could read it together.

“
Captain Sir William Summers, commanding
HMS Venture
,
Knight Grand Cross of the Bath.”

The title seemed to
speak in the quiet room, so boldly was it written.

Jeannie looked at
Galen.

“
I am
no wiser,” she said. “Would this be a navy man?”

Galen nodded and
pointed to the salutation. “He labors under the delusion that he
knows you.”

She looked down. “My
dear Miss Jeannie McVinnie,” she said out loud. “Whoever can this
be? Let us sit down, Father.” They sat. Jeannie spread the letter
out on her lap and began to read.

My dear Miss McVinnie,
I regret I have not written you since the occasion of my reply to
your letter five years ago, in which you so kindly inquired about
my part in Trafalgar. Has it been five years? I have spent most of
that time since engaged in blockade duty, which I need scarcely
trouble you with. It is an occupation of astounding tedium and
occasional terror. The contrast is regrettable, as it sets our
teeth on edge, but what are we do to if Boney will rove about the
continent, kicking up his heels?

You were never one to
beat about the bush. Let me explain the reason for this letter. I
believe you to be aware of George’s death two years ago (and of
course, you are already well aware of Marceline’s untimely passing
years ago). George’s death surprised all of us, particularly in
light of the fact that I have always been considered the family
favorite to be tamped down first by the undertaker’s shovel or slid
off a board into the sea.

Jeannie raised her eyes
to Galen’s face. “Father, he is so ghoulish!”

Galen rubbed his chin.
“Permit me an observation. Navy men tend to be more fatalistic than
the rest of us. It must come from tossing about in little wooden
tubs and eating weevily biscuit.”

“
It
must be so,” Jeannie replied. She addressed herself to the letter
again.

You will recall
George’s two children—Larinda, who has just turned seventeen, and
Edward, who is fourteen and now Lord Summers. Larinda has begun her
come-out, and I have been ordered to London (I shall explain
this
later!) to act as head of the household. This is the
reason for my letter. I am in desperate need of a companion for
her, someone to chaperone her to parties and routs and such.

You will recall that my
sister, Agatha Smeath, has for years been a quasi-guardian, filling
in where I could not, because of the press of war. You remember
Agatha and her flibertigibbet ways. She cannot be relied upon to
usher Larinda out and about. I need someone of dignified years,
considerable countenance, and copious good sense. Naturally, I
thought of you.

“
Well,
I like that,” Jeannie declared. “I am not above
twenty-four!”

Galen laughed.
“Jeannie, remember, we do not know this man. Nor does he know
you.”

“
Then
we should not be reading his letter,” she said crisply. “I feel
like a Peeping Tom. Oh, bother it all! Let me finish. There isn’t
much more. Where was I?”

In short, I need
someone who will not be flummeried by a headstrong chit just out of
the schoolroom. My dear Miss McVinnie, I rely on you to drop
whatever it is you are currently involved in and hurry to Number 3,
Wendover Square, where my sister has engaged a house for the
Season.

I await your arrival
with considerable interest. It has been twenty years since we have
laid eyes on each other, although I have enjoyed your occasional
letters over the years. I trust I have improved since our last
meeting, although I do not know that I will satisfy your
expectations. I certainly never satisfied anyone else’s.

I remain yours truly
and desperately,

William Summers,

Captain of His
Majesty’s
Venture

Jeannie stared at the
letter another minute. “I am no wiser than I was when I began this
letter, Galen. How odd! Can you make anything of it?”

Her father-in-law took
the letter from her and reread the concluding paragraphs. The
crease between his eyes deepened for a moment and then disappeared.
He was smiling.

“
All
right, sir, out with it! He cannot possibly be referring to
me.”

“
Indeed, he is not,” Galen agreed. “My dear, this is delicious!
I only wish she was here to savor the moment.’’

“
Who
are you talking about?”

Galen tapped the
letter. “This … Captain Summers can only be referring to my aunt
Jean McVinnie. You never knew her, and more’s the pity. Delightful
woman, if a trifle outspoken.”

“
Oh,
how unlike the McVinnies I know,” Jeannie quizzed.

“
Baggage! Seriously, she died—well, it wouldn’t have been too
long after that affair at Trafalgar that the good captain
mentioned.”

“
Then
there really was another Jeannie McVinnie?” Jeannie asked. She
looked at the letter. “And she was—”

“
A
nanny.” Galen finished her sentence. “Indeed she was, for five
years. When Mother died, she returned here to Kirkcudbright to keep
house for Father.” He chuckled. “And I don’t believe she was sorry
to shake the dust of London off her shoes. Bless me if she didn’t
refer to this very Captain Summers as—oh, let me see, I must get
this right—‘a thoroughly denatured son of Satan.’ ”

Jeannie gasped and then
giggled.

“
And
as I recall, that was one of her kinder phrases.” Galen leaned back
on the sofa, his eyes meditative. “Yes, yes, it was Will, because
George was a decided slow-top. My dear, you would have loved her
letters home. Come to think of it, they must still be about here
somewhere.”

Jeannie picked up the
envelope and shook out the draft on a London bank signed by Captain
Summers. “I suppose this is for the mail coach and posting houses,”
she said. “Goodness, it is a substantial sum. Does this give us
some indication of the degree of desperation?”

“
A sea
captain stuck in the middle of a come-out,” Galen said. “It does
make the blood run cold.”

Jeannie handed him the
bank draft. “I suppose you can write ‘void’ upon the draft and send
it back. You probably should accompany it with a letter,
Galen.”

“
I am
sure that would be best, Jeannie, although …” His voice trailed off
and then he began to laugh. “Oh, the things Aunt Jeannie used to
write about the Summers boys! I would almost give a year of my
pension to see the look on William Summer’s face if
you
were
to show up in Jeannie’s place!”

Jeannie smiled
indulgently at her father-in-law. Men will have their little jokes,
she thought as she returned the letter to the envelope. She
retrieved the draft and placed it with the letter on the mantel,
where it would remind Galen to reply.

Her cloak must be dry
by now. Nodding to her father-in-law, who was still in the grip of
a huge good humor, she went into the other room and picked up her
plaid.

She was smoothing out
the fabric when the idea took hold of her. So Captain William
Summers wanted a woman of good sense, did he? And he wanted Jeannie
McVinnie, in particular.

She went to the desk
and looked at the calendar there. April, May, and June. Was that
not the extent of a London Season? It would amount to a few balls,
suppers, and parties to occupy her agreeably while Galen McVinnie
went to his regimental reunion and trout-fishing in the
Highlands.

Jeannie knew that he
would do none of these things if she remained in Kirkcudbright. He
would remember his promise to his dying son and stay to look after
her, even though he longed to be elsewhere. She shivered. Even
though you so politely wish me elsewhere, Galen McVinnie.

“
You
McVinnies are so stubborn,” she said out loud. “If you will not do
what is best for you, then I must. And surely one Jeannie McVinnie
is as good as another.”

She gave the idea
several minutes’ thought. When nothing surfaced to wave her away
from it, Jeannie went to the door of the sitting room. Galen was
still there, only he was rereading his well-read note from Laird
Ross. He looked up at her and Jeannie made her decision.

“
Father McVinnie,” she declared, “I have a wonderful notion.
Tell me what you think of it.”

J
eannie’s first glimpse of London was disappointing in
the extreme. Because of a loose wheel, their entrance in the city
had been delayed until dusk. The rain, which had been threatening
all day to fall, thundered down, obscuring what little else she
could have seen.

Her back ached from the
discomfort of sitting upright hour after hour. She longed to curl
up in a dark corner and abandon herself to sleep. Food could wait;
clean linens could wait; she wanted to sleep.

The mud-spattered coach
pulled into the Bull and Hind with a flourish of the horn and a
great squeak of water-soaked brakes. It remained only to reclaim
her baggage and procure the services of a hackney.

The several hackneys
for hire were quickly bespoken for by the other occupants of the
mail coach, who danced about in the sodden roadway, raising their
hands to attract the attention of the drivers and then leaping back
to the curb in time to avoid an accident.

I can never do that,
thought Jeannie. I will be forced to stand here until spring at
least, or until someone takes pity. She was the only unescorted
woman remaining in what was obviously an unsavory neighborhood.
That thought, plus a sudden rush of water down the back of her
neck, compelled her into the street. She waved her arm vigorously,
and to her infinite relief, a jobbing cab stopped.