Chapter 6
The next morning, Thisbe decided that considering Mrs. Wix more carefully was well-nigh impossible. Staring at the housekeeper would look extremely odd, and sniffing her even odder.
Not only that, what if Mrs. Wix truly were Mr. Transom, and he realized he had been unmasked? He might feel obliged to leave.
She wanted him to stay, at least for now. She wasn’t exactly frightened of being alone, but she wasn’t comfortable, either. She felt safer with him—her—there.
Which was pure selfishness. She should be ashamed of herself.
Mr. Transom—if it truly were he—must have his own reasons for remaining in disguise.
He wanted to be alone, away from family, perhaps from their expectations.
He would doubtless leave as soon as possible, whether or not she saw through his disguise.
“I’ll have to hire another housekeeper,” she told Eddie’s ghost. He had joined her in the drawing room, which had excellent light for sewing.
The ghost nodded agreement, grinning widely, cheerfully, and annoyingly.
“I don’t know what you’re so pleased about,” she retorted. “I like Mrs. Wix very much. I wish she could stay.”
He nodded and grinned even more widely at that, which made no sense at all.
She turned her mind to the assembly that very evening.
She intended to enjoy herself, meet new people, and hopefully cultivate friendships.
She might even dance, if anyone asked, and do a little comparison of scents—although she rather hoped not to garner any admirers just yet.
Before considering another marriage, which was the safest way to avoid her father, she must dismiss Mr. Transom—whether or not he was also Mrs. Wix—from her mind and heart.
She finished adding trim to the flounce and sleeves and gold ribbons to the bodice of her green ball gown. She drank tea and ate more rock cakes—taking care to smile and thank Mrs. Wix while not looking at her too closely—then went upstairs to change.
Suddenly, she found herself with an awkward problem. She’d made a point of bringing clothing she could don without assistance from a maid. She even had corsets that laced at the front—but for the ball gown, she needed help.
“What am I to do?” she asked Eddie’s ghost. “I have no choice but to ask Mrs. Wix to do up the buttons at the back.”
Eddie well-nigh doubled up with silent laughter.
She didn’t understand his amusement, but she was rather excited.
Mr. Transom would have no choice but to touch her, and she would have another chance to inhale his intoxicating aroma.
Thisbe put a shawl around her shoulders and went partway down the stairs.
“Mrs. Wix!” she called. “I need some help with my gown.”
“Aye, missus?”
Thisbe assumed her sweetest voice. “Will you please come up to my chamber? Wash your hands first with plenty of soap. I’d rather not smell of onions.”
There was a pause, and then a grumbling assent. “In a minute, missus.”
Thisbe waited on tenterhooks and did her best to do no more than glance up when the housekeeper appeared. “Kindly do up the buttons at the back of my gown.”
The housekeeper sniffed her fingers. “They seems all right to me. You want to sniff them first, missus?”
Thisbe suppressed a giggle. “No, thank you. I’m sure you washed them as best you could.” She turned to face the mirror, her back to Mrs. Wix.
The housekeeper approached. She did smell a little of various herbs, but the intoxicating personal aroma was overwhelmingly there.
Thisbe took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, she realized she could freely watch Mrs. Wix in the mirror while the housekeeper’s attention was on the row of tiny buttons.
She shivered a little at the touch of her—his?—hands on her corset, and then on her bare flesh. She—he?—glanced up, and their eyes met. Thisbe felt herself flush but refused to look away.
It was Mrs. Wix who dropped her gaze, in order to fasten the last few buttons. “You look perfectly lovely, missus,” she said. “You surely will slay some lucky gentleman’s heart tonight.”
“Oh, dear, I hope not,” Thisbe said.
“Why? Don’t you wish to marry again? Might help you get rid of the unpleasant dreams.”
“I don’t really have bad dreams about my husband,” she said, seeing an opening to probe into Mr. Transom’s feelings. “Eddie’s ghost is a happy one, so I know he’s fine where he is. I just said that for…for verisimilitude. I’ve heard that many people who went to war have such dreams.”
“Aye, so they do,” Mrs. Wix said, without much interest.
Thisbe tried again. “Or—or much sadness because of what they have seen and done and can never undo. One of the Squire’s sons where I grew up in Surrey is melancholy like that.”
“Missing your home already, missus?” Which was a clear attempt to change the subject.
“It’s not really a home.” She picked up her gold locket, one of her few pieces of jewelry, to judge how it would look with the gown. “My father is…unpleasant and unkind. All he cares about is his status. He believes I must be strictly controlled, or I will embarrass him.”
“Why? Did you embarrass him in the past?”
“Yes, but it was all nonsense, and now he means to marry me off to one or other of his elderly friends. I am so thankful to Eddie for bequeathing me this house, and I shall manage somehow. I hope Papa will forget about me. Out of sight, out of mind.”
“The man sounds like a fool,” Mrs. Wix said. “Let me help you with the clasp.” Thisbe shivered at the touch of those capable hands. “So, it’s not marriage you wish to avoid, but marriage to the wrong man.”
“Yes.” Thisbe shivered. Why was her heart racing? She took a deep breath to calm herself.
“Did you never meet the right man, missus?”
Thisbe shrugged, feigning indifference. “I thought I did once, but it was not meant to be, and then I married Eddie, which was pleasant for a night and a day. Then he left for the Continent, and I never saw him alive again.”
“A night and a day!” Mrs. Wix said. “Let us hope your next marriage lasts much longer.”
Thisbe didn’t want to talk about marriage. She was almost certain Mrs. Wix was Gervaise Transom—he wasn’t controlling his voice and vocabulary as well as before—but if he didn’t want her, she refused to want him in return. “And let us hope the highwayman doesn’t steal my locket,” she said.
Mrs. Wix stood back. “He’s no fool. He won’t rob Sir Simon’s coach.”
“Do you know who the highwayman is?”
Mrs. Wix shrugged and went to the door. “I’ll get back to my kitchen. Call if you need me, love.”
Thisbe donned her evening cloak of blue velvet, stowed her slippers in the pocket, and went down to wait for Sir Simon’s coach.
She felt a little dreary; wishing and hoping Mr. Transom would confide in her had proven useless.
She tried to drum up some enthusiasm for meeting new gentlemen, but none of them would smell as good, as desirable, as safe, as the man who had kissed her so many years before.
The sound of hooves and carriage wheels roused her from this doleful reverie.
Eddie’s ghost appeared, frowning and flapping his arms, silently shouting something, but she couldn’t make out what he said.
Perhaps he meant she should wait for a servant to open the door, but judging by the sounds coming from the kitchen, Mrs. Wix was chopping something, so she wasn’t likely to come.
Thisbe hurried to open the door—and gasped.
“Oh, no!” She tried to compose herself, she really did, but she was already trembling. What was Papa doing here?
He clambered down from the coach, and too late she knew what to do—slam the door shut, throw the bolt, and run for the safety of Mrs. Wix.
“Don’t you dare!” He shoved hard against the door, almost knocking her to the floor. “You’re coming home with me.”
Eddie’s ghost marched up, drew a sword from nowhere, and brandished it at Papa.
That helped a little, made her feel stronger. Surer. “This is my home now,” she retorted. “Eddie left it to me, and this is where I shall stay.”
“This hovel?” he cried, and Eddie dealt him a useless buffet, then vanished. “The grounds are unkempt, and I haven’t a doubt the interior is just as bad.”
“As a matter of fact,” she said as calmly as she could, “the drawing room is perfectly fine, so is the dining room, and the housekeeper and I are working on the other rooms—”
“Working? The daughter of a baron doesn’t work.
Why are you answering your own door? Can’t afford any decent servants, can you?
No daughter of mine will answer her own door, I can tell you that.
And where do you think you’re going, all dressed up so fine?
Wearing your mother’s locket, too, while you go gallivanting about. How dare you?”
“I’ve been invited to an assembly in Brighton,” she said.
“Ha! Escorted by whom? Have you already found a lover, you little trollop? I knew you’d be back to your old ways the minute you were out of my sight. We’re leaving now!”
“No!” she cried, backing away. “I’m not going with you.”
Papa grabbed her arm, and she opened her mouth to shriek—but suddenly, Mrs. Wix was there, swathed in an apron, a bloody cleaver in her hand, Eddie right behind, cheering her—him—on.
“Let her go,” Mrs. Wix said.
“Who the devil are you?” Papa demanded, towing Thisbe toward the door.
“The cook. I said, let her go.” Her—his voice was that of a very dangerous male.
“Go to hell, you stupid woman.” Papa tightened his grip and tugged Thisbe hard.
“Stop it!” she cried. “You’re hurting me!”
“It’s nothing to what I’ll do to you when we get home,” Papa snarled.
Mrs. Wix grabbed hold of Papa’s wrist and squeezed. “I said, let her go.”
Papa yelped, struggling, released Thisbe, and bellowed for his footman, Jerome, who hurried into the house, spied the bloody cleaver in Mrs. Wix’s hand, and paled.
“Thank you, Mrs. Wix,” Thisbe said, rubbing her wrist.
“I’ll show you whom to thank,” Papa said. “Don’t just stand there, Jerome. Move this disgusting female out of the way, and take Miss Thisbe to the coach.”
“I am not coming with you!” Thisbe retreated behind her rescuer.
“That’s right, she ain’t,” Mrs. Wix said, brandishing the cleaver. Jerome didn’t move.
“Fools and cowards, all of you!” Papa glared at Mrs. Wix. “I shall report this attack on my person to the appropriate authorities.”
Mrs. Wix cackled. “The JP will be here any minute to fetch Mrs. Rose, but I doubt he’ll have time for you now.”
“She’s tupping a JP?” Papa roared, and suddenly found himself pushed against the wall and held in a relentless grip.
“Take those foul words back, or I’ll shove them down your throat,” Mrs. Wix said.
Jerome merely gaped, and Papa croaked, “Do something, you useless fellow!” Eddie’s ghost hovered behind Mrs. Wix, silently urging her on, a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other.
“Please don’t kill him,” Thisbe whispered.
Eddie desisted, looking abashed, and Mrs. Wix said, “Never fret, love. I shan’t, or at least not yet.” He let Papa go and grinned at Jerome. “Come work for Miss Thisbe. She’s much more fun.”
Poor Jerome looked so very tempted. No one liked working for Papa.
Fortunately, since Papa was rubbing his throat while working himself up to another outburst of venom, a second carriage rolled up outside.
Thisbe slumped. All anticipation of a pleasurable evening fled.
What Mr. Transom must think of her! Yes, he had rescued her, but he would surely tell Sir Simon about Papa’s horrid accusations.
The JP would tell his wife and Miss Transom, and they would turn their backs, likely without giving her a chance to explain.
She needed to tell him all about it, and do it now!
“Looks like Sir Simon and his ladies are here, Mrs. Rose,” the housekeeper said, sticking her head out the door and giving a piercing whistle. “Off you go. Dance to your heart’s content, and mayhap a handsome stranger will fall in love with you.”
“Don’t say such things!” she cried. “I need to—I must explain something to you.”
“Later will do. Trust me, all will be well.” Mrs. Wix gave her a little push towards the door.
“What the devil?” Papa tried to follow her, but Mrs. Wix held him back, while a very proper gentleman in evening wear descended from the coach.
“Run along, love. Go enjoy the ball,” Mrs. Wix said. “I’ll have a word with Sir Simon, and he’ll keep you safe.”
Thisbe scurried out the door past her father and scrambled into Sir Simon’s coach.