Chapter Five #3
She watched Megs stow the telescope she was so proud of back in the canvas satchel she liked to carry around with her. Goodness knew what else she had stuffed in there.
Nelson, the white bulldog who Megs insisted was a cross with a terrier as he was such a good ratter, looked expectantly at the bag, but Megs shook her head.
“No biscuits today, Nelson.” He, also, had been inherited from the old seadog, as Megs had taken it upon herself to walk him for the old man who’d become too infirm towards the end of his life to do so.
To Lissy’s disgust, Megs doted on the ugly, scarred dog whose black eyepatch had gained him his name. And Nelson, acutely aware of having landed on his feet, now resided peaceably with the other five Madeley dogs, in direct contradiction to his past as a fighter.
“He’s not as old as I thought he would be,” Mims remarked, brushing dead leaves from her dress.
Lissy nodded. “Very thin. Mama said he’d been wounded at Waterloo. I suppose that might have made him ill and that could be why he’s so thin now.”
“Mrs. Barnes will soon fatten him up.” Megs wagged a finger at Nelson who was trying to jump up at her. “On all that cake.” She rubbed her stomach as though reflecting on her own lack of immediate nutrition.
“I could do with some of her cake right now,” Mims agreed. “It must be nearly dinner time.”
Lissy frowned at her two sisters, who, whatever time of day it was, always seemed to be thinking about the next thing they could eat. Although she was quite hungry herself. But first things first. “Now we’ve seen him, we need to go home and report back to Mama.”
“And eat,” Mims put in.
“She should’ve come with us.” Megs rubbed her stomach again. “I don’t know why she didn’t.”
Lissy sighed. Sometimes the weight of being the oldest and having to be the sensible one rested heavily on her shoulders.
“Because she’s a lady. That’s why. And none of us are ever going to be ladies, as we’ve vowed, so it doesn’t matter if we do unladylike things, like spying on our newly discovered cousin.
We’re all just going to be equestriennes and ride horses for the rest of our lives. Remember.”
Mims picked some grass seeds out of her long hair. “I’d like to suggest spying on our cousin could be construed as a useful occupation rather than an unladylike one.”
Lissy shook her head. “Spying on anyone is unladylike. You know it is. But, like I said, it doesn’t matter for us. Come on. Let’s get home and tell Mama all we’ve discovered about Cousin Henry.”
Eschewing the track, they set off at a run across the fields in the evening sunshine, Nelson bounding behind them.
Miranda and Betsey were in the kitchen when the girls arrived back.
Betsey had been showing Miranda how to make a stew, a process that had turned out to be far more complicated than Miranda had been hoping.
But, with Betsey’s help, it was now smelling sufficiently delicious for her to feel proud of the first culinary achievement of her new life.
She was just giving it a stir when the kitchen door burst open and all three of her daughters tumbled through it, their dresses covered in bits of grass and their hair windblown and dishevelled. Perhaps the aroma of her stew had lured them home.
“We’ve seen him,” Megs almost shouted.
“We saw him arrive in a hired post chaise,” Mims added. “Hired, not his own. It’s gone now, of course. We watched it leave.”
Lissy gave a deep sniff. “Mmm, something smells good.”
Miranda set her large wooden spoon on the floury tabletop.
Betsey had also been making bread which was now sitting proving near the hearth with a cloth over it.
Miranda had declared bread was a lesson for another day.
One item at a time was all she could manage and bread making had seemed inordinately complicated.
“Well,” she said, “I see you went off spying despite me telling you not to. I shall ignore your insubordination. But only if you tell me what you’ve learned. I confess to abject curiosity.”
Who would not for the man who’d evicted her and her daughters from their home. Not quite correct, but as far as she was concerned, he’d done it himself.
Lissy wrinkled her pretty nose. “Skinny and pale.” She’d had the best view of him through the telescope as it had been her turn to use it when he’d dismounted from the carriage.
A fact that had led to many hissed protests from her sisters, especially Megs.
“And I would say he’s younger than Papa was. ”
“Younger?” That could mean anything as Geoffrey had been sixty but had looked ten years older. A man of fifty would look young compared to him. Miranda wiped hands that had now become floury. “What else?”
“Brown hair,” Megs said. “I didn’t get a proper look at him really. Lissy hogged my telescope.” She glared at her sister.
So young enough not to be gray. Forty, perhaps? Or a little older?
“It was my turn,” Lissy said. “And to be honest, there wasn’t much to see. He got down from the carriage like an old man, only I don’t think he can be old. Well, I suppose he could be, but not the gray-haired kind of old. He has a stick to walk with.”
A stick? Lissy must be thinking along the same lines as she was. But Sir Henry Madeley was still very much a mystery. No doubt they’d find out soon enough when Betsey heard the gossip from the house servants.
“He had ordinary clothes on,” Mims said, sounding disappointed. “Not a uniform. Didn’t you say he was in the army? Well, you wouldn’t have guessed from seeing him today.”
“I daresay if he’s been wounded he won’t be wearing his uniform,” Miranda said.
“Crawford got him into the house really quickly,” Lissy went on. “Too quickly for us to be able to see much.”
“That might be because he was wounded,” Mims said. “I should think.” Her eyes lit up. “Maybe he has a wooden leg!”
Miranda had to hide a smile at the look of glee on her middle daughter’s face. She might be more sensible than the other two, but that didn’t halter her imagination. “I’m sure if he has a wooden leg Betsey will find out for us.”
The three girls exchanged glances that could have been described as furtive. “Then we saw him in Papa’s bedroom window,” Megs said, resentment in her voice. “Looking out at all he now owns.” She pulled a face. “If I’d had a gun, I could have shot him.”
“Thank goodness you didn’t then,” Miranda said, more than a little alarmed at her youngest child’s recent preoccupation with murder. “Now all of you go and wash your hands and faces because, you’ll be impressed to hear, I have cooked your dinner for you tonight.”
Lissy’s face took on an expression of wary caution. “You have?”
Miranda frowned. “Yes, I have, but with Betsey’s assistance, so you have no need to worry about it being inedible. Hands and faces. You look like peasant children.”
They ran to do as they’d been told, no doubt having taken her last remark as a compliment. How hard was it going to be raising the girls to be young ladies in their present situation? Almost impossible.