Mrs. McVinnie's London Season Read Free Page B

driver nodded and
tipped his hat to her, and she climbed inside.
    Once she was out of the
rain, she had to smile to herself, thinking how carefully she had
assured Galen that she could manage perfectly well by herself. And
so she could, once she had learned to overlook the stares of
innkeepers and the bold glances of men drinking in taprooms.
Jeannie had spoken to no one in the four days of her journey, save
a vicar outside of Leeds, who rode for only a few miles, and a
governess on her way to Nottingham. In silence she had ridden, one
hand firmly on her reticule and her eyes fastened upon the dreary
scenery of late March.
    She must have slept
then in the hackney, leaning against the window, her hand tight to
the strap. The monotony of the rain, along with last night’s
sleepless sojourn in a noisy, overcrowded inn, sent her into a
slumber that she did not wake from until the hackney had stopped
and the driver opened the door to admit the rain again.
    “ Here
you are, miss. Watch your step, mind.”
    Jeannie paid the
driver, gathered her sodden skirts about her, and descended to the
roadway. Whistling to himself, the driver plopped her bags down
beside her, tipped his hat again, and drove into the rainy
night.
    Jeannie picked up her
bags, took two steps toward the house, and then set down the bags
again. The doubts that had been niggling at her almost since the
moment they crossed the border seemed to loom before her now in
monstrous proportion. As she stood peering at the large house
through the dark and the rain, Jeannie McVinnie knew, deep in her
self-critical Scottish heart, that she had erred.
    She also knew that she
could not return to Kirkcudbright. Galen had locked up the little
house on McDermott Street, and Mrs. MacDonald had left for Skye to
spend the spring with her oldest daughter. To cry off now would
mean that her father-in-law, gentleman that he was, would be forced
to leave his Highland trout stream and the agreeable company of old
comrades-in-arms.
    What had seemed a
clever idea less than a week ago was now only a foolish escapade.
Jeannie knew that Scottish humor was a piquant thing. Suppose the
English were different? She had no experience among them. Her mouth
went dry and her hands felt cold and clammy inside her gloves.
    How could I be so
stupid, she berated herself. What happened to my perspicacity?
    A cart tumbled by,
flinging water across her cloak. If I remain here much longer, I
will be a fetching sight, she thought. Courage, Jeannie. You got
yourself into this so gracefully, now you had better get yourself
out.
    She squared her
shoulders and picked up her bags again, compelling herself to move
forward and up the front steps. She knocked on the door, praying
that no one was at home even as she saw lights glowing in the
windows and heard the mumble of voices within.
    The bags felt as heavy
as Presbyterian sin, and she set them down again, a little to one
side, as she waited for the door to open.
    It opened so suddenly
that the motion nearly threw her off balance. Jeannie blinked and
jumped back as an overstuffed woman in an apron and cap grabbed her
by the wrist and yanked her inside.
    “ We
thought you would never get here,” the woman railed as she pulled
Jeannie into the room. “Lady Smeath is about to fall into a foaming
fit, and the captain … Oh, God help us!”
    Jeannie could only
stare, openmouthed.
    The housekeeper peered
at her and spoke in more kindly tones. “Dearie, take off your
cloak. My, you look as if you had traveled miles and miles, instead
of only from Bond Street. I suppose it’s that kind of a night.
Hurry up, now. There’s work to be done. That’s my dearie.”
    Numbly, Jeannie handed
over her cloak and thought only fleetingly of her bags on the front
steps. Whatever address she had once possessed deserted her
entirely. She started to say something, but the housekeeper had her
firmly in tow and was tugging her up the stairs.
    A quick glance at the
top of the stairs