extended his arm in a courtly manner, “is filled with spies. Therefore, I thought our conversation would best be conducted in relative privacy. Do not look so concerned, Miss Smith! Since my watchdogs are constantly at loggerheads—in particular, my butler and my valet—I occasionally manage to do as I please.” Before Angelica could question these statements, Sir Randall launched into a diverting tale of a zealous surgeon once known personally to him, who had with a single swoop of his knife removed a limb, three of his assistant’s fingers, and a spectator’s coat-tails.
This digression saw them into Sir Randall’s study, where he seated Angelica before a blazing fire. Sir Randall, now that she could clearly study him, bore no resemblance to the ogre she had first thought him to be. Instead, engaged in divesting himself of myriad outdoor garments, Sir Randall looked very much like a plump little leprechaun. What hair adorned his round head was confined largely to his jowls; and the eyes behind their spectacles twinkled merrily. “Gave you quite a start, did I?” inquired Sir Randall, acutely. “My apologies, but I had to discover if you would truly do. And I have decided that you will, Miss Smith. Why is it that you’re unmarried? Surely all the gentlemen cannot be so deficient in good taste!”
Wryly, Angelica admitted that all the gentlemen seemed to be. “I do not consider marriage the be-all and end-all,” she continued. “Shocking as it may be of me! I have always thought a female should be allowed the option of doing other with her life than raising a family. Alas, there are few such other options, but perhaps someday… Now you will think me a bluestocking! It is all your fault, sir, for tempting me to ride my favorite hobby-horse.”
“A bluestocking?” Sir Randall’s cherubic face was creased with thought. “What’s wrong with that, pray? My blessed wife was a bluestocking, rest her soul, and though she may have sometimes taken hold of the wrong end of the cow, her views were infinitely curious and interesting. Surely there’s room in this vast world of ours for different points of view?” He eyed the doorway. “Apropos of which, here’s Williams with our tea.”
Indeed it was the butler, gazing upon his employer with a paternal eye. Behind him followed a footman, laden with a heavy tray. “This is Miss Smith, Williams,” offered Sir Randall. “She is about to become one of our happy little family.”
“Very good, sir,” responded the butler, regarding Angelica with an expression that she thought oddly triumphant. “May I say that it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Smith?” So saying he nudged the goggling footman and indicated the door. They exited.
Why triumph? mused Angelica. Had it been her imagination or had Sir Randall spoken of his happy family with a certain irony? But first things first, and Angelica was not certain of what her duties as amanuensis would involve. Delicately, she put forth an inquiry.
“My memoirs?” Sir Randall echoed blankly, around a mouthful of watercress.
“Yes, sir.” Angelica’s new employer was not only eccentric, but exasperating. “Valerian told me you were engaged in writing them. Am I mistaken, sir? It was my impression that you required assistance in that endeavor.”
“Oh, that.” Sir Randall swallowed and applied a linen handkerchief to his lips. “To be sure I do—more than you can imagine, Miss Smith! My papers are in such a tangle that I daresay we shall have to start over from scratch.” Balefully, he glanced around the room. “If you will take my advice, you will not mention your, er, friend or our little conversation unless assured of our privacy. In this house, the very walls have ears.”
Considerably taken aback, Angelica followed his gaze. Due to her sister Lily’s rampant curiosity, Angelica was acquainted with the hazards imposed on privacy by eavesdroppers—but she saw only a comfortable,
This digression saw them into Sir Randall’s study, where he seated Angelica before a blazing fire. Sir Randall, now that she could clearly study him, bore no resemblance to the ogre she had first thought him to be. Instead, engaged in divesting himself of myriad outdoor garments, Sir Randall looked very much like a plump little leprechaun. What hair adorned his round head was confined largely to his jowls; and the eyes behind their spectacles twinkled merrily. “Gave you quite a start, did I?” inquired Sir Randall, acutely. “My apologies, but I had to discover if you would truly do. And I have decided that you will, Miss Smith. Why is it that you’re unmarried? Surely all the gentlemen cannot be so deficient in good taste!”
Wryly, Angelica admitted that all the gentlemen seemed to be. “I do not consider marriage the be-all and end-all,” she continued. “Shocking as it may be of me! I have always thought a female should be allowed the option of doing other with her life than raising a family. Alas, there are few such other options, but perhaps someday… Now you will think me a bluestocking! It is all your fault, sir, for tempting me to ride my favorite hobby-horse.”
“A bluestocking?” Sir Randall’s cherubic face was creased with thought. “What’s wrong with that, pray? My blessed wife was a bluestocking, rest her soul, and though she may have sometimes taken hold of the wrong end of the cow, her views were infinitely curious and interesting. Surely there’s room in this vast world of ours for different points of view?” He eyed the doorway. “Apropos of which, here’s Williams with our tea.”
Indeed it was the butler, gazing upon his employer with a paternal eye. Behind him followed a footman, laden with a heavy tray. “This is Miss Smith, Williams,” offered Sir Randall. “She is about to become one of our happy little family.”
“Very good, sir,” responded the butler, regarding Angelica with an expression that she thought oddly triumphant. “May I say that it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Smith?” So saying he nudged the goggling footman and indicated the door. They exited.
Why triumph? mused Angelica. Had it been her imagination or had Sir Randall spoken of his happy family with a certain irony? But first things first, and Angelica was not certain of what her duties as amanuensis would involve. Delicately, she put forth an inquiry.
“My memoirs?” Sir Randall echoed blankly, around a mouthful of watercress.
“Yes, sir.” Angelica’s new employer was not only eccentric, but exasperating. “Valerian told me you were engaged in writing them. Am I mistaken, sir? It was my impression that you required assistance in that endeavor.”
“Oh, that.” Sir Randall swallowed and applied a linen handkerchief to his lips. “To be sure I do—more than you can imagine, Miss Smith! My papers are in such a tangle that I daresay we shall have to start over from scratch.” Balefully, he glanced around the room. “If you will take my advice, you will not mention your, er, friend or our little conversation unless assured of our privacy. In this house, the very walls have ears.”
Considerably taken aback, Angelica followed his gaze. Due to her sister Lily’s rampant curiosity, Angelica was acquainted with the hazards imposed on privacy by eavesdroppers—but she saw only a comfortable,
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