and museums
clustered along a short stretch of the Museum Parade, and villas
peeped out from the greenery on the surrounding hillsides. On the
other side of the road, gardens sloped down toward the river. The
road followed the river's route, round the mountain rising behind the
Heights of Abraham.
It
was an easy climb to the Heights, and Mirabel had done it in all
seasons. Whenever her cares threatened to overwhelm her, she went
there and let her surroundings soothe her.
She
had a great deal on her mind this day and experienced more than a
little perturbation of spirit. But she hadn't time to let nature calm
her.
Instead,
having turned over her curricle to the groom and sent her maid Lucy
to carry out some errands, Mirabel proceeded to the entrance of
Wilkerson's Hotel.
Within,
she asked for Mr. Carsington.
Mr.
Wilkerson hurried out to her. "I believe he's still abed, Miss
Oldridge," he said.
"Still
abed?" she repeated. "But it must be noon."
"Just
gone half-past eleven, miss," said the innkeeper.
Then
she remembered: Members of the haut ton rarely rose before noon,
usually on account of going to bed about the time dawn was cracking.
Mr.
Wilkerson offered to send a servant up to ascertain whether Mr.
Carsington was ready to receive visitors.
An
image arose in Mirabel's mind of Mr. Carsington pushing tousled
gold-streaked brown hair out of his face and blinking sleepily up at…
someone.
"No,
there is no need to disturb him," she said quickly. "I
shall be in the village for some hours. I must pay some calls. I can
speak to him later in the day."
She
noticed her hands were trembling. It must be hunger. She'd been so
worried about finding Lord Har-gate's son in broken pieces that she'd
been able to swallow only a sip of tea and a bite of toast for
breakfast. "But first I should like a pot of tea," she
added, "and some toast."
She
was swiftly conveyed to a private dining room, far from the bustle of
the public dining room and tavern. Within minutes the tea and toast
appeared.
After
she'd emptied plate and teapot, Mirabel's spirits revived. When Mr.
Wilkerson came in and asked if she'd like something more—eggs,
perhaps, and a few rashers of bacon—she asked for his most
detailed local map.
He
had any number of such maps, he assured her, as good a selection as
one-might find in any shop in London, including some handsome
hand-tinted ones. He wished the Ordnance Survey map of Derbyshire had
been done by now, but it hadn't. "A pity it is, Miss Oldridge,"
he said. "Very scientifically made, they are, those new maps."
She
asked to see what he had, and he brought them to her. Several seemed
detailed enough to suit her purposes, and she spread these out on the
table, merely to compare. She did not plan a close study until she
returned home.
But
Mirabel was in certain respects more like her father than she
realized. Left to herself—with no interruptions, disturbances,
or servants' calls for help—she could become as caught up in
working out a riddle as he.
As
time passed, she shed by degrees her bonnet and cloak. More than two
hours after she'd come, she was still bent over the maps, looking for
a way out of her difficulty.
ABOUT
this time, Mr. Wilkerson was out in the courtyard, gossiping with a
postilion. Consequently, he was unaware that Mr. Carsington had come
downstairs and was on his way to the private parlor he'd reserved as
his headquarters. Since Mr. Wilkerson was not there to inform him,
and Mr. Carsington did not encounter a servant en route, he had no
idea who was in the small dining room nearby.
The
door happening to be open, Alistair idly glanced inside as he was
passing and discovered directly in his line of vision a small, round,
distinctively feminine bottom.
It
was draped in green fabric whose fine quality his connoisseur's eye
could not fail to discern, even while this same eye was assessing the
form beneath and calculating how many layers of cloth came between
the dress and skin.
All
this
clustered along a short stretch of the Museum Parade, and villas
peeped out from the greenery on the surrounding hillsides. On the
other side of the road, gardens sloped down toward the river. The
road followed the river's route, round the mountain rising behind the
Heights of Abraham.
It
was an easy climb to the Heights, and Mirabel had done it in all
seasons. Whenever her cares threatened to overwhelm her, she went
there and let her surroundings soothe her.
She
had a great deal on her mind this day and experienced more than a
little perturbation of spirit. But she hadn't time to let nature calm
her.
Instead,
having turned over her curricle to the groom and sent her maid Lucy
to carry out some errands, Mirabel proceeded to the entrance of
Wilkerson's Hotel.
Within,
she asked for Mr. Carsington.
Mr.
Wilkerson hurried out to her. "I believe he's still abed, Miss
Oldridge," he said.
"Still
abed?" she repeated. "But it must be noon."
"Just
gone half-past eleven, miss," said the innkeeper.
Then
she remembered: Members of the haut ton rarely rose before noon,
usually on account of going to bed about the time dawn was cracking.
Mr.
Wilkerson offered to send a servant up to ascertain whether Mr.
Carsington was ready to receive visitors.
An
image arose in Mirabel's mind of Mr. Carsington pushing tousled
gold-streaked brown hair out of his face and blinking sleepily up at…
someone.
"No,
there is no need to disturb him," she said quickly. "I
shall be in the village for some hours. I must pay some calls. I can
speak to him later in the day."
She
noticed her hands were trembling. It must be hunger. She'd been so
worried about finding Lord Har-gate's son in broken pieces that she'd
been able to swallow only a sip of tea and a bite of toast for
breakfast. "But first I should like a pot of tea," she
added, "and some toast."
She
was swiftly conveyed to a private dining room, far from the bustle of
the public dining room and tavern. Within minutes the tea and toast
appeared.
After
she'd emptied plate and teapot, Mirabel's spirits revived. When Mr.
Wilkerson came in and asked if she'd like something more—eggs,
perhaps, and a few rashers of bacon—she asked for his most
detailed local map.
He
had any number of such maps, he assured her, as good a selection as
one-might find in any shop in London, including some handsome
hand-tinted ones. He wished the Ordnance Survey map of Derbyshire had
been done by now, but it hadn't. "A pity it is, Miss Oldridge,"
he said. "Very scientifically made, they are, those new maps."
She
asked to see what he had, and he brought them to her. Several seemed
detailed enough to suit her purposes, and she spread these out on the
table, merely to compare. She did not plan a close study until she
returned home.
But
Mirabel was in certain respects more like her father than she
realized. Left to herself—with no interruptions, disturbances,
or servants' calls for help—she could become as caught up in
working out a riddle as he.
As
time passed, she shed by degrees her bonnet and cloak. More than two
hours after she'd come, she was still bent over the maps, looking for
a way out of her difficulty.
ABOUT
this time, Mr. Wilkerson was out in the courtyard, gossiping with a
postilion. Consequently, he was unaware that Mr. Carsington had come
downstairs and was on his way to the private parlor he'd reserved as
his headquarters. Since Mr. Wilkerson was not there to inform him,
and Mr. Carsington did not encounter a servant en route, he had no
idea who was in the small dining room nearby.
The
door happening to be open, Alistair idly glanced inside as he was
passing and discovered directly in his line of vision a small, round,
distinctively feminine bottom.
It
was draped in green fabric whose fine quality his connoisseur's eye
could not fail to discern, even while this same eye was assessing the
form beneath and calculating how many layers of cloth came between
the dress and skin.
All
this
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