At first she was aware only of the compact spongy mass of the mattress beneath her; it was the first time Katie had slept on a feather bed. Trance-like, Katie observed the angular, uncompromising lines of an old-fashioned mahogany cabinet, now muted by the bluish rays of the early morning sun. It was peaceful to lay so, without thinking, without moving, but the pointed shaft of one chicken feather had worked its way through the mattress ticking and prodded Katie’s back with dogged persistence. When she could ignore it no longer, Katie sat up and turned to find the tiny spike, pulled the feather through the sheet’s coarse weave, and blew it off her palm to watch it float languidly to the floor. There was no denying it now. She was awake.
Katie stood up, tightened the string-belt, and tried to finger-comb her heavy curls into order. There was a tripod basin stand near the bed, its low shelf containing a porcelain urn of cool fresh water, so Katie washed as well as she could. She looked around under the bed and behind an armchair for her hat and then remembered that it had come off in the drawing room. She also remembered how it had come off. There was nothing for it. Reality must be faced. Katie unlocked the door and tiptoed into the next room.
Reality lay sleeping heavily on an inlaid satin-wood couch, unconsciously picturesque with one hand dropped to the floor and the other curled disarmingly against his forehead. A faint sleep blush ran across Lord Linden’s nose onto either cheek and Katie would have liked to touch it softly with her finger but didn’t dare. She had a fair amount of experience with men on a morning after an evening of too much convivial drinking; she guessed that a hangover would not greatly improve Lord Linden’s temper, so she was in no haste to wake him.
Instead Katie went quickly to the hall, walked downstairs, and opened the large paneled front door to gaze into the street. London’s ambitious corps of street vendors were already out, pushing their rickety carts laden with a fascinating array of merchandise. Flower girls, piemen, fruit sellers, and knife sharpeners advertised their wares with boisterous energy. Katie saw a barefoot lad pulling a clumsy ice wagon coming around the corner. She thought for a second, then ran down the steps and bought a penny’s worth of chunky ice, and carried it back inside wrapped in her jacket. Downstairs she found a room that could only belong to Roger, the absent valet, and a neat kitchen with an adjacent pantry. Roger, Katie found, was a well organized gentleman’s gentleman. She quickly found the items she required: an icebag, a threaded needle, and milk. The icebag was for Lord Linden, the needle for a jagged tear in her jacket that must have been made sometime during yesterday’s adventures, and the milk was for herself. She had eaten only half an apple and one stale bun in the last twenty-four hours.
Katie loaded her plunder on a worked silver tray and carried it upstairs. Thus, the first view Lord Linden had that morning was of Katie sitting crosslegged on his Persian carpet with her elbows on her knees and her oval chin resting on the heels of her out-turned fists.
“Good God!” said Linden and shut his eyes with unflattering alacrity. It was some moments before he opened them again. Katie silently handed him the icebag. He laid it against his neck, wincing with an oath as the cold damp sailcloth made contact with his skin.
“Bad, is it?” inquired Katie sympathetically.
“Yes.” Lord Linden shifted the icebag and looked at Katie. “God! I don’t remember anything after that third bottle. Well, chit, did I bed you last night?”
“No, my lord. You—you said I should lock the door.”
“The devil I did! I must have been as drunk as David’s sow.” Linden buried his face in the ice-bag. “
Merde
. I remember now.” From the look on his face, Katie correctly divined that the recollection afforded him very little pleasure.
“I
Katie stood up, tightened the string-belt, and tried to finger-comb her heavy curls into order. There was a tripod basin stand near the bed, its low shelf containing a porcelain urn of cool fresh water, so Katie washed as well as she could. She looked around under the bed and behind an armchair for her hat and then remembered that it had come off in the drawing room. She also remembered how it had come off. There was nothing for it. Reality must be faced. Katie unlocked the door and tiptoed into the next room.
Reality lay sleeping heavily on an inlaid satin-wood couch, unconsciously picturesque with one hand dropped to the floor and the other curled disarmingly against his forehead. A faint sleep blush ran across Lord Linden’s nose onto either cheek and Katie would have liked to touch it softly with her finger but didn’t dare. She had a fair amount of experience with men on a morning after an evening of too much convivial drinking; she guessed that a hangover would not greatly improve Lord Linden’s temper, so she was in no haste to wake him.
Instead Katie went quickly to the hall, walked downstairs, and opened the large paneled front door to gaze into the street. London’s ambitious corps of street vendors were already out, pushing their rickety carts laden with a fascinating array of merchandise. Flower girls, piemen, fruit sellers, and knife sharpeners advertised their wares with boisterous energy. Katie saw a barefoot lad pulling a clumsy ice wagon coming around the corner. She thought for a second, then ran down the steps and bought a penny’s worth of chunky ice, and carried it back inside wrapped in her jacket. Downstairs she found a room that could only belong to Roger, the absent valet, and a neat kitchen with an adjacent pantry. Roger, Katie found, was a well organized gentleman’s gentleman. She quickly found the items she required: an icebag, a threaded needle, and milk. The icebag was for Lord Linden, the needle for a jagged tear in her jacket that must have been made sometime during yesterday’s adventures, and the milk was for herself. She had eaten only half an apple and one stale bun in the last twenty-four hours.
Katie loaded her plunder on a worked silver tray and carried it upstairs. Thus, the first view Lord Linden had that morning was of Katie sitting crosslegged on his Persian carpet with her elbows on her knees and her oval chin resting on the heels of her out-turned fists.
“Good God!” said Linden and shut his eyes with unflattering alacrity. It was some moments before he opened them again. Katie silently handed him the icebag. He laid it against his neck, wincing with an oath as the cold damp sailcloth made contact with his skin.
“Bad, is it?” inquired Katie sympathetically.
“Yes.” Lord Linden shifted the icebag and looked at Katie. “God! I don’t remember anything after that third bottle. Well, chit, did I bed you last night?”
“No, my lord. You—you said I should lock the door.”
“The devil I did! I must have been as drunk as David’s sow.” Linden buried his face in the ice-bag. “
Merde
. I remember now.” From the look on his face, Katie correctly divined that the recollection afforded him very little pleasure.
“I
Similar Books
