but I do not doubt that he means to attach you. Now, if all you mean to do is talk nonsense you might as well leave me to my accounts.”
Miss Tolerance did not like to leave on such a note. Since her illness a sixmonth before, Mrs. Brereton had been more volatile of temper and more likely to take offense where none was meant. She kept her temper with her clients; Miss Tolerance heard enough from Mrs. Brereton’s lieutenant, Marianne Touchwell, to know that she was equally evenhanded in dealing with the staff. Her odd moods were reserved for Frost, her dresser, for Marianne, and for Miss Tolerance, the three persons in the household to whom her ties were closest. That this was a mark of trust made it no less disturbing.
Miss Tolerance bit her lip, gained a firm hand upon her own temper, and smiled. “Will you dismiss me so out-of-hand, aunt? I am here, now.”
“I do not want you now!” Mrs. Brereton snapped. “You are never here when I want you.”
“But you know what my life is like, aunt. And I did visit with you yesterday before I went out.” Miss Tolerance saw that her aunt was not mollified. “May we not make an appointment to dine tomorrow? I will promise to be there.”
“Had I not better invite you to dine, you mean.” Mrs. Brereton was grudging.
“No, indeed. If you wish to come to my cottage for dinner, I will lay on the best possible meal—”
“Don’t be stupid, Sarah.” But Mrs. Brereton appeared more diverted than affronted by the notion of dining in the cottage. “What would you serve me? Gruel and tea? Bread and butter?”
“Connell used to say I made a very tasty stew.”
“God preserve me. I don’t doubt your fencing master ate anything placed in front of him, like most men. No, I’ll thank you to come dine with me—if you can undertake to cease jaunting about the city for an evening.”
“I rarely jaunt,” Miss Tolerance said again. “I would be delighted to dine with you. We dress, of course?”
“My dear child, just because we are Fallen is no reason to neglect the habits of civilized society.” The unevenness of Mrs. Brereton’s smile made her look rather melancholy, but Miss Tolerance knew this was one of the remaining physical signs of the stroke from which her aunt had otherwise recovered. “Wear that pretty green gown, and I will—”
What Mrs. Brereton intended was not to be known; one of her girls appeared in the doorway at that moment. “Excuse me, ma’am.”
“What is it, Clara?”
The whore, a slender girl with bright eyes and a tumble of dark curls, was apologetic. “There’s a problem in the yellow saloon. Two gents is—are—asking for Lisette and neither one will give way. She says Mr. Creevey was her appointed for the evening, but Mr. Sainsbury says she promised him, and they’re a bit in their cups and—”
“A schoolroom quarrel!” Mrs. Brereton frowned. “Cannot Marianne sort this out? It seems to me I gave her authority to do just that.”
The girl flushed. “Marianne’s with a gent, ma’am. Keefe might—”
But Mrs. Brereton had risen to her feet. “One does not ask a servant to mediate between gentlemen, Clara. Keefe is only to be involved when a client requires a show of force.” She turned to her niece. “I don’t suppose you would deal with this, Sarah?”
Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Like Keefe, ma’am, I am only to be involved when the client requires a show of force.”
“How do you know this is not such a time?”
“Given that Clara entered the room at a decorous walk, and the only clash she mentions is one of dates rather than steel, I deduce that no threat presently exists. You do not need me to interfere, aunt.”
“Well, I wish you would. You might save me the exertion of going down stairs. “
“Untangling a quarrel like this will be best done by you, aunt. I have no standing in this house. Nor do I want any,” she continued before Mrs. Brereton could make her inevitable comments about the
Miss Tolerance did not like to leave on such a note. Since her illness a sixmonth before, Mrs. Brereton had been more volatile of temper and more likely to take offense where none was meant. She kept her temper with her clients; Miss Tolerance heard enough from Mrs. Brereton’s lieutenant, Marianne Touchwell, to know that she was equally evenhanded in dealing with the staff. Her odd moods were reserved for Frost, her dresser, for Marianne, and for Miss Tolerance, the three persons in the household to whom her ties were closest. That this was a mark of trust made it no less disturbing.
Miss Tolerance bit her lip, gained a firm hand upon her own temper, and smiled. “Will you dismiss me so out-of-hand, aunt? I am here, now.”
“I do not want you now!” Mrs. Brereton snapped. “You are never here when I want you.”
“But you know what my life is like, aunt. And I did visit with you yesterday before I went out.” Miss Tolerance saw that her aunt was not mollified. “May we not make an appointment to dine tomorrow? I will promise to be there.”
“Had I not better invite you to dine, you mean.” Mrs. Brereton was grudging.
“No, indeed. If you wish to come to my cottage for dinner, I will lay on the best possible meal—”
“Don’t be stupid, Sarah.” But Mrs. Brereton appeared more diverted than affronted by the notion of dining in the cottage. “What would you serve me? Gruel and tea? Bread and butter?”
“Connell used to say I made a very tasty stew.”
“God preserve me. I don’t doubt your fencing master ate anything placed in front of him, like most men. No, I’ll thank you to come dine with me—if you can undertake to cease jaunting about the city for an evening.”
“I rarely jaunt,” Miss Tolerance said again. “I would be delighted to dine with you. We dress, of course?”
“My dear child, just because we are Fallen is no reason to neglect the habits of civilized society.” The unevenness of Mrs. Brereton’s smile made her look rather melancholy, but Miss Tolerance knew this was one of the remaining physical signs of the stroke from which her aunt had otherwise recovered. “Wear that pretty green gown, and I will—”
What Mrs. Brereton intended was not to be known; one of her girls appeared in the doorway at that moment. “Excuse me, ma’am.”
“What is it, Clara?”
The whore, a slender girl with bright eyes and a tumble of dark curls, was apologetic. “There’s a problem in the yellow saloon. Two gents is—are—asking for Lisette and neither one will give way. She says Mr. Creevey was her appointed for the evening, but Mr. Sainsbury says she promised him, and they’re a bit in their cups and—”
“A schoolroom quarrel!” Mrs. Brereton frowned. “Cannot Marianne sort this out? It seems to me I gave her authority to do just that.”
The girl flushed. “Marianne’s with a gent, ma’am. Keefe might—”
But Mrs. Brereton had risen to her feet. “One does not ask a servant to mediate between gentlemen, Clara. Keefe is only to be involved when a client requires a show of force.” She turned to her niece. “I don’t suppose you would deal with this, Sarah?”
Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Like Keefe, ma’am, I am only to be involved when the client requires a show of force.”
“How do you know this is not such a time?”
“Given that Clara entered the room at a decorous walk, and the only clash she mentions is one of dates rather than steel, I deduce that no threat presently exists. You do not need me to interfere, aunt.”
“Well, I wish you would. You might save me the exertion of going down stairs. “
“Untangling a quarrel like this will be best done by you, aunt. I have no standing in this house. Nor do I want any,” she continued before Mrs. Brereton could make her inevitable comments about the
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