The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [48]
Mrs Watson assured me there would be no difficulty. ‘Three of our girls have just left us, but there are plenty more where they came from.’
‘Unfortunately,’ I said, sighing.
‘Yes.’ The housekeeper shook her head. She continued to favour the formal dress of her youth, and was never to be seen without a cap on her handsome white head. These caps betrayed an unexpected touch of frivolity, each being more extravagant than the last in the way of ribbons, lace, and bows. That day she looked as if an entire group of large lavender butterflies had settled on her head.
‘I will put an advertisement in the Post,’ I said. ‘We want someone to watch over the children. A nursery maid for little Violet; for the boys, someone – er – sturdier.’
‘A tutor?’
‘A guard,’ I replied. ‘Do you think one of the footmen –’
‘They are good lads,’ the housekeeper replied doubtfully. ‘But none are well educated, and their habits are not precisely what you would want your son to acquire.’
‘I am not so much concerned with educating Ramses as with preventing him from killing himself – or his cousin,’ I said. ‘They don’t get on, Mrs Watson. They are constantly at one another’s throats.’
‘Boys will be boys,’ said Mrs Watson with a tolerant smile.
‘Humph,’ I said.
‘One of the housemaids – Kitty or Jane – might do well enough in the nursery for the time being,’ Mrs Watson mused. ‘And Bob is a husky young fellow –’
‘I will leave it to you, Mrs Watson. I have every confidence in your judgment.’ Having concluded these arrangements, I took my hat and my parasol, and left the house.
It was a fine spring day. A stiff northwest breeze had cleared away some of the smoke and an occasional glimpse of blue sky was to be seen. I set out at a brisk stride, looking with contempt and pity at the other ladies I saw; laced into tight stays and teetering on high-heeled shoes, they were almost incapable of motion, much less a good healthy walk. Poor foolish victims of society’s dictates – but (I reminded myself) willing victims, like the misguided females of India who fought to fling themselves into the funeral pyres of their bigamous husbands. Enlightened British laws had put an official end to that ghastly custom; what a pity British opinion was so unenlightened with regard to the oppression of English women.
Musing thus, I was unaware of the footsteps that kept pace with my own until a breathless voice behind me remarked, ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Emerson.’
Without moderating my pace, I replied, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Minton, and good-bye. There is no sense in your following me, since I am not going to do anything that will interest your readers.’
‘Please, won’t you stop for a moment? You walk so rapidly I can’t keep up and talk at the same time. I want to apologize.’
I was forced to stop, since Regent Street, which I proposed to cross, was filled from kerb to kerb with moving vehicles. Miss Minton said, ‘I behaved very badly. I am heartily ashamed of myself. Only . . . it was all his fault, Mrs Emerson. He does irritate me so – and then I act without thinking of the consequences.’
Taking advantage of a break in the traffic, I proceeded to cross the street. Miss Minton was on my heels, though an omnibus narrowly missed knocking her down.
‘You refer, I presume, to Mr O’Connell,’ I said.
‘Well – yes. Though he is no worse than the others. It is a man’s world, Mrs Emerson, and if a woman is to make her way, she must be as rude and aggressive as they are.’
‘Not at the risk of losing her femininity, Miss Minton. One may succeed in any profession and still remain a lady.’
‘That is certainly true of you,’ Miss Minton said earnestly. ‘But you are a unique person, Mrs Emerson. Dare I confess something to you? Ever since I first read of your adventures in Egypt, I have looked up to you. One of the reasons I have pursued this story so indefatigably is that I hoped it would give me the opportunity to meet you – my idol, my ideal.