contortions whenever they spied a lad my age in the company of a girl Clarissa’s age?
We settled in side by side, and she put round her wrap to keep her bare arms warm. I wondered why she had not dressed warmer. She should have worn a scarf, as well, for, after all, even wearing the wrap, her bosom, of late a bit more prominent, was left half-exposed. Women w ere like that, were they not? They never seemed to wear sufficient clothing, nor did they think sufficiently ahead to bring along what they might need for warmth later on in the evening. Instead, they preferred to snuggle and complain of the cold — just as she was doing at that instance. As we got under way, I thought it best to involve her in conversation, do whatever must be done to keep her at bay.
“Why do you suppose Sir John wanted us to withhold from Lady Fielding our intentions to visit Mr. Bilbo and Marie-Helene?” I asked, finding it needful to clear my throat a time or two as I spoke thus.
She leaned forward and looked at me direct. (Truth to tell, she was a bit shortsighted even then.)
“You know, Jeremy, she’s been behaving a bit strange lately. I would put it to her worries about her mother’s condition. She came back from York declaring that her mother was past the crisis, and she thought it time to return to Sir John and her family — meaning us, which I thought quite nice of her to say. But no, I don’t believe her mother is well. She has a tumor, and they are not got rid of so easily.”
“Indeed not,” said I, remembering the long suffering of the first Lady Fielding. “She seems to go up to bed earlier each evening. She says she reads.”
“I’ve heard her voice at night. She’s either talking to herself… or praying.”
“But to address that question with which we began, I really can’t say why she should object to our visiting Black Jack Bilbo. She seems to like him quite well, thinks he’s rather a rogue, a scoundrel, nevertheless a lovable one.”
“Ah, but Marie-Helene — that’s another matter, entirely.”
“I wonder what Lady Fielding has against her — not to mention what Molly might.”
“With Molly, no matter what she may say to the contrary, I feel certain her anger at the woman is all personal.”
“Not that she hasn’t reason.”
“Oh no, certainly not.”
“It’s just …”
“Right. It does no good.”
We fell silent. There was little more to say on the matter. Clarissa leaned back again and nestled against me. She was most aggressive. She went so far as to incline her head upon my shoulder, which made me most uncomfortable. Not physically, of course. Yet when we went from the Strand to Charing Cross, the road went bumpy, and she was forced to lift her head from its place.
“My goodness but you do have a bony shoulder, Jeremy!”
“I can scarcely help that now, can I?”
If I could only think of something to say, this would be the time to introduce some new topic of conversation, anything to divert her from her foolishness.
“Well, I suppose not. You eat enough for two as it is.”
Then came a sudden inspiration, a question which might engage her attention for the length of the trip.
“What do you think Marie-Helene wishes to discuss with you?” I asked her.
At that she laughed, which surprised me greatly.
“Have you not supposed what this is about?” she asked.
“No,” said I, “I have no notion of it.” Not strictly true, but anything to deflect her.
“Did not your friend Bunkins say that he would have some things to say to you? “
“He did.”
“And do you not also suppose that Mr. Bilbo, too, would wish to talk with you?”
“I had that feeling, yes.”
“Well, dear Jeremy, it is my certain conviction that we have been summoned that they may say their good-byes.”
“Yes, certainly Marie-Helene wishes to say her good-bye to you — perhaps to me, as well, I suppose — for she will be gone some three years or more. But Mr. Bilbo? Bunkins?”
“Have
We settled in side by side, and she put round her wrap to keep her bare arms warm. I wondered why she had not dressed warmer. She should have worn a scarf, as well, for, after all, even wearing the wrap, her bosom, of late a bit more prominent, was left half-exposed. Women w ere like that, were they not? They never seemed to wear sufficient clothing, nor did they think sufficiently ahead to bring along what they might need for warmth later on in the evening. Instead, they preferred to snuggle and complain of the cold — just as she was doing at that instance. As we got under way, I thought it best to involve her in conversation, do whatever must be done to keep her at bay.
“Why do you suppose Sir John wanted us to withhold from Lady Fielding our intentions to visit Mr. Bilbo and Marie-Helene?” I asked, finding it needful to clear my throat a time or two as I spoke thus.
She leaned forward and looked at me direct. (Truth to tell, she was a bit shortsighted even then.)
“You know, Jeremy, she’s been behaving a bit strange lately. I would put it to her worries about her mother’s condition. She came back from York declaring that her mother was past the crisis, and she thought it time to return to Sir John and her family — meaning us, which I thought quite nice of her to say. But no, I don’t believe her mother is well. She has a tumor, and they are not got rid of so easily.”
“Indeed not,” said I, remembering the long suffering of the first Lady Fielding. “She seems to go up to bed earlier each evening. She says she reads.”
“I’ve heard her voice at night. She’s either talking to herself… or praying.”
“But to address that question with which we began, I really can’t say why she should object to our visiting Black Jack Bilbo. She seems to like him quite well, thinks he’s rather a rogue, a scoundrel, nevertheless a lovable one.”
“Ah, but Marie-Helene — that’s another matter, entirely.”
“I wonder what Lady Fielding has against her — not to mention what Molly might.”
“With Molly, no matter what she may say to the contrary, I feel certain her anger at the woman is all personal.”
“Not that she hasn’t reason.”
“Oh no, certainly not.”
“It’s just …”
“Right. It does no good.”
We fell silent. There was little more to say on the matter. Clarissa leaned back again and nestled against me. She was most aggressive. She went so far as to incline her head upon my shoulder, which made me most uncomfortable. Not physically, of course. Yet when we went from the Strand to Charing Cross, the road went bumpy, and she was forced to lift her head from its place.
“My goodness but you do have a bony shoulder, Jeremy!”
“I can scarcely help that now, can I?”
If I could only think of something to say, this would be the time to introduce some new topic of conversation, anything to divert her from her foolishness.
“Well, I suppose not. You eat enough for two as it is.”
Then came a sudden inspiration, a question which might engage her attention for the length of the trip.
“What do you think Marie-Helene wishes to discuss with you?” I asked her.
At that she laughed, which surprised me greatly.
“Have you not supposed what this is about?” she asked.
“No,” said I, “I have no notion of it.” Not strictly true, but anything to deflect her.
“Did not your friend Bunkins say that he would have some things to say to you? “
“He did.”
“And do you not also suppose that Mr. Bilbo, too, would wish to talk with you?”
“I had that feeling, yes.”
“Well, dear Jeremy, it is my certain conviction that we have been summoned that they may say their good-byes.”
“Yes, certainly Marie-Helene wishes to say her good-bye to you — perhaps to me, as well, I suppose — for she will be gone some three years or more. But Mr. Bilbo? Bunkins?”
“Have
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