Chapter 7
In spite of looking like a half-drowned rat, the girl bore herself well. Philip had to admit, she’d surprised him. She’d neither whined, cried, nor complained. When he had one of his “fits,” as he called them, those moments when he froze up, catapulted back in time where all he saw and heard was the sound of war, death and mayhem, she’d neither panicked nor fallen into a fit of hysterics. No. She’d taken the reins and calmly led them back to the cottage. She’d surprised him and made him smile. And she’d sworn that she’d indeed answered his daughter’s ad.
Philip did not trust her entirely. One was wise not to trust strangers. Not until she told him the full truth of who she was and why she was here. But he was relatively certain it had nothing to do with Morley.
He looked across the room to where Miss Weston stood, drying her face with the towel that Katy had brought her.
“I think we need to have some tea again,” Philip concluded, wringing out his hat.
“How absolutely marvellous you have come back.” Katy beamed. “But, Papa, where is Miss Weston to sleep?”
He hadn’t thought of that. Rosethistle Cottage didn’t have a guest room. “Good question. The servant room — we do have one somewhere, don’t we?” He trudged down the hallway, past the kitchen and opened a small door. The room was so tiny it had only space for a narrow bed, a small nightstand, and a wooden trunk. The window was a small square in the wall. He used this room as storage for his half-finished or failed inventions, and there were many. The bed and floor were littered with his things.
He picked up a wiry device, and his face brightened. “What have we here? My clothes folder. I thought I’d misplaced you for good.” To Arabella he explained, “It folds my shirts. You place the shirt on top and do this.” He pulled the handle, and the wires folded down sideways with a snap.
She jumped, startled.
“It’s not perfect, but in the absence of a servant, it does the job.” He snapped the wires again.
“Remarkable.” She blinked, looking adorably confused, as if trying to visualise the device replacing a valet.
Philip laid it aside and scratched his neck. He couldn’t very well put her in this wee room, could he? Even Peggy had refused to sleep here and preferred to hike back to the village, where she stayed when she was done with the work at the cottage.
“I can move in with the other two, and Miss Weston can have my room,” Katy offered.
“That is kind of you, Katy. But I would prefer you to stay in your own room.” Arabella opened the door wider and inspected the chamber. Then she nodded. “This will do very well for me. If only you could procure me some linen, a pillow, and a blanket?”
Philip eyed the lumpy mattress with a frown. “Are you certain?”
Arabella examined the room once more and nodded. “I will feel very comfortable here.”
“Very well, then. I will see what I can procure in terms of fresh linen.” He left to search the cottage for the stated items.
Philip Merivale had surprisedher yet again. He’d not only cleared out the room in an instant, but brought down a pile of fresh sheets, pillows, and blankets, in addition to hauling from the attic a massive wooden chest that he deposited on her bed.
“I suppose you need to change into something dry,” he said gruffly. “Take out anything you need from there.”
Katy, who’d slipped into the room with Joy, gasped. “It’s Mama’s box!”
Mr Merivale wrinkled his brow. “Yes, it is.”
Katy opened the lid and folded back the cloth that covered the contents. It was full of dresses. “I remember Mama wearing this.” She took out an India–blue shawl and held it to her nose. “It was her favourite. It still smells like her. Roses.”
Mr Merivale fingered the shawl absent-mindedly. “It is a shawl I bought for Jenny with my first salary. How long ago that was.” He looked lost.
Arabella saw tears rise in Katy’s eyes. She felt a rush of compassion for her. “This is kind of you, Mr Merivale, but I don’t think I can accept this. The contents of this box belongs to the girls.”
“The way I see it is as follows. First: you seem to have nothing to wear other than the wet rag that’s plastered to you —” His eyes went to her chest, but he tore them away quickly. Warmth pooled at the pit of her stomach, leaving her confused. “If you don’t change into something dry soon,” Mr Merivale continued, “you’ll get ill and catch your death, and we can’t have that, not when the children are counting on you being their governess. Second, we have a box of women’s clothing lying about that no one is using. Third, the owner of this box has no use of these clothes.” He turned to the girls. “Having established these facts, we conclude: these clothes are best given to you. Katy, Joy, would you agree that Mama no longer needs these?”
Katy nodded with the shawl pressed to her face. Joy wrapped herself in a forest green strip of cloth, like a mummy, and did not respond.
“Would you agree it would be better for these clothes to be given to your new governess, before they get eaten up by moths?”
Katy nodded again.
“So then. It’s all yours.” Mr Merivale smiled as if he’d cast a Solomonic judgment.
Arabella shook her head vehemently. It just didn’t feel right. “I will gratefully borrow one or two dresses since my current dress is indeed completely ruined, and I, er, have misplaced my own bags. But only if we may also refashion some of them for Katy.” Not that she’d ever done that before because all she’d ever done was embroidery. But it couldn’t be so difficult, could it? She’d watched countless times how her abigail had adjusted her dresses, and she was good with a needle.
