Miss Fanshawe's Fortune - Linore Rose Burkard Page 0,20
into the situation, when I, who experienced it, missed it entirely!”
Sebastian smiled, pleased with the approbation given with shining eyes, though of course the thought of employment was absurd. He was a gentleman. Gentlemen did not work.
“Is this the street you remember?” he asked as they turned a corner onto a bustling lane teeming even more with pedestrians and merchants of all descriptions. Carriages, berlins, calashes, wagons and carts were everywhere. Frannie scanned the scene, smiling faintly. “Yes. There’s the confectioners, and fan makers; there, the glass sellers and stationers, near the printer’s shop. I do not recall the soap and basket makers,” she said reflectively, “but the clock maker, yes, I remember, and there, a glove makers.”
“You remember it well,” said Sebastian, wonderingly.
“Mrs. Baxter’s sister lived….” She pointed at an apartment above the glovers. “There.” She turned to him. “Before she passed away. We called upon her once a month with…” she hesitated. “Supplies. She had so little. We brought vegetables from the garden, cloth, when it went on sale, for she was a seamstress, and other such things we could easily spare.”
Sebastian swallowed. The actions were kind, but furnished more proof of Miss Fanshawe’s humble situation. This widow, Mrs. Baxter, had even humbler relations. He said hastily, “I see.” And then, “Where is this Mr. Withers we seek?”
Frannie nodded and pointed. “Over there.”
He pulled the curricle to a stop in front of a singularly unpromising establishment, an old Elizabethan style structure with a second storey protruding out over the first, leaning toward the street like the famed tower of Pisa. A sign, creaking from rusty hinges and badly in need of paint, proclaimed, “Peddler of All Good Things.” Inwardly shaking his head with a sudden conviction that he was on a fool’s errand, he motioned to Will, his boy perched on the rear of the vehicle, to take the ribbons and stand guard while he and Miss Fanshawe entered this strange mercantile.
Upon entry, his first impression was confirmed. In the sudden darkness, he could just make out murky shelves loaded with baskets piled high with wares of a dubious nature. He wrinkled his nose as a mild odor he could not identify but which was instantly abhorrent accosted him. The floor, he noted, sported a gloomy layer of dust. He expected Miss Fanshawe to draw back in disgust or exclaim that it was no longer the place she remembered, but to his surprise she sailed along, crossing the main aisle and heading determinedly toward a back room. Moving aside a curtain that separated this apartment from the rest, she stuck her head in. “Mr. Withers?” she called loudly.
Sebastian stood by, torn between perplexity and amusement. He wouldn’t have believed it possible that a gently bred young woman—even one of questionable pedigree—could be at ease in such a place. But Miss Fanshawe evidently wasn’t a typical squeamish miss. “Did you say Mr. Withers was also a relation of your Mrs. Baxter?” he said in a low tone, trying not to laugh.
“He is her younger brother!”
“This gets better and better,” he murmured sardonically, following her inside the room, where a little man was bent over a table at work. This apartment was brighter than the outer room, and fortunately better smelling. The man was examining something tiny with a magnifying glass and was so intent that he hadn’t heard them approach.
“Mr.Withers!” Frannie exclaimed again at his elbow. He almost dropped the magnifier, but his face lit with delight when he recognized her.
“Frannie, me dear! I’ve been that worried about ye!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet, taking her hands in his, and bowing over them. He was a small, wiry man, with a thin layer of gray curly hair, small eyes, but a beaming smile. His joyous visage turned into a frown. “When I ‘eard they’d possessed me sister’s ‘ouse—I tried to get word to ye. But ye was gone already!” His eyes were pained. “I—I ‘ave a small spare room,” he began, awkwardly.
“There is no need of that,” she assured him smilingly, with a squeeze to his hand. “At least not yet,” she added, trying to sound light-hearted. She looked at Sebastian. “Mr. Arundell has provided a situation for me. I am companion to a very fine lady!”
Mr. Withersʼ face crumpled. “Ye, a companion?”
She smiled. “ʼTis only temporary.”
“Me sister always said ye was raised to be a fine lady,” he said sadly, trying not to look too resentfully at Sebastian.