Page 44 of Refining the Debutante
I am a paid companion now to Lady Callister. She is doing her best to improve me, and I think even you would agree with her tactics. Have you considered the contents of my first letter? Is there any hope for a familial reconciliation? I shall not ask for anything more. I am content here with Lady Callister—even if I do tire of reading Psalms.
* * *
Several baskets heaped with preserves, fresh bread, yards of folded fabric, and other items littered the floor of Lady Callister’s carriage. Their driver stopped in front of a shoddy tenant’s cottage nearly hidden with weeds. Miranda reached to grab the closest basket.
“Not that one,” Lady Callister said and pointed to a basket with jars of broth. “That one.”
Miranda was not Miss Withers. She did not regularly give charity. Her most charitable acts had been different from the kind delivered in a basket. She had favored ladies with advice on fashion, whom to avoid, and who would be a good match. Lady Callister knocked on the door, and Miranda shifted awkwardly beside her. The door slowly opened.
“Good day, m’lady.” A middle-aged woman dipped her head only to start coughing.
“I thought I told you to stay in bed,” Lady Callister said, using the same tone she did when ordering Miranda about.
“Yes, m’lady,” the woman replied once she recovered. She made her way back to her bed, which was no more than a lumpy tick mattress covered in rags.
“Is your son still checking on you regularly? We have soup for you and a poultice that will help with that cough. Did the doctor come yesterday like I requested?”
Miranda did not remember Lady Callister sending for a doctor.
“My son has heeded your guidance. The doctor came and gave me medicine. I thank ye for paying for him, Yer Ladyship.”
Lady Callister dug out a bowl from a single cupboard and poured the broth from the jar. The savory smell drew a smile from the sick woman. Lady Callister draped the napkin across the woman’s lap and set the bowl upon it.
“There, drink up. You need your strength.”
“Oh, bless ye,” the woman cooed and sipped down the still-warm liquid.
“I want regular reports on how you are faring.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
The second home they stopped in was completely different and yet the same. A poor family humbly accepted the bolts of fabric for their growing boys. Another home was in need of nails and raved about them and the cakes as if this were Twelfth Night. Each recipient exuded gratitude and looked at Lady Callister as if she were a saint. Miranda was beginning to look at her the same way. How did her employer know the families’ needs before arriving? When did she have the time to think of such kindnesses when she was so busy keeping Miranda occupied?
Lady Callister insisted upon introducing Miranda at each stop. The tenants all treated her with kindness and respect. Would they still if they knew Miranda was as destitute as they were? Such poverty twisted at her heart like it had at Gray House. She had seen it time and time again on the congested streets of London and in Folkestone, but this was an uncomfortably close view. She wondered, if not for Ethan, whether this would have been her future.
Thoughts of their visit plagued her sleep and occupied her mind well into the next day. She had to satisfy her curiosity on the matter. As soon as Lady Callister was settled after tea, Miranda was ready to pelt her with questions.
“How did you do that yesterday?”
Lady Callister didn’t miss a knot in her knitting. “Do what?”
“Figure out how to help all those people.”
“I simply observed.”
“You spied on them?” Miranda snapped her fingers. Who did the woman employ for the task and why?
“Nonsense, child. I don’t have to spy on people. I talk to them. I ask them questions directly. Then I give them what they need. Nothing too outrageous, of course.”
Miranda’s forehead crinkled as she thought. “And then they love you for it?”
“Are you inferring I buy their love?” Lady Callister laughed. “What a notion.”
“But they do love you. It is on all their faces.” Miranda had never had anyone look at her that way. Not even Sarah when Miranda had given her the scarf and ring.
“They do love me, do they not? I suppose people care for those who care for them. When you are a mother, you will understand the concept. It is hard for a small mind like yours to grasp.”
Miranda made a face. “I do not imagine I will be a mother.”
