Page 14 of Walk on the Wildsyde

“Miss Fleming, good day to ye,” Mr Anderson said politely.

“Mr Anderson. I hope you are well?”

“Aye, I thank ye,” Mr Anderson said, opening his mouth and turning to Clara once more.

“And your mother is well?” Miss Fleming interrupted.

“Aye, she’s grand,” he replied with a smile, taking a breath.

“And the earl?”

Clara gaped at Miss Fleming and then turned to stare at Mr Anderson. Good heavens. Did her father realise who he was setting himself up in opposition to? If the man’s father was an earl, then he was no schoolteacher, no humble tradesman, though looking at him now, Clara could hardly conceive how she had believed either of those things for above a moment. He carried himself with pride and confidence, such an aura of power and self-assurance that, in hindsight, it seemed obvious.

“Aye, Himself is well, as are my brothers and their wives and the bairns. I thank ye kindly for your concern, Miss Fleming.”

“Oh, I am so pleased to hear it. I saw your brother, Lord Buchanan, in town during the season, of course, and Lady Buchanan, such a charming creature, and quite dazzlingly lovely, of course. Oh, she wore the most gorgeous green gown to the Countess St Clair’s new year ball that—”

“I do beg your pardon, Miss Fleming,” Clara said desperately, torn between agitation and the strong desire to laugh at Mr Anderson’s obvious fight for patience in the light of such chatter. “I’m afraid my father is rather out of sorts, and I must go to him and see if I cannot calm him down. If you will excuse me.”

With that, and ignoring Mr Anderson’s obvious vexation with her for leaving before he’d finished whatever it was he wished to say, Clara fled.