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“Oh yes, you should wait,” said Viola, peeking around Cordelia’s shoulder. “Miranda will want to thank you herself for your kind assistance. You’re supposed to help us plan our ball, are you not?”

Winter blinked at the change of subject. “Yes, I was on my way to call on you.”

“Wonderful. You can join Roz and me in the drawing room. We can tell you all you need to know about the ball. While you wait for Miranda.”

Chapter Eighteen

Cordelia sent Alice scurrying for towels and led Miranda down to the scullery at the back of the house. As they passed through the kitchen, Cook exclaimed at the state of Miranda’s clothes and person, and set water to warm on the stove. In the little room, where her swim costume hung drying, Cordelia seated Miranda on a low bench.

“What must Mr. Winter think of me!” Miranda’s flushed cheek bore a streak of mud. Her hands clutched her ruined skirts. “To be overset by a dog.”

“To be bowled over and muddied is bound to be upsetting.” Cordelia released Miranda’s grip on her skirts and turned over her hands to examine the scrapes. The lines of mud and blood on each of her palms were not deep, but they needed tending.

“You won’t blame Hector, will you, Cordelia? I was bending over a nice clump of figwort. I didn’t see Hector coming.”

“Hector is in disgrace at the moment. But he will survive.” Cordelia removed Miranda’s crumpled straw bonnet. The hat was a disaster. The lavender muslin dress would need a thorough cleaning and might not be salvageable.

Miranda sighed. “I’m not stern with Hector like you are. If I had been stern, he would not have knocked me down.”

Cordelia reflected once again on how unlike one another the four sisters were. It was Miranda’s nature to be particularly prone to tenderheartedness and self-blame. “Let’s put you to rights, and we’ll join the others for lemonade.”

“Oh,” said Miranda, shaking her head and shrinking back on the bench. “I couldn’t. I can’t possibly see Mr. Winter. Let me stay here until he’s gone.”

Cook appeared and poured two pails of water into the small bathing tub Cordelia used each morning. Alice brought towels, and Cordelia sent her off again to take lemonade to the drawing room, and to bring a hairbrush and a fresh gown for Miranda. She turned back to her sister.

“Have some sympathy for Mr. Winter, Mir. The poor man won’t be easy in his mind if he does not see that you are somewhat recovered. And you will want to thank him for his service to you.”

“Oh, I should, but I can’t. What must he think! You will thank him for me, won’t you?”

Cordelia was tempted to argue that her thanks were no substitute for Miranda’s, but she judged it better simply to act while mortification held Miranda in its grip.

She helped her sister out of the muddied gown and petticoats and tended the scraped hands and knee. Alice appeared and stood in the scullery doorway, a dress in her arms and a hairbrush in her hand.

“I’m not cleaning that muddy dog, miss,” she said.

“No one has asked you to, Alice,” Cordelia replied. “Please see if anything is needed in the drawing room.”

Alice thrust the dress and hairbrush at Cordelia, then marched off. Cordelia helped Miranda into the clean dress and brushed her hair until Miranda looked more herself. There was no mirror in the little room, so Miranda could not see how perfectly lovely she looked. Cordelia doubted that her sister would trust even the finest of mirrors to tell the truth.

“Feeling better?” Cordelia asked.

“Yes, but …”

“Let’s complete your recovery. Come have some lemonade, and you will see that Mr. Winter does not think ill of you.”

“He was … kind and very gentlemanly, wasn’t he? It’s not his fault that I am such a … ninny. It’s what everyone thinks, I know.”

Cordelia kept her expression mild, but a spurt of hot anger coursed through her. Everyone? She could just imagine who had called her most impressionable, most-easily wounded sister a ninny. “You are not a ninny. Whoever said so is wrong, and if you and I do not go to his rescue, Mr. Winter will be entirely at the mercy of Viola.”

Miranda turned startled, wide blue eyes to Cordelia. “Oh. He will be, won’t he? Viola is just like Hector. She bowls a person over.”

“Exactly. Shall we go?”

Miranda cast a glance around the little room, and her gaze came to rest on Cordelia’s swim costume hanging to dry. “What’s happened to Henry’s old suit?” she asked.

Cordelia glanced at the suit. “I changed it to make swimming easier.”

Miranda fingered one ragged lapel. “You trimmed it, but you didn’t hem the edges. I can do that. I don’t have my scissors and thread, but I can get them.”