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“I’m sorry you were bothered, Papa,” she cut in. “But there have been complaints from the housemaids.” This was perfectly true. The younger maids, and particularly the youngest, who was just fourteen, had told the housekeeper that Wrayle looked for opportunities to catch them alone and make lewd remarks. The housekeeper, unsuccessful in her attempts to curb him, had told Fenella just this morning. “You know the sort of thing,” she added.
Her father looked pained.
“You won’t take the word of silly girls,” said Wrayle. He sounded utterly certain.
Fenella decided she would get a letter to her sisterbeforethe man arrived back at her home. Whatever Wrayle might think, Greta wouldn’t tolerate such creeping behavior.
“Have them up here,” Wrayle said grandly. “I’ll soon put their stories to the lie.” He looked as if he enjoyed a good wrangle.
Her father frowned. Wrayle’s attitude was annoying him. As how could it not? Surely it wasn’t so difficult for him to choose between daughter and servant? He waved a pale hand. “Do as you think best, Fenella.”
“Sir!” said Wrayle.
“Go away. All of you.”
“Of course, Papa. You must rest.” Fenella indicated the door with a gesture. Wrayle looked rebellious, but William appeared in the opening just then. The burly footman, who helped lift her father when such services were needed, looked daunting, as Fenella had known he would. She gestured again. Wrayle ground his teeth, but he went.
Fenella followed. When she’d shut the bedchamber door behind her, she summoned all the hauteur and steely resolve she’d learned from her Scottish grandmother. Or rather had uncovered from deep inside herself, if Grandmamma was to be believed.
“You have half an hour to pack your things, Wrayle. William will help you, and then he will take you over to the toll gate where you can get the mail coach south.” A glance at William showed Fenella that he relished his assignment. She wasn’t surprised. He had friends among the housemaids.
“I refuse!”
William took a step toward him. Fenella held up a hand. “You really can’t stay if we don’t want you here, you know.”
The man sputtered and fumed. Finally he turned away. William followed. “I shall tell Mr. Symmes how I have been treated here!” was Wrayle’s parting shot.
Fenella supposed he might cause problems between the two households. She definitely needed to tell Greta about his poor behavior before he had a chance to complain. Let Greta explain that to her husband.
“You got rid of Wrayle,” said a small awed voice.
She looked down to find her nephew gazing at her as if she had performed a miracle. “He’ll be there when you go home,” she pointed out.
“That’s not until after next term. Mama won’t be thinking so much about my snake by then. She’ll have a new baby. And Sally already has a new kitten.” He seemed to equate the two additions. “I’ll send Sally some ribbons. She likes to tie ribbons around their necks.” He pondered the plan. “Do you have any ribbons? Ones you don’t need, I mean.”
“I might.”
“Thank you!” John beamed at her, and Fenella understood that his gratitude extended to much more than ribbons. “Is there anything I can help you with?” he added. “I’d be glad to. Anything at all!”
“Perhaps. We’ll see.”
“Yes, Aunt Fenella.”
He practically bowed, and Fenella realized that she’d assumed mythic proportions in his mind. Inadvertently, she’d become the Aunt, the imposing relative so many families seemed to possess. She remembered her own Aunt Moira, her mother’s oldest sister. Wife of a Scottish laird, she’d been up to anything. Fenella had wistfully admired her forthright manner and fiery spirit. A smile escaped her. Aunt Moira wasn’t a bad source of inspiration. “Shall I show you the playhouse now?” she asked John.
He looked ready to jump for joy. “Yes, Aunt Fenella!”
