Seven Minutes in Heaven(20)

“Gumwater,” he said, interrupting a diatribe that could be summed up as “women don’t know their place these days.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you know about Mrs. Snowe and her registry office?”

“Nothing, sir,” the butler said promptly. “An office run by a woman. I shall say no more on the subject.”

“You look as if you’ve taken a bite of a green persimmon,” Ward observed.

The door opened and a tall, thin woman entered, wearing a navy blue gown with a discreet silver cross at the neck. She looked dispassionate and utterly competent.

One look and he knew Mrs. Snowe was right: there would be no tears from Miss Midge.

In fact, if he were asked to place a wager on this particular governess’s response to events in the Book of Revelation, he’d come down on the side of Miss Midge’s responding with unruffled civility to any number of horsemen raining from the sky to herald the end of days.

Ward rose and found his hand being shaken with brisk efficiency.

“I have been thoroughly briefed,” Miss Midge announced, as if she were reporting for duty aboard a naval vessel.

“Indeed,” Ward said, taken aback.

“The betting ring will have to be shut down. Gentlemen do not profit by taking ha’pennies from their inferiors. It is common.” Clearly, vulgar inclinations would be rooted out, just like dandelions from a rolled lawn.

Ward managed not to wince. Although he had not known Lizzie and Otis long, he was certain that the children’s instincts were lacking in refinement, as were his own.

He himself had had at least eight governesses as a boy, and none of them had succeeded in weeding out the tasteless interest in making money that his brother also seemed to have inherited.

Ward had never encountered a boy more focused on profit and loss. In fact, most grown men didn’t have Otis’s fierce ambition.

“My mother wore a veil on the occasion of my father’s death,” Miss Midge was saying. “I sympathize with the wish to cover one’s face during the exigencies of grief. I shall allow the veil, though not during vigorous exercise.”

Ward tried without success to imagine his sister bouncing around a tennis court. “I am quite certain that neither Lizzie nor Otis know how to play tennis.”

“I shall do my best,” Miss Midge said, unexpectedly taking his hand again and giving it another shake. “I believe myself capable of miracles, although never having been called upon to perform one, I cannot be sure. The Lord tests us in order to make us stronger.”

Ward had no opinion on that doctrinal point, but luckily Miss Midge didn’t pause for agreement.

“You must choose a healthy activity with which to engage in with the children,” she said. “Fresh air is a great facilitator of family harmony.”

Did they need facilitating? Ward felt as if Lizzie and Otis had lived with him forever, even though it had been scarcely a fortnight.

His father and stepmother had picked a bloody inconvenient time to accept a diplomatic mission to Sweden. King Gustav was a hare-brained fool, and he couldn’t imagine his father’s diplomatic skills would do much to change that.

“No tennis,” he said. “I cannot see myself chasing around after a small ball. I suppose I could teach them to fish.”

He gave the butler a look that had Gumwater moving forward instantly.

“I should be glad to meet my charges now,” Miss Midge said. She seemed to be very given to pronouncements. “Gumwater, I’ll thank you to introduce me, if you would.”

The butler bowed in Ward’s direction, his rigid frame implying silent reproach.

“You know, Gumwater, I could recommend a hair tonic,” Miss Midge said, in a clear, carrying voice as they left the room. “It would tame your resemblance to Samson, before his encounter with Delilah, of course.”

As the door closed behind them, Ward gave a little kick to the massive wooden desk that dominated the room. “Come out from under there, Otis, and tell me what you think.”

Otis crawled out of his hiding place and straightened up. “Look what I made, sir.”

It was some sort of grimy wooden box. “What is it?”

“It’s a mousetrap,” Otis said. “The mouse walks up this ramp, you see, and he falls through this hole. He doesn’t realize it’s there, because he doesn’t know that cheesecloth won’t hold his weight.”

“Why does he walk up that ramp?”

“Because there’s a piece of cheese in the box!” Otis lifted up the cheesecloth. “See?”

“That doesn’t look like cheese.”

“Monsieur Marcel is frightfully stingy, so I’m using a corner of my bath sponge. Rubbing it with a smelly cheese is better than wasting money on food for a mouse.”