LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Eleven

      Sally tried to sit up, but her husband had anchored her to him. She heard his intake of breath and looked at the door to see two ladies staring back, their mouths open, their eyes wide.

      ‘Charles,’ one of them wailed. ‘What have you done? And without our permission!’

      ‘My sisters,’ the admiral said in a flat voice. He released Sally and got to his feet, holding out his hand for her. ‘Sisters, my wife.’

      The ladies in the doorway continued to stare. Finally, the younger one spoke and it was not a pleasant tone of voice.

      ‘Charles William Edward Bright, What Have You Done?’

      Dear me, she really does speak in capital letters, Sally thought. She glanced at her husband, who had turned bright red. ‘Breathe, dear,’ she murmured.

      He cleared his throat. ‘Fannie and Dora, I have somehow managed to find myself a wife without any assistance.’

      Now what? she thought, eyeing the women. They were noticeably older than their little brother, and from the angry looks they darted at her, obviously considered themselves the last court of appeals for their little brother.

      Charles tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and towed her to the door. ‘Fannie and Dora, let me introduce Sophie Bright. We were married in Plymouth recently. Dearest, the one on the left is Fannie—more properly Mrs William Thorndyke—and the other one is Dora, more properly Lady Turnbooth. Their husbands have predeceased them, and they have ample time on their hands.’

      ‘The better to provide our little brother with the guidance he requires on land,’ Fannie said, not acknowledging Sally’s curtsy.

      ‘You have taught me well,’ Charles said smoothly. ‘I managed to find a wife on my own.’

      ‘She’s from Scotland!’ Dora burst out. To Sally’s chagrin, she buried her face in her handkerchief and the feathers on her bonnet quivered.

      ‘Dora, it’s not another planet,’ her brother said, with just the merest hint of exasperation in his voice.

      ‘Oats! Mildew!’ Dora exclaimed, which made Charles’s lips twitch, to Sally’s amusement.

      ‘I speak English,’ Sally assured them. ‘Won’t you please have a seat? I will inform our chef of your arrival.’

      ‘You needn’t bother,’ Fannie said in the brusque tone of someone used to commanding the field. ‘I know how to handle French cooks. I will go down there and tell him what is what. I have done it before.’

      Sally glanced at her husband. This is one of those duties you have outlined, she thought. Let us see if I can earn my keep. ‘Mrs Thorndyke, that is my responsibility.’

      Fannie didn’t surrender without a fight. ‘He is French! I can handle him.’

      ‘So can I,’ Sally said, grateful they could not see her heart jumping about in her breast. ‘Do have a seat and visit with your brother.’ She couldn’t help herself. ‘I know he has been expecting your company.’

      Shame on her. Sally set her lips firmly together as Charles struggled manfully to turn his guffaw into a cough. ‘Bad lungs from all that cold weather on the blockade,’ he managed to say. She closed the door behind her, but not before he gave her a measuring look.

      She leaned against the door for a moment. When she composed herself, she noticed a rough-looking man in the foyer. ‘Yes?’ she asked, wondering where he fit into the picture.

      ‘I gots a wagonload of furniture,’ he said, with no preliminaries. ‘Nasty black dogs to sit on—Lord ’elp us—a statue of a bloke wearing a nappy. ’E walks funny, too, one leg in front of t’other.’

      A pharaoh would have been right at home with our over-eager Penelope beside the front door, she thought, wishing Charles were there for this delicious interview. ‘Just leave the dogs and statue in the wagon.’

      The man revolved his battered hat in nervous hands. He eyed the sitting-room door with something close to terror. ‘Them gentry morts will ’ave my ’ide if I don’t unload.’