Free Bright Hair About the Bone by Barbara Cleverly Page A

knew better than to interrupt Dawkins in the execution of his duties. His face was inscrutable as usual, giving away no comment on his master’s guest. St. Michael or Lucifer appearing on the doorstep would have been greeted with the same measure of courtesy, provided he had an appointment.
    They loitered nearby, engaged in the self-imposed task of sorting out decaying gum boots in the boot room until, an hour later, Dawkins returned bearing a tray of tea things. The girls looked at each other in surprise as, through the open door, they caught a blast of hearty male laughter.
    â€œThat can’t be him,” said Esmé. “Your father’s with a
friend.
He didn’t come after all and it’s your own fault, Laetitia. You insulted him with all that ‘who
were
you?’ and ‘get yourself smartened up’ business.
I’d
have jolly well refused your money, too!”
    â€œAh, there you are, Miss Laetitia,” said Dawkins, catching sight of them. “I was confident I’d find you somewhere nearby. Sir Richard asks that you join him directly. And Miss Esmé’s presence also is requested.” He opened the door again and announced them.
    â€œCome in, girls!” boomed Sir Richard, leaping to his feet. “Don’t hover over there. Come and join us. Esmé, why don’t you pour out some tea? I don’t need to present William Gunning, as he is here at your invitation.” His tone was jovial, amused.
    Letty gaped in dismay at the man who had risen at their entrance and turned to acknowledge them. She could find no word of welcome that could survive the tide of astonishment rushing through her. This had somehow gone disastrously wrong, and she had most probably ruined forever any chance of gaining permission to take up the job in Burgundy. Her credibility, her judgement, her common sense, were, at a stroke, put in question. And her father was clearly enjoying a joke at her expense.
    Esmé was the first to recover from the surprise and, with a whispered, “Mr. Gunning,” and an embarrassed nod, she busied herself with the teacups. Letty went to poke the fire to hide her grim expression.
    What could she do? Declare to her father that the man with whom he had spent the last hour was a charlatan, a deceiver, a rogue, and should be ejected summarily? Hardly possible in the circumstances. She would have to find another way of getting rid of the fellow. The man standing by her father’s desk could, she thought, have been anyone. He certainly wasn’t William Gunning. Or was he? She peered at him again. Tall, spare, and upright, as she had anticipated, when stripped of the blurring outline of the greatcoat, and, yes, grey-haired, but this thick head of neatly barbered hair had clearly been dark and that not so long ago. It seemed out of keeping with the face it framed. Gaunt and weather-beaten certainly, but, freshly shaven and with a neat moustache, that face now revealed a strong bone structure. She had guessed his age, setting his decrepit appearance against the fact that he had taken part in the recent war, as being about fifty, but she now saw that she would have to revise this estimate by about ten years. Surely this man could be no more than forty? She sighed. Far too young to meet her father’s requirements. It had all been a waste of time, her time and his.
    Through her irritation she felt a twinge of pity for the man and guilt at raising his hopes. The tramp had spent all the money he had in the world, which she remembered to have been one pound, two and sixpence, on bath, barber, and suit. Men’s secondhand clothing was easily and cheaply come by but he had chosen well, she thought. The three-piece suit of good Harris tweed in a dark grey blend was well judged for the occasion. The soft-collared white shirt was just formal enough and the tie an odd flourish of scarlet silk. Her father’s second requirement:
De aspecto horribile?
Her