Michelle Styles - Compromising Miss Milton

Daisy swallowed hard, remembering the statues in Italy with their unclad shoulders and tapering waists.

‘The man is clearly in need of assistance. Excitement does not come into it,’ Daisy said firmly. A governess was never ruffled. Or surprised even when confronted with such a sight. A governess was prepared for everything.

She put her hand to the side of her face and tried to think straight.

Help—she needed help and fast. Strong backs and arms to carry the man from the river.

She picked up her skirts and prepared to run, but halted before she had gone two steps. Was it her imagination or was the log rocking against the stones, preparing to carry its cargo down the waterfall?

Her mouth went dry. By the time she returned with help, the man would have been washed downstream, and any hope of survival gone. He needed to be lifted clear of the river immediately.

‘Do you think he is dead? He has not moved.’ A thoughtful expression came into Nella’s eyes. ‘I have never seen a dead person before, not even when Grandpapa died and they laid him out in the best parlour. I was considered too young.’

‘I have no idea.’ Daisy watched the man for another breath. The faint breeze ruffled his hair, but she could not discern the rhythmic lifting of his chest. On one of his hands the dull gleam of metal showed. What had happened to him? A swimming accident? Had he misjudged the swift current? Surely no robber or thief would have left a ring. ‘It is impossible to say from here. But there does not appear to be any blood. A closer look is needed. Remember, Nella, hard facts and not guesswork. Ladies do not make assumptions.’

Daisy shifted the basket so it was tighter against her hip and the blanket secure. A narrow bramble-strewn path wound its way down to the river and if she was careful she would be able to reach the man…the corpse without too much difficulty.

‘Shall I come with you? Or am I needed elsewhere?’ Nella asked, pulling her bonnet towards her nose. ‘I mean, I think I would rather go back to the house. Mama may have need of me.’

‘What a clever idea, Nella.’ Daisy forced her voice to be brisk. Propriety demanded that Nella be kept away. ‘It would be best if you stopped at Shaw’s Hotel. Tell the innkeeper about the man and ask him to send some assistance. You can do that, can’t you, Nella? You can find your way?’

Nella stood straighter and positively glowed. ‘I know the way. I am twelve and not a baby of ten, after all. We came here last year for Mama’s nerves. Mademoiselle Le Claire often had a poorly head and so I wandered about on my own. The innkeeper and I became great friends.’

Daisy clamped her lips shut. She knew all about Mademoiselle Le Claire and her habits. The woman had returned to France and Nella had been through three other governesses since, each with their own particular quirk. ‘Nella, you should walk quickly and not run. A lady always proceeds at a dignified pace—even lady explorers.’

A mutinous expression passed over Nella’s face, but she obviously thought better of it. ‘Of course, Miss Milton.’

‘That’s a good girl. Remember to tell the innkeeper without delay or embellishment.’

‘I will, Miss Milton,’ Nella sang out, lifting her hand in farewell.

Daisy pushed the slight sense of trepidation from her mind. Nella would enjoy the attention of being the heroine of the hour. Nella set off walking at a quick pace, but before she had gone thirty paces, the girl began to run. Daisy shook her head and turned her attention to the injured man. It was definitely not her imagination. The log had started to move towards the waterfall.

Daisy put her boot down on a loose rock, half-slid and half-ran two more feet. A distinct ripping sound resounded as the black stuff fabric in her skirt gave way. Daisy winced. Another bit of mending to do. And she hated to think about the state of her gloves. Felicity and Kammie had given them to her for her last birthday. Kammie had carefully stitched the daisies about the cuff. She wouldn’t have worn them, but, after last week’s thorn-bush incident, the pairs of serviceable gloves she owned were distinctly limited.

As she reached the riverbank, there was a huge creak and the log pulled free of the anchoring rock. With hesitating, Daisy plunged in, grabbed the man’s arm and tugged. His body refused to move as the current began to pull the log ever closer to the waterfall. Daisy watched as two black objects broke free, swirled once and then went over the waterfall to their doom.

Daisy closed her eyes, readjusted her hold on him and pulled with all her strength. At first the log seemed to be trying to carry her with it as well. She went further into the river, and planted her feet more firmly. Suddenly his body moved with her, coming up against her. Immediately Daisy redoubled her efforts and forced her mind not to think about the impropriety of having his chest so close to hers. She stumbled backwards, and his heavy body landed on top of her. Her hands pushed him, rolling him off her. He gave a faint groan.

She turned her head in time to see the log crash over the waterfall, splintering as it hit the rocks. A violent shiver racked her as she thought how narrowly he had escaped.

He gave a violent cough, bringing up water. Daisy rapped him sharply on the back until his breath appeared to come easier.

His linen shirt was translucent and moulded to his back. He wore a pair of fawn-coloured trousers and so gave the illusion of being naked. He lay on his stomach, head turned away from her. His black hair curled slightly at his neck. His chest rose and fell slightly. Alive. A soft noise arose, a cross between a snore and a snort, and he mumbled something incoherent about clubs and railways—the same sort of noise that her father had made in his wingback armchair after several glasses of port.

A deep rage filled her. She had risked life, limb and reputation to save this man and he was drunk. More than likely uninjured. She should have let him drown.

She coughed softly, but when he did not move, she tried again, reaching forwards to prod him with her basket as water dripped from her gown.

At the sound of her squelching boots, his lashes fluttered and his amber gaze pierced her. His eyes were a myriad of shifting browns and golds and his lashes provided the perfect frame.

The sound of laughter filled the air—his laughter, low and husky as if they were sharing some private joke.

‘Are you hurt? Or merely drunk?’ she asked through gritted teeth. ‘I have spoilt my best gloves and soaked my gown in the rescue attempt. The least you can do is answer civilly instead of laughing at the spectacle.’

The man groaned and buried his face in his arms. ‘Do you have to speak so loudly? You would wake the dead, ma’am, with your tones.’

‘Not the dead, just you.’ Daisy raised her eyes heavenwards. English, and with the arrogant tones of someone well bred. That was all she needed—a rake who had made a drunken wager to swim the Irthing. All she asked for was a bit of common decency, but when had a rake ever possessed such a thing? ‘Do you know how you came to be here?’

‘Not by choice. Wrong sort of clothes to swim in for a start. Always swim in my birthday suit.’ A great cough racked his body. ‘Swallowed most of the river as well. Definitely not my preferred tipple. It lacks a certain something, don’t you agree?’

Daisy wrung out the hem of her skirt. Definitely a rake and one of the worst sort. Her only hope was that he would begin to make a certain amount of sense and she could leave him. ‘Have you any idea why you are here?’

‘Carriage halted. I escaped and the dogs followed. So I went into the river.’ His frown increased and his hand fumbled about the rocks as if he were searching for something. ‘My boots! What have you done with my boots?’