After a Fashion (A Class of Their Own #1)(7)
Crouching down, Oliver let out a whistle, and for a second, it seemed Buford was going to come to him, but then . . .
“Stupid mutt,” Miss Birmingham tossed over her shoulder.
The hair on Buford’s back stood straight up right before he lunged for Miss Birmingham again.
“Oh . . . dear,” the hat lady muttered as the sound of ripping silk suddenly filled the air.
In the blink of an eye, Miss Birmingham was standing in the middle of the courtyard, dressed only in her unmentionables with her scarf still around her neck as Buford scampered away with the green wrapper.
“This is hardly the time to dither, Mr. Addleshaw,” the hat lady admonished as she pushed up from the ground in a surprisingly agile move and dashed past him.
“I’m not dithering,” he argued under his breath. He began running after his dog right as the hat lady jumped at Buford with her arms spread wide.
Buford skittered to the right, her arms meeting nothing but air, and she tumbled to the ground as Buford galloped away, straight toward Miss Birmingham.
Oliver changed direction as Miss Birmingham began shrieking, but her shrieks came to a rapid end when Buford dropped the wrapper and grabbed onto the scarf, his tugging effectively cutting off Miss Birmingham’s voice as the scarf tightened around the lady’s throat.
Picking up his pace, Oliver made it to within a few feet of the mayhem but came to an abrupt stop when Miss Birmingham sent him a look filled with rage.
“Stay back,” she rasped.
“Really, Miss Birmingham, this is not the moment for such nonsense, considering you’re not properly clothed and obviously need some . . .”
“You’re not helping matters,” the hat lady interrupted before she darted past him and grabbed Buford by the collar. “Drop it.”
To Oliver’s surprise, the end of the scarf popped out of Buford’s mouth. His dog then plopped down on the bricks and rolled over to his back, where he immediately began to whimper.
“Pathetic,” the hat lady said, giving Buford a quick rub before she snatched up the wrapper.
Oliver was about to breathe a sigh of relief, believing Miss Birmingham was soon to be reunited with at least a bit of clothing—even though the wrapper was tattered and torn—when to his absolute horror, she suddenly did the unthinkable and hurled herself on top of the hat lady.
For the first time in his life, Oliver had no idea what to do.
How was he to intercede, especially since there was so much of Miss Birmingham’s skin exposed?
It was hardly permissible to grab hold of a lady’s . . . limbs.
“Miss Birmingham, let go of me,” the hat lady yelled. “I’m trying to help you.”
Miss Birmingham ignored the lady’s words as she went about the business of ripping the hat right off the woman’s head, before she grabbed hold of a hunk of inky black hair and pulled it.
Yells and grunts soon filled the air, but expelled by whom, Oliver couldn’t actually say. Looking to Mrs. Birmingham, who was standing frozen in horror a few feet away, he moved forward rather reluctantly but shuffled to a stop when the hat lady broke free of Miss Birmingham’s hold. She bent down and somehow managed to fling Miss Birmingham over her shoulder before he could so much as move another muscle. She immediately headed toward a carriage stuffed with boxes, lurching a little to the right when Miss Birmingham began thrashing around like a fish out of water. “Stop that,” the hat lady ordered as she regained her balance and plowed forward.
“Timothy, make me some room,” she called, and a man Oliver hadn’t noticed nodded and began throwing boxes from the carriage over his head.
“Be careful with those, you idiot,” Miss Birmingham shrieked right before the hat lady reached the carriage and unceremoniously tossed Miss Birmingham inside, slamming the door shut a second later, effectively cutting off the rest of Miss Birmingham’s tirade.
“There,” the hat lady said, dusting her hands together. “That should hold her for a moment.” She nodded to Oliver. “She’s all yours.”
Oliver glanced at the carriage and found Miss Birmingham, strangely enough, not trying to escape but rummaging through the boxes. “What do you suggest I do with her, Miss . . . er . . . ?”
“Miss Peabody, and as for what you should do with her, well, that’s really not my place to say. You might consider looking into the Long Island Home Hotel for Nervous Invalids. I’ve heard tell it’s a wonderful facility and might be exactly what Miss Birmingham needs to get control of her—” Miss Peabody’s lips snapped shut, as if she’d suddenly realized the inappropriate nature of her words.
Oliver grinned. “While that’s an interesting suggestion to be sure, Miss Peabody, I highly doubt Mr. or Mrs. Birmingham would want to deposit their daughter in a sanitarium. That means I’m back to the quandary of what I should do with her in the here and now.”
Miss Peabody lifted her chin before she marched over to where Miss Birmingham’s wrapper was lying on the ground and snatched it up. She returned to his side and handed it to him. “I would have to imagine the most urgent order of business would be to get Miss Birmingham back into this, and then you’ll need to get her into the house.”
The last thing Oliver wanted was to have Miss Birmingham in his house again, because, quite frankly, he wasn’t certain she’d ever leave it, at least not willingly, no matter that she’d made the claim she wanted nothing more to do with him.