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Authors: Sandra Heath
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irresistibly reminded of an undertaker she’d once encountered in Cheltenham.
‘And then will you have some Pekoe and sweet almond biscuits served in the drawing room?’
‘Yes, madam. Is there anything else, madam?’
‘No, Morris, that is all.’
‘Madam.’ He bowed and withdrew again.
Margaret rolled her eyes behind his back, and it was all Helen could do not to burst into giggles. Linking arms again, the sisters proceeded toward the nearest double doors, which led to a large, extremely beautiful octagonal room with a line of four French windows opening on to a veranda beneath another of the balconies. The walls were adorned with gilt-framed mirrors, shelves of books, paintings, and display cabinets, and there were comfortable floral armchairs and plum velvet sofas. The windows were swathed with plum velvet curtains and hung with delicate nets that moved gently in the light breeze coming in through the one open French window. There were more flower arrangements, and pots containing fine plants, and the room looked very inviting indeed.
Colonel Gregory Bourne, late of the Berkshire Regiment and now commander of the local militia, was bending by his telescope, watching the progress of some of his racehorses. He was tall and fair-haired, wearing a pine-green riding coat and buckskin breeches. His top hat, gloves, and riding crop lay on a nearby table, and he remained totally unaware of his wife’s entrance with her sister.
Margaret surveyed him fondly, winking at Helen before speaking to him. ‘Sirrah, where are your manners?’
‘Mm?’
‘Lexicon’s coming on reasonably, I suppose, but Musket appears to possess only three legs and doesn’t stand an earthly in the Maisemore.’
‘Eh?’ He straightened immediately, turning crossly to face her. ‘What was that you said?’
‘I said it’s a lovely day, made lovelier by the unexpected arrival of my only dear sister.’ Margaret smiled at him.
He blinked and then noticed Helen for the first time. ‘Helen! Where have you sprung from?’
‘Cheltenham,’ she replied dryly.
He grinned, crossing to embrace her. The only outward signs now of the dreadful injuries he’d sustained at Vimiero were his limp, the awkward set of his right arm, and the rather romantic white saber scar on his cheek. He hugged her warmly, kissing her cheek. ‘Welcome to Bourne End, Helen.’
‘Thank you, Gregory, it’s lovely to be here at last.’
He ushered her to one of the sofas, and then escorted Margaret to one of the chairs, standing behind her with one hand protectively on her shoulder. ‘Margaret, I trust you haven’t been doing anything too strenuous,’ he said, looking down anxiously into his wife’s green eyes.
‘I don’t think anyone could possibly describe flower arranging as strenuous, Gregory,’ she replied.
‘I know, but you’re quite capable of doing things the doctor has strictly forbidden.’
Helen was instantly alarmed. ‘The doctor? Surely you’re not ill, Margaret.’
‘No, I’m just in an, er, interesting condition.’
Helen stared at her, her face breaking into a delighted smile. ‘A baby? At last? Oh, I’m so pleased for you both.’
‘We’re quite pleased with ourselves,’ Gregory observed, ‘for we were beginning to think we’d remain childless.’
‘When is my niece or nephew due?’ asked Helen.
‘Oh, another seven months yet,’ replied Margaret, ‘it’s very early days, and I’m afraid I feel positively green in the mornings, but I’m assured that soon I’ll be glowing and disgustingly healthy.’
Gregory looked a little anxious. ‘I still say we should cancel the dinner party.’
‘I won’t hear of it!’
‘Then at least promise to forgo the Farrish House ball this year.’
‘I won’t hear of that, either, Gregory Bourne, I only feel ill in the mornings; apart from that I’m quite all right, and you wouldn’t really deny Helen her first two important social events, would
‘And then will you have some Pekoe and sweet almond biscuits served in the drawing room?’
‘Yes, madam. Is there anything else, madam?’
‘No, Morris, that is all.’
‘Madam.’ He bowed and withdrew again.
Margaret rolled her eyes behind his back, and it was all Helen could do not to burst into giggles. Linking arms again, the sisters proceeded toward the nearest double doors, which led to a large, extremely beautiful octagonal room with a line of four French windows opening on to a veranda beneath another of the balconies. The walls were adorned with gilt-framed mirrors, shelves of books, paintings, and display cabinets, and there were comfortable floral armchairs and plum velvet sofas. The windows were swathed with plum velvet curtains and hung with delicate nets that moved gently in the light breeze coming in through the one open French window. There were more flower arrangements, and pots containing fine plants, and the room looked very inviting indeed.
Colonel Gregory Bourne, late of the Berkshire Regiment and now commander of the local militia, was bending by his telescope, watching the progress of some of his racehorses. He was tall and fair-haired, wearing a pine-green riding coat and buckskin breeches. His top hat, gloves, and riding crop lay on a nearby table, and he remained totally unaware of his wife’s entrance with her sister.
Margaret surveyed him fondly, winking at Helen before speaking to him. ‘Sirrah, where are your manners?’
‘Mm?’
‘Lexicon’s coming on reasonably, I suppose, but Musket appears to possess only three legs and doesn’t stand an earthly in the Maisemore.’
‘Eh?’ He straightened immediately, turning crossly to face her. ‘What was that you said?’
‘I said it’s a lovely day, made lovelier by the unexpected arrival of my only dear sister.’ Margaret smiled at him.
He blinked and then noticed Helen for the first time. ‘Helen! Where have you sprung from?’
‘Cheltenham,’ she replied dryly.
He grinned, crossing to embrace her. The only outward signs now of the dreadful injuries he’d sustained at Vimiero were his limp, the awkward set of his right arm, and the rather romantic white saber scar on his cheek. He hugged her warmly, kissing her cheek. ‘Welcome to Bourne End, Helen.’
‘Thank you, Gregory, it’s lovely to be here at last.’
He ushered her to one of the sofas, and then escorted Margaret to one of the chairs, standing behind her with one hand protectively on her shoulder. ‘Margaret, I trust you haven’t been doing anything too strenuous,’ he said, looking down anxiously into his wife’s green eyes.
‘I don’t think anyone could possibly describe flower arranging as strenuous, Gregory,’ she replied.
‘I know, but you’re quite capable of doing things the doctor has strictly forbidden.’
Helen was instantly alarmed. ‘The doctor? Surely you’re not ill, Margaret.’
‘No, I’m just in an, er, interesting condition.’
Helen stared at her, her face breaking into a delighted smile. ‘A baby? At last? Oh, I’m so pleased for you both.’
‘We’re quite pleased with ourselves,’ Gregory observed, ‘for we were beginning to think we’d remain childless.’
‘When is my niece or nephew due?’ asked Helen.
‘Oh, another seven months yet,’ replied Margaret, ‘it’s very early days, and I’m afraid I feel positively green in the mornings, but I’m assured that soon I’ll be glowing and disgustingly healthy.’
Gregory looked a little anxious. ‘I still say we should cancel the dinner party.’
‘I won’t hear of it!’
‘Then at least promise to forgo the Farrish House ball this year.’
‘I won’t hear of that, either, Gregory Bourne, I only feel ill in the mornings; apart from that I’m quite all right, and you wouldn’t really deny Helen her first two important social events, would
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