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Authors: Julie Anne Long
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weakly. She reached up tentatively, and saw that "plates" meant exactly that: four plates. Plain stone crockery, the color of an old bone.
A flush of shame blazed over her skin. How many times had she seen a servant reach into a cupboard?
Suddenly, those four plates seemed bald evidence of her plummet from status, and the life ahead of her came rushing at Susannah the way the hard ground rushes up to meet someone falling from a great height.
With hands that shook a little, Susannah selected two of the plates and laid them on the table, hoping her aunt thought the flush in her cheeks was due to the warm day.
"Thank you again, Aunt Frances, for inviting me to stay," she said bravely.
"I'm happy for your company, Susannah." Her aunt's tone was crisp. "Say no more of it, I beg of you. There's an assembly tomorrow night, and I don't mind telling you, you've made quite a celebrity of me, as a new face in the neighborhood will set everyone to talking. They're all dying to get a look at you. And you're welcome to come, if you feel up to it, my dear."
This cheered Susannah just a little. She didn't mind being looked at. Being looked at was one of the things she did best, in fact And an assembly… well, gaiety and motion had always kept the restlessness that forever danced on the edge of her awareness at bay. Perhaps she could forget everything for an instant, the loss, the humiliation, the grief—
Wait.
"Do they… do they know how I came to live with you, Aunt Frances?" she ventured cautiously.
In other words: Do they know I've been jilted? Do they know I'm penniless ? Susannah knew very well what it meant when people were "set to talking." She'd been one of those "people" not too long ago. Having a good laugh at the way George Percy danced, for instance. It occurred to her that she might wish to take a night… or a fortnight… or a year or two… to assimilate her new status here in the cottage, before she threw herself upon the mercy of the villagers. She knew precisely how juicy a piece of gossip she represented. They'd feast on her like a swarm of mosquitoes.
Aunt Frances's brown eyes were sharp and knowing and sympathetic. "They know that your father died, and that you came to live with me, and anything else they might know they learned from someone other than I. But I think a better question is… how much do you care, Susannah?"
A breeze kicked up the curtains at the window then, and the room, with its plain wood floors and whitewashed cupboards and fireplace, was suddenly awash with light, and a faint scent of roses came in to mingle with bread and sausage. It occurred to Susannah then that most anything could be beautiful when viewed in the proper light.
And so pride hiked her chin. "Why, I find that I don't care very much at all."
In that sunny, airy moment, it was almost true.
----
Chapter Four
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Kit had forgotten what a miser the Grantham country manor was—it hoarded heat in the summer and cold in the winter, and by nightfall, stepping into his chambers had been like stepping off a ship docked in the East Indies. But he'd learned not to be fussy about where and how he slept; in the military, you took sleep when you could, the way you did food, grateful for any crumb of it. He stripped off all of his clothing and heaped it over a chair, has pistol, locked, went on the table next to his head. He cut a slice of cheese from a wedge on a plate and devoured it. And then he settled the knife down again, too, next to his head, because he rather liked having a buffet of weapons to choose from, should the need arise.
He flipped open his one indulgence brought from London—fine bedsheets, which were almost as good as a breeze on a night like this—and climbed beneath.
But before he doused the lamp, he impulsively reached for the sketchbook again, trying to piece together the story the drawings told. The artist had led a benign, genteel life, he concluded from the pages, filled with pretty
A flush of shame blazed over her skin. How many times had she seen a servant reach into a cupboard?
Suddenly, those four plates seemed bald evidence of her plummet from status, and the life ahead of her came rushing at Susannah the way the hard ground rushes up to meet someone falling from a great height.
With hands that shook a little, Susannah selected two of the plates and laid them on the table, hoping her aunt thought the flush in her cheeks was due to the warm day.
"Thank you again, Aunt Frances, for inviting me to stay," she said bravely.
"I'm happy for your company, Susannah." Her aunt's tone was crisp. "Say no more of it, I beg of you. There's an assembly tomorrow night, and I don't mind telling you, you've made quite a celebrity of me, as a new face in the neighborhood will set everyone to talking. They're all dying to get a look at you. And you're welcome to come, if you feel up to it, my dear."
This cheered Susannah just a little. She didn't mind being looked at. Being looked at was one of the things she did best, in fact And an assembly… well, gaiety and motion had always kept the restlessness that forever danced on the edge of her awareness at bay. Perhaps she could forget everything for an instant, the loss, the humiliation, the grief—
Wait.
"Do they… do they know how I came to live with you, Aunt Frances?" she ventured cautiously.
In other words: Do they know I've been jilted? Do they know I'm penniless ? Susannah knew very well what it meant when people were "set to talking." She'd been one of those "people" not too long ago. Having a good laugh at the way George Percy danced, for instance. It occurred to her that she might wish to take a night… or a fortnight… or a year or two… to assimilate her new status here in the cottage, before she threw herself upon the mercy of the villagers. She knew precisely how juicy a piece of gossip she represented. They'd feast on her like a swarm of mosquitoes.
Aunt Frances's brown eyes were sharp and knowing and sympathetic. "They know that your father died, and that you came to live with me, and anything else they might know they learned from someone other than I. But I think a better question is… how much do you care, Susannah?"
A breeze kicked up the curtains at the window then, and the room, with its plain wood floors and whitewashed cupboards and fireplace, was suddenly awash with light, and a faint scent of roses came in to mingle with bread and sausage. It occurred to Susannah then that most anything could be beautiful when viewed in the proper light.
And so pride hiked her chin. "Why, I find that I don't care very much at all."
In that sunny, airy moment, it was almost true.
----
Chapter Four
Previous Top Next
Kit had forgotten what a miser the Grantham country manor was—it hoarded heat in the summer and cold in the winter, and by nightfall, stepping into his chambers had been like stepping off a ship docked in the East Indies. But he'd learned not to be fussy about where and how he slept; in the military, you took sleep when you could, the way you did food, grateful for any crumb of it. He stripped off all of his clothing and heaped it over a chair, has pistol, locked, went on the table next to his head. He cut a slice of cheese from a wedge on a plate and devoured it. And then he settled the knife down again, too, next to his head, because he rather liked having a buffet of weapons to choose from, should the need arise.
He flipped open his one indulgence brought from London—fine bedsheets, which were almost as good as a breeze on a night like this—and climbed beneath.
But before he doused the lamp, he impulsively reached for the sketchbook again, trying to piece together the story the drawings told. The artist had led a benign, genteel life, he concluded from the pages, filled with pretty
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