Read Online Cupid's Dart by Maggie MacKeever - Free Book Online
Authors: Maggie MacKeever
Tags: Regency Romance
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back. Georgie looked up at him, surprised. "I am not entirely without scruples," he murmured, "despite what the gossipmongers think." Bedraggled bonnet in one hand, unrepentant hound's collar in the other, Georgie watched him walk away.
Chapter Eight
Silence reigned in the Halliday kitchen, at least for a moment, among the four people gathered there, due to Georgie's recent irritable announcement that her gentleman caller had been an old friend merely, and the next person who pestered her about the matter would be turned out into the street.
Georgie sat at one end of the long elm table, frowning over her household accounts. Occasionally she reached into a bowl of peas that stood nearby, peeled open the pod, and popped the raw vegetables into her mouth. The peas were very sweet, and grown by Miss Halliday herself in a little garden out behind the house, a pursuit that was horridly unladylike of her, but immensely gratifying nonetheless. Although grubbing in the dirt was behavior hardly befitting a lady, Georgie looked like one all the same, in a high-necked, figured muslin gown. Agatha, just then thumbing through her receipts, was dressed rather less conservatively in a dress of India muslin with a low neckline and puffed sleeves, her blazing hair tucked under a huge mobcap. At the other end of the long table, Tibble sat polishing the silver, a task in which he was unlikely to hurt himself, and one that would overtask neither his strength nor his powers of concentration, since most of the pieces had already been sold. In front of him marched an array of silverplate, a container holding a paste made of hartshorn powder mixed with spirits of wine, a brush, several soft rags, a piece of dry leather, and his wig. Tibble had already this day trimmed the lamp-wicks and replenished the rapeseed oil; brushed and blacked the ladies boots (and if he left behind his hand-mark on the lining, no one but Marigold would be unkind enough to remark); and very narrowly avoided doing himself serious injury while cleaning the kitchen knives.
"Lord love a duck," muttered Janie, the only member of the little group not seated at the elm table. She was bent over a kitchen dresser, attempting to remove the stain from a silk ribbon by way of a mixture of gin and honey, soft soap and water, not with a great deal of success.
It was not enough, thought Janie, that she must dust and sweep and polish and scour; now she must also wash out milady's brushes and clean her combs and arrange her hair, remove stains and grease spots from her clothes, and repair her lace. Not that Janie would mind performing any of these tasks for Mistress Georgie, who was a very good sort of person, as Janie should well know, because she had been on the verge of A Fate Worse Than Death when Mistress Georgie and Miss Agatha took her in; but Mistress Georgie's guest was a far different kettle of fish, shedding crocodile tears and capperclawing and butter wouldn't melt in her mouth until one wished that cheese might choke her and the devil fly off with her straightaway.
Janie finished scouring the soiled ribbon with her mixture. She gingerly picked up the ribbon by its corners and dipped the fabric quickly in cold water. After letting the ribbon drip for a moment, she dried it with a cloth, and ironed it quickly with a very hot iron. Then she uttered a strong expletive because the stain was even worse, thereby rousing Agatha from thoughts of Balnamood Skink, and Georgie from the accounts that refused to add up in an encouraging manner, and Tibble from thoughts of which only heaven knew the nature, because he himself could not have said.
"Bless me!" Agatha ventured. "What is it?" Georgie asked. Too confused to put in his own two penn'orth, Tibble dabbed his forehead with the silver cloth.
Janie dropped a little curtsey. "Beg pardon, I'm sure. But Miss Marigold is going to ring a right peal over my head." She dropped the ribbon on the table, then sat down and ate a
Chapter Eight
Silence reigned in the Halliday kitchen, at least for a moment, among the four people gathered there, due to Georgie's recent irritable announcement that her gentleman caller had been an old friend merely, and the next person who pestered her about the matter would be turned out into the street.
Georgie sat at one end of the long elm table, frowning over her household accounts. Occasionally she reached into a bowl of peas that stood nearby, peeled open the pod, and popped the raw vegetables into her mouth. The peas were very sweet, and grown by Miss Halliday herself in a little garden out behind the house, a pursuit that was horridly unladylike of her, but immensely gratifying nonetheless. Although grubbing in the dirt was behavior hardly befitting a lady, Georgie looked like one all the same, in a high-necked, figured muslin gown. Agatha, just then thumbing through her receipts, was dressed rather less conservatively in a dress of India muslin with a low neckline and puffed sleeves, her blazing hair tucked under a huge mobcap. At the other end of the long table, Tibble sat polishing the silver, a task in which he was unlikely to hurt himself, and one that would overtask neither his strength nor his powers of concentration, since most of the pieces had already been sold. In front of him marched an array of silverplate, a container holding a paste made of hartshorn powder mixed with spirits of wine, a brush, several soft rags, a piece of dry leather, and his wig. Tibble had already this day trimmed the lamp-wicks and replenished the rapeseed oil; brushed and blacked the ladies boots (and if he left behind his hand-mark on the lining, no one but Marigold would be unkind enough to remark); and very narrowly avoided doing himself serious injury while cleaning the kitchen knives.
"Lord love a duck," muttered Janie, the only member of the little group not seated at the elm table. She was bent over a kitchen dresser, attempting to remove the stain from a silk ribbon by way of a mixture of gin and honey, soft soap and water, not with a great deal of success.
It was not enough, thought Janie, that she must dust and sweep and polish and scour; now she must also wash out milady's brushes and clean her combs and arrange her hair, remove stains and grease spots from her clothes, and repair her lace. Not that Janie would mind performing any of these tasks for Mistress Georgie, who was a very good sort of person, as Janie should well know, because she had been on the verge of A Fate Worse Than Death when Mistress Georgie and Miss Agatha took her in; but Mistress Georgie's guest was a far different kettle of fish, shedding crocodile tears and capperclawing and butter wouldn't melt in her mouth until one wished that cheese might choke her and the devil fly off with her straightaway.
Janie finished scouring the soiled ribbon with her mixture. She gingerly picked up the ribbon by its corners and dipped the fabric quickly in cold water. After letting the ribbon drip for a moment, she dried it with a cloth, and ironed it quickly with a very hot iron. Then she uttered a strong expletive because the stain was even worse, thereby rousing Agatha from thoughts of Balnamood Skink, and Georgie from the accounts that refused to add up in an encouraging manner, and Tibble from thoughts of which only heaven knew the nature, because he himself could not have said.
"Bless me!" Agatha ventured. "What is it?" Georgie asked. Too confused to put in his own two penn'orth, Tibble dabbed his forehead with the silver cloth.
Janie dropped a little curtsey. "Beg pardon, I'm sure. But Miss Marigold is going to ring a right peal over my head." She dropped the ribbon on the table, then sat down and ate a
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