Read Online Death at Daisy's Folly by Robin Paige - Free Book Online

rose up an’—”
    â€œQuibbley!” boomed a woman’s loud, rough voice. “Lor’ be blessed, it’s Quibbley ’isself!”
    Lawrence, who had found himself drawn into Marsh’s hypnotic polemic, was suddenly shocked to full attention, and something very close to fear. He fancied himself a strong man, but no strength was equal to that of the woman who stationed herself close behind him and wound substantial arms around his neck, pulling him backward against the soft pillow of her bosom. Furthermore, Lawrence felt within himself the stern consciousness of guilt. Inwardly, he quailed.
    â€œWinnie,” he cried weakly, grasping her arms in an attempt to extricate himself. “Winnie Wospottle, ’erself! I’m glad t’ see yer.”
    â€œGlad t’ see me indeed!” Winnie bent her cheek to his and wound her arms more tightly around his neck, as though she would choke him. “I ought t’ve sued yer fer breach o’ promise, ye scalawag! Makin’ sport wi’ a pore foolish young girl wi’ a babe in ‘er arms, whose ’eart was that set on yer. Ye done a bunk an’ left me waitin’ at th’ altar, ye did!”
    The men opposite had decently averted their eyes from this embarrassing spectacle, but Amelia had gone rigid. Lawrence hazarded a glance and saw that her delicate face was white as a winding sheet.
    â€œAmelia,” he began desperately, “this is someone ’oo I knew back in Brighton when I was jes’ a young—”
    But Amelia had clambered over the bench and gone in a flash, leaving her tea unfinished on the table. Winnie, seizing the opportunity to occupy the vacated space, loosened her grip on Lawrence and lowered her ample self into it.
    â€œWell, now, Lawrence Quibbley,” she demanded, “wot ’ave yer bin doin’ wi’ yerself since yer deserted me back in Brighton?”
    â€œI di‘n’t desert yer,” Lawrence growled, beginning to recover his breath. He would have gone after Amelia, but he could see that it was of no use. He would have to explain to her later—if he could. “Like I tol’ yer back then, Win, I di’n’t want t’ be married, an’ that was th’ long an’ th’ short o’ it. Ye don’t need t’ make me out a rotter ‘oo’d betray a girl when she was countin’ on ’im.”
    â€œThat’s as may be.” Winnie leaned forward and tweaked his nose familiarly. “But we’ve met agin, Quibbley, an’ I’m that glad t’ see yer.”
    Lawrence pulled away, eyeing her. The years—eight, nine, was it?—had been reasonably kind. Winnie was as charmingly buxom as ever, her brown hair as tightly furled, her cheeks as rosy, her lips as full and welcoming. “Wot’re ye doin’ i’ th’ country, lass?” he asked, not unkindly. Winnie had always loved Brighton, with its beaches and bathing machines and gay dancing. “Ain’t it a bit out o’ th’ way fer yer? An’ where’s yer babe?”
    Winnie pulled herself up. “I’m th’ laundress,” she said proudly, and even Lawrence was impressed. The position of laundress, while not quite equivalent to that of the other Uppers—cook, housekeeper, steward—was nonetheless an important one, with a fair amount of independence. “Me babe is ‘alf-grown now and livin’ wi’ ’er father. An’ as fer bein’ out o’ th’ way—” Giggling, she leaned forward and took his cheek between her thumb and forefinger and shook it. “There’s compensations, wudn’t yer say, luv?”
    Lawrence brushed her hand aside, knowing exactly what she meant. “Oh, er, Win,” he began uncomfortably. “I say, ol’ girl, I’ve got other—” He broke off and cast an appealing eye at the bandy-legged coachman.