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

doan’t see ’ow th’ ladies do ’t. I was allus taught t’ love one fer life, good er bad, wotever ‘e does t’yer.”
    Amelia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “But wot d‘ye do when ’e’s not true?”
    Meg stood up slowly, shaking her head. “Suffer, I reckon.” She stood for a minute, looking down. “I’ll see yer t’night,” she said, and was gone.
    Amelia sat on the stairs for a few moments more, then wiped her eyes and settled her cap. Lawrence might be a faithless traitor and her heart might be broken, but it would soon be time for the dressing bell and there was work to be done. She climbed the stairs and went down the long hallway to Miss Ardleigh’s room, where she tapped on the door and opened it.
    Wearing her dressing gown, Miss Ardleigh sat at the writing desk in front of the velvet-draped window. When Amelia came in, she hastily stacked the pages on which she had been writing and stuffed them into the leather portfolio that she took with her wherever she went. Usually Amelia smiled at this little effort at concealment, because all the servants at Bishop’s Keep knew exactly what Miss Ardleigh—or Beryl Bardwell, for that was the name under which she wrote her sensational fictions—was up to. But it was part of the game to make believe that they saw nothing, so when Amelia happened on Beryl Bardwell engaged in the labor of authorship, she smiled and pretended not to notice. This evening, though, she could not summon even a flicker of a smile in response to her mistress’s cheery greeting.
    Miss Ardleigh grew concerned. “You look as if you’ve been crying, Amelia. Is something wrong?”
    Mutely, Amelia shook her head.
    Miss Ardleigh held out her hand. “Oh, come now,” she said. “You’re not one to cry without a reason. What’s happened?”
    Prompted by this sympathy, Amelia said, “It’s Lawrence, miss,” and burst into a flood of tears. In a moment, she had told the little she knew and the more she imagined, and Miss Ardleigh was holding her and patting her back while she wept.
    â€œI am sure,” Miss Ardleigh said gently, when the tears had somewhat subsided, “that it is not as bad as it seems. This Winnie person—is she as lovely as you?”
    Amelia frowned, wanting to be accurate. “She’s ... much larger.”
    â€œLarger, but not lovelier, then. And her age?”
    â€œOh, much older, miss,” Amelia replied, from the youthful perspective of seventeen. “All of twenty-five, I should reckon. An’ she’s quite brazen.”
    â€œWell, then,” Miss Ardleigh (who was twenty-seven herself, and a spinster) said briskly. “What are we crying for? You have the advantage of beauty and youth. All you need is a little more courage, and perhaps a bit of brazenness on your own account. Let Lawrence know that you care for him, Amelia. His heart is with you, I’m sure of it.”
    Amelia felt herself blushing furiously. “It’s not ‘is ’eart I’m worried about, miss,” she said in a low voice. “It’s th’ ... other thing.” She felt quite brave in bringing the subject up, but of course she would not have spoken so openly if Miss Ardleigh had not encouraged her, or if she were not an American. American women, as she knew from her clandestine reading of Beryl Bardwell’s fictions, were much more open about physical intimacies than were English women.
    A smile tweaked at Miss Ardleigh’s lips. “Yes, well,” she said, and cleared her throat. “‘The other thing’ is a bit of a problem, to be sure, and I am not suggesting that you violate your principles. But where Lawrence is concerned, you might want to practice a stratagem or two.”
    â€œA stratagem, miss?” Amelia was puzzled.
    â€œIt might not hurt to let him see that you have the