Read Online Lace for Milady by Joan Smith - Free Book Online

~
    Perusing these pages, I see I have omitted many personages in our life. We had other acquaintances than my relations, the Duke of Clavering, and the revenue officer. Neighbours came to call often, and we returned their calls. A few card parties and dinners had been attended, and three teas had been given by us. We had a quite respectable number of people to bow and speak to in the village, and never left the church without being drawn into some group for a chat after service on Sundays. Both Slack and I were active with the women of the parish in visiting the sick, feeding the hungry, and clothing the naked (in a Christian sense, of course). Without boasting, I think it only just to mention that other gentlemen than Cousin George took some little interest in me, too. There was a certain Mr. Harkness who... However, that has nothing to do with my story. One of our favourite callers was Mr. Harvey McMaster, a gentleman farmer nearby who was well educated, well-to-do, and well mannered.
    It was Slack’s unpleasant custom to refer to him as my “beau,” which was an exaggeration, though I did enjoy his company. He was well over thirty-five and plain in appearance. Some few days previously he had been to call and asked me to accompany him to Eastbourne, where he had to go on business. I had been looking forward to the trip, but when the actual day dawned fine, clear, and bright, I was a little sorry I was to be deprived of my second attempt at riding Juliette. I feared she would take the notion she had bested me and was to spend the remainder of her days standing in the stable, eating her head off. However, I had accepted the invitation and would, of course, go with him. I had not said, but thought, that he would take his closed carriage and Slack would accompany us. She had on her black suit for the trip and was quite put out to observe he drove up in his sporting curricle that held only two.
    “We can take my carriage,” I told her.
    “Oh, no, your beau has purposely brought his curricle to get you alone. Don’t let me interfere with his plans.”
    “Don’t be an ass, Slack.”
    “Don’t worry about me. I’ll call on Lady Ing instead. She is lending me a pattern for a netted shawl. I’ll have need of it before long, I think.”
    “Suit yourself. You’re welcome to come if you wish.”
    “Mr. McMaster will not welcome me.”
    Her coyness deprived her of the trip, and I would have liked her company nearly as much as she would have liked coming with us. She must be taught to curb these sly taunts about Mr. McMaster, however, and leaving her behind was the surest way to do it.
    The trip was enjoyable without her. It was my first longish trip in an open carriage—Mr. McMaster had driven me home from Pevensey once before. There is nothing like a high-perch open carriage to give a view of the countryside, though, of course, both wind and dust are included in the trip. Contrary to Slack’s teasing, the conversation throughout was most decorous, not a word spoken that the bishop could frown at. I told him something about the part of Wiltshire where I had been raised, and he in turn explained his home territory to me. This south-east corner of England, he informed me as we drove along, was the most history-laden part of the country. It was here the Celts had landed, and been pushed off by the Anglo-Saxons. The Normans, he assured me, though their conquest is thought of in terms of Hastings, had actually landed at Pevensey Bay, right on our doorstep. The Spanish Armada hadn’t made it to shore, but this was the spot they had their eye on. And at this very moment Napoleon coveted our shores. Mr. McMaster pointed out architectural features denoting the reigns of the various invaders. A Roman fort, a Norman church, a modern Martello Tower built to hold Boney at bay.
    “Bonaparte is not likely to invade us now, when he is busy with Prussia, do you think?” I asked.
    “You will notice the Martello Towers are manned,”