Read Online Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) by Maggie Robinson - Free Book Online
Authors: Maggie Robinson
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necessary to prove oneself a lady. She’d failed miserably.
The major tugged open a drawer and returned with a bent brass button. “The coat is hanging downstairs in the front hall cupboard under the stairs. Don’t hurry. I have to dress and help Martin with the horses. You do ride?”
One of her greatest pleasures. Something her father had restricted once he knew how much it meant to her. “Yes.”
“I think we still have my mother’s saddle. Her riding habit might be in one of the attic trunks if the moths haven’t dined on it. It would be too long for you, though.”
“I’ll go up and look for it.” She didn’t want to beg a favor from the vicar in her hand-me-down maid’s uniform.
“An hour then for both of us to become presentable. I’ll see you down in the kitchen when you’re ready.”
Anne was grateful for the extra time, as it seemed she would be sewing and altering clothes. She ran up the attic stairs and pushed into the cavernous space, wishing she’d brought a lantern. The grimy windows let very little of the gray winter light through. There were trunks and boxes stacked against the north wall, the dust on the floor around them undisturbed except where she’d stepped the other day in her exploration of the house.
Pinching her nose to stop a sneeze, she was rewarded with victory on the first trunk she threw open. Even in the dimness, the silks and satins and velvets shone. Everything was decades out of date, of course, but a woman who knew what to do with a needle and thread could have a field day. Alas, that was not her talent, but she unfolded a dark green thick wool habit from the middle of the lavender-scented pile and held it up against her. Gareth had overestimated his mother’s height. Anne thought she might get away with simply rolling up the waistband. The jacket and stitched linen blouse seemed a little big, but they would do. A large canvas drawstring bag held a pair of well-worn leather boots, which fit almost perfectly when Anne wiggled into them.
Wasn’t she a shallow creature? She’d worn servant’s clothes for less than two weeks of travel and work, and already she thrilled to exchange them for a dead gentlewoman’s leavings. She’d like to get her hair back to its natural color again as well. That bath tomorrow . . .
She could not think about relaxation when she held the fate of both the major and herself in the palm of her somewhat grubby hand. What could she do to convince Mr. Morgan to cooperate? As a man of the cloth, he had sworn not to lie. Sometimes the Commandments were very inconvenient—Anne was totally disregarding honoring her father’s wishes just now, but was sure God would want her to in this instance.
She clambered down the stairs to her room with her new clothes. It was misting outside, but at least she wouldn’t have to sink in the mud all the way into the village. As she dressed and re-braided her hair, she practiced confessing a brief but accurate summary of the liberties her father had taken with her. She was determined not to cry in the retelling, but would if her tears caused Mr. Morgan to take pity on her and fudge her name.
The spotted glass showed her determined freckled face under Mrs. Ripton-Jones’s green velvet hat. Anne looked entirely respectable and even a little dashing.
The major’s button! She fished it out of the pocket of her discarded apron and hurried down the stairs. He was waiting for her at the kitchen table wearing a fresh shirt, a length of crumpled linen draped over his shoulders. He was hunched over Mrs. Smith’s book, so entranced by whatever receipt he was reading he didn’t even look up.
“I don’t suppose you could play valet? I can’t seem to get my tie right.” His eyes lifted from the page and lit. “Why, Mrs. Mont—Annie—you are a vision.”
Her gaze dropped at the strength of that blue stare. His eyes really were extraordinary. “There’s no need to flatter me.”
“I disagree. If I’m to
The major tugged open a drawer and returned with a bent brass button. “The coat is hanging downstairs in the front hall cupboard under the stairs. Don’t hurry. I have to dress and help Martin with the horses. You do ride?”
One of her greatest pleasures. Something her father had restricted once he knew how much it meant to her. “Yes.”
“I think we still have my mother’s saddle. Her riding habit might be in one of the attic trunks if the moths haven’t dined on it. It would be too long for you, though.”
“I’ll go up and look for it.” She didn’t want to beg a favor from the vicar in her hand-me-down maid’s uniform.
“An hour then for both of us to become presentable. I’ll see you down in the kitchen when you’re ready.”
Anne was grateful for the extra time, as it seemed she would be sewing and altering clothes. She ran up the attic stairs and pushed into the cavernous space, wishing she’d brought a lantern. The grimy windows let very little of the gray winter light through. There were trunks and boxes stacked against the north wall, the dust on the floor around them undisturbed except where she’d stepped the other day in her exploration of the house.
Pinching her nose to stop a sneeze, she was rewarded with victory on the first trunk she threw open. Even in the dimness, the silks and satins and velvets shone. Everything was decades out of date, of course, but a woman who knew what to do with a needle and thread could have a field day. Alas, that was not her talent, but she unfolded a dark green thick wool habit from the middle of the lavender-scented pile and held it up against her. Gareth had overestimated his mother’s height. Anne thought she might get away with simply rolling up the waistband. The jacket and stitched linen blouse seemed a little big, but they would do. A large canvas drawstring bag held a pair of well-worn leather boots, which fit almost perfectly when Anne wiggled into them.
Wasn’t she a shallow creature? She’d worn servant’s clothes for less than two weeks of travel and work, and already she thrilled to exchange them for a dead gentlewoman’s leavings. She’d like to get her hair back to its natural color again as well. That bath tomorrow . . .
She could not think about relaxation when she held the fate of both the major and herself in the palm of her somewhat grubby hand. What could she do to convince Mr. Morgan to cooperate? As a man of the cloth, he had sworn not to lie. Sometimes the Commandments were very inconvenient—Anne was totally disregarding honoring her father’s wishes just now, but was sure God would want her to in this instance.
She clambered down the stairs to her room with her new clothes. It was misting outside, but at least she wouldn’t have to sink in the mud all the way into the village. As she dressed and re-braided her hair, she practiced confessing a brief but accurate summary of the liberties her father had taken with her. She was determined not to cry in the retelling, but would if her tears caused Mr. Morgan to take pity on her and fudge her name.
The spotted glass showed her determined freckled face under Mrs. Ripton-Jones’s green velvet hat. Anne looked entirely respectable and even a little dashing.
The major’s button! She fished it out of the pocket of her discarded apron and hurried down the stairs. He was waiting for her at the kitchen table wearing a fresh shirt, a length of crumpled linen draped over his shoulders. He was hunched over Mrs. Smith’s book, so entranced by whatever receipt he was reading he didn’t even look up.
“I don’t suppose you could play valet? I can’t seem to get my tie right.” His eyes lifted from the page and lit. “Why, Mrs. Mont—Annie—you are a vision.”
Her gaze dropped at the strength of that blue stare. His eyes really were extraordinary. “There’s no need to flatter me.”
“I disagree. If I’m to
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