Read Online Now Face to Face by Karleen Koen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Karleen Koen
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day at First Curle. Kindness begat kindness. She could feel her heart open again. How kind they were to make her first evening alone here less lonely.
“Please,” she said, meaning every word she spoke, “it would make me so happy.”
“Well, then,” said Mrs. Cox, “it will have to be done, won’t it?”
“Tell me,” said Barbara to them all as they entered the house, “how difficult is it to grow tobacco?”
C OLONEL E DWARD Perry took a heavy silver goblet from the silver tray Hyacinthe held before him. He surveyed the parlor, which was still in disarray but already changed by the fine table and chairs, by a painting brought from England and set upon the plain mantel. Plump, naked nymphs with deliciously rounded flesh lolled in some dark garden. The lushness of the pose, the skill and craft of the brushstrokes, fed his soul.
I was unaware my soul needed feeding, he thought, but it clearly does. His lively, kind eyes went to Barbara, who was speaking to her page boy in rapid French, then moved to serving dishes of silver—plates, goblets, trays, unpacked but not yet put away, upon the table. Though he possessed some rich things himself, he had not been able to keep himself from touching these plates, this tray, could not help but run his fingers along the design, feeling the heaviness of the metal, marveling at the craft of the silversmith who had made the intricate design of grapes and leaves over which his fingers played.
Lady Devane was singing to them, now, some French nonsense song, her maidservant harmonizing with her, and he, like the others in the chamber, was struck silent at the beauty and liveliness here in Jordan’s plain parlor.
Jordan’s parlor no more, thought Colonel Perry; her presence already vibrates through it. She has the shining patina of that silver I cannot keep my eyes from—and, I wager, the solid inside, the strength that bends but won’t break easily. She must have graced the court. Why did she leave it to come among us?
When he’d gone to England as a younger man, he’d heard an Italian opera for the first time, and had found himself weeping, because the beauty of the music, the voices, was so unexpected, so fiercely fine and perfect. There was something of that emotion in him now, here in this simple parlor transformed by paintings and French chairs, by silver goblets and the sure and certain grace of the young woman singing to them. What is there here that I am so touched, so moved within? he thought, as another song began.
“Tell me of this,” he said to Barbara later, when the singing was finished and she sat near him, fanning herself with an exquisite fan. He pointed to it, and she handed it over.
He examined the scene painted on its furled-out sections: a rose garden, and yew trees beyond.
“It is Tamworth Hall, where I grew up. This is the rose garden my grandfather planted.”
“The famous Duke of Tamworth?”
“Yes. He planted it in the last years he lived, when he was frail and unwell. My brother gave this fan to me as a gift for my sixteenth birthday.”
What sadness in that lovely face, thought Perry. “Your brother?” he prodded gently.
“Harry. He’s dead now. All my brothers and sisters are dead.” She changed the subject abruptly. “What is the best tobacco seed?”
“Digges seed, from the Digges plantation on the York River, but the man to ask is Major John Custis in Williamsburg, not I. You’re thinking of planting a crop of tobacco?”
“This is a tobacco plantation.”
“Let me tell you that my tobacco merchant in London writes me a melancholy story, Lady Devane, of the ruinous effect of the South Sea Bubble—”
I cannot escape you, Bubble, thought Barbara. She clenched her hands around her drawn-in fan.
“—and its consequences to trade. I think tobacco will sell low again. We endured ten years of sales worth little or nothing the last time prices fell. I think we may be coming to such a time again. A wise man or
“Please,” she said, meaning every word she spoke, “it would make me so happy.”
“Well, then,” said Mrs. Cox, “it will have to be done, won’t it?”
“Tell me,” said Barbara to them all as they entered the house, “how difficult is it to grow tobacco?”
C OLONEL E DWARD Perry took a heavy silver goblet from the silver tray Hyacinthe held before him. He surveyed the parlor, which was still in disarray but already changed by the fine table and chairs, by a painting brought from England and set upon the plain mantel. Plump, naked nymphs with deliciously rounded flesh lolled in some dark garden. The lushness of the pose, the skill and craft of the brushstrokes, fed his soul.
I was unaware my soul needed feeding, he thought, but it clearly does. His lively, kind eyes went to Barbara, who was speaking to her page boy in rapid French, then moved to serving dishes of silver—plates, goblets, trays, unpacked but not yet put away, upon the table. Though he possessed some rich things himself, he had not been able to keep himself from touching these plates, this tray, could not help but run his fingers along the design, feeling the heaviness of the metal, marveling at the craft of the silversmith who had made the intricate design of grapes and leaves over which his fingers played.
Lady Devane was singing to them, now, some French nonsense song, her maidservant harmonizing with her, and he, like the others in the chamber, was struck silent at the beauty and liveliness here in Jordan’s plain parlor.
Jordan’s parlor no more, thought Colonel Perry; her presence already vibrates through it. She has the shining patina of that silver I cannot keep my eyes from—and, I wager, the solid inside, the strength that bends but won’t break easily. She must have graced the court. Why did she leave it to come among us?
When he’d gone to England as a younger man, he’d heard an Italian opera for the first time, and had found himself weeping, because the beauty of the music, the voices, was so unexpected, so fiercely fine and perfect. There was something of that emotion in him now, here in this simple parlor transformed by paintings and French chairs, by silver goblets and the sure and certain grace of the young woman singing to them. What is there here that I am so touched, so moved within? he thought, as another song began.
“Tell me of this,” he said to Barbara later, when the singing was finished and she sat near him, fanning herself with an exquisite fan. He pointed to it, and she handed it over.
He examined the scene painted on its furled-out sections: a rose garden, and yew trees beyond.
“It is Tamworth Hall, where I grew up. This is the rose garden my grandfather planted.”
“The famous Duke of Tamworth?”
“Yes. He planted it in the last years he lived, when he was frail and unwell. My brother gave this fan to me as a gift for my sixteenth birthday.”
What sadness in that lovely face, thought Perry. “Your brother?” he prodded gently.
“Harry. He’s dead now. All my brothers and sisters are dead.” She changed the subject abruptly. “What is the best tobacco seed?”
“Digges seed, from the Digges plantation on the York River, but the man to ask is Major John Custis in Williamsburg, not I. You’re thinking of planting a crop of tobacco?”
“This is a tobacco plantation.”
“Let me tell you that my tobacco merchant in London writes me a melancholy story, Lady Devane, of the ruinous effect of the South Sea Bubble—”
I cannot escape you, Bubble, thought Barbara. She clenched her hands around her drawn-in fan.
“—and its consequences to trade. I think tobacco will sell low again. We endured ten years of sales worth little or nothing the last time prices fell. I think we may be coming to such a time again. A wise man or
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