Read Online Summer's End by Amy Myers - Free Book Online Page A

coloured silk, which had seen her stalwartly through three seasons, had been cleverly disguised to masquerade as a new gown by the simple means of drawing the skirt up into panniers and providing a new white underskirt, plus – and this was her pride – embroidery in raspberry silks to match the overskirt. That, and a feather discarded from one of the Ashden peacocks, stuck in a bandeau round her head, should do nicely. She smiled at her aunt, hoping perhaps that she would share her sudden enthusiasm for the evening.
    â€˜Do you enjoy dances, Aunt Tilly?’ she asked curiously.
    â€˜No,’ was the brief answer. There was silence from the rear seat too.
    â€˜Why come then?’
    Tilly laughed. ‘Because Ashden, Dover and England expect every lady to do her duty.’
    â€˜And you don’t approve of that?’
    â€˜I do in practice. Where else are girls to find husbands? In theory, no.’
    Surely, thought Caroline, there must have been a time when Aunt Tilly set out for an evening wondering whom she would meet, and what excitements – or disappointments – the evening might bring forth? ‘Girls like me?’ she queried.
    Tilly thought quickly. She had gone too far already. ‘Be thankful for Ashden dances, Caroline. Think of Dover.’
    â€˜I almost think,’ Caroline observed, glancing up as the Austin pulled up in front of The Towers, ‘that I prefer Buckford House.’
    â€˜Kindly don’t exaggerate,’ Tilly said drily, climbing down from the motor-car and extinguishing the lamps. As she did so, Caroline noticed a familiar motor-car, Reggie’s new Perry. She took a deep breath and took first Felicia’s, then Aunt Tilly’s arm.
    â€˜Come on,’ she cried cheerfully. ‘Let’s tango with The Towers.’
    When they reached the ballroom, she was amused to see that the tungsten lamps were not in use. For this occasion oil lamps andcandlelight were obviously deemed more suitable for flattering complexions. She was forced to admit the ballroom looked spectacular, with so many fresh flowers artfully adorning it that it smelled, from where she stood somewhat above the dancing floor level, more like the summer flower-show tent. A large ‘I’ and ‘R’ monogram was picked out in early roses amid a sea of lilies of the valley on the top of a large garlanded maypole at one end of the room, in honour of the date, the first of May. This afternoon had seen the annual May procession through the village, culminating in a somewhat artificial (in Caroline’s opinion) maypole dance by the schoolchildren in their playing field. She’d spent hours coaching the quick and the clumsy through their paces, and organising flower garlands, and was relieved that the children had managed to skip through their paces with no worse disaster than a collision between Annie Mutter and Ernie Thorn (who engineered it).
    Trust the Swinford-Brownes to make this a State Occasion. Only the Household Cavalry were missing. In front of them, Caroline saw, were: the entire male staff of The Towers (though true, she couldn’t see the gardener) in full dress livery, complete with violet-powdered wigs; an unfamiliar pseudo-patrician face similarly clad to announce them in stentorian tones; in the far distance Father and Mother doing their best to live up to the occasion; Isabel resplendent in blue charmeuse standing with Robert (he was handsome at least); and at the head of the line – oh, joy.
    â€˜What is it?’ she hissed at Tilly.
    Her aunt, clad smartly but dully in mole brown velvet, considered the question gravely. ‘I rather think it’s the new lampshade look.’
    Caroline peered at the bright blue taffeta overskirt that stuck stiffly out from where Edith Swinford-Browne’s waist must be presumed to lie, and at the mauve tube that linked this area of Edith to her feet. ‘I hope someone turns her off soon,’