however. I took out the better of them, a yellow muslin done in the plain empire style that had been popular during the war, and laid it on the bed next to the blue.
In addition to its being a dress for a very young girl, the yellow looked tired and dowdy and out of fashion. I decided it would be better to wear the same gown twice than to make an appearance in the pathetic yellow. I picked up the blue, held it up against myself, and looked in the mirror that hung over the old walnut dressing table next to the window.
Except for the short feathery hair that had once been a long ripple of ebony, and an expression of gravity in the dark blue eyes, the girl who looked back at me did not appear very different from the “witch’s brat” who had married Lady Saunders’s youngest son nine years ago.
“Witch’s brat” was the name that had been bestowed upon Deborah and me by some of the more unkind denizens of Hatfield. It had not been earned by any activities of our own, but was due to Aunt Margaret, who was famous throughout our part of Sussex for her many herbal concoctions.
Let me hasten to assure you that Aunt Margaret was not a witch. She never cast spells or foretold the future or any of the other silly activities one associates with the witches in Macbeth. Aunt Margaret was an herbal healer, which is a different thing altogether.
About some things, however, I have to admit that Aunt Margaret was very peculiar. For example, she was incapable of leaving her house and garden. I do not mean that she didn’t wish to leave; I mean that she could not leave. It made her physically ill to attempt to do so.
As we grew up, this infirmity proved to be a serious problem for Deborah and me. All of the other Hatfield girls had mamas to chaperon them, but Deborah and I had nobody. Deborah, who was by nature a serious and dignified person, managed to rise above this social handicap, but I freely confess that I was something of a hoyden.
In my more honest moments, I also have to confess that Lady Saunders had reason to object to Tommy’s and my marriage. There was nothing she could do about it, however, as Tommy was twenty-one and I had the approval of Aunt Margaret.
I stood in front of my mirror now, contemplating the twenty-seven-year-old woman who was reflected in the rather tarnished glass. A short lock of black hair had fallen across my brow and I tossed my head to flick it away.
I love this dress, I thought, as I turned this way and that, holding the gown up against me. The blue of the dress picked up the blue of my eyes, which were so dark that they often looked black.
I was profoundly grateful that I had decided that this was the year I absolutely had to have a new dress. The thought of appearing at Savile Castle in the old yellow was appalling.
Not that I wanted to impress the Earl of Savile, I assured myself hastily. Rather, it was a matter of pride. I did not wish George’s relations to know how poor I really was.
* * * *
I was carrying my portmanteau toward the stairs early the following morning when Savile called to me from behind, in the passageway. I stopped, and he came to take the bag from my hand. I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it again. If the man wanted to carry my portmanteau, let him.
Tim Haines was down at the stable doing the morning chores, so Nicky and Savile and I sat in the dining room and had breakfast. Nicky was remarkably cheerful, and I tried not to let either him or the earl see how dreadfully apprehensive I was about leaving him.
It wasn’t until we went out into the cold morning air, and the coach steps were let down for me, that I saw a flicker of uncertainty on my son’s face.
“I shall be home on the twentieth,” I said to him, and reached out to give him a brisk, reassuring hug. In return, his arms came up to hold me tightly. I kissed the top of his head, closing my eyes as I felt the silky texture of his hair under my lips. Then I forced myself to relax my grip on
In addition to its being a dress for a very young girl, the yellow looked tired and dowdy and out of fashion. I decided it would be better to wear the same gown twice than to make an appearance in the pathetic yellow. I picked up the blue, held it up against myself, and looked in the mirror that hung over the old walnut dressing table next to the window.
Except for the short feathery hair that had once been a long ripple of ebony, and an expression of gravity in the dark blue eyes, the girl who looked back at me did not appear very different from the “witch’s brat” who had married Lady Saunders’s youngest son nine years ago.
“Witch’s brat” was the name that had been bestowed upon Deborah and me by some of the more unkind denizens of Hatfield. It had not been earned by any activities of our own, but was due to Aunt Margaret, who was famous throughout our part of Sussex for her many herbal concoctions.
Let me hasten to assure you that Aunt Margaret was not a witch. She never cast spells or foretold the future or any of the other silly activities one associates with the witches in Macbeth. Aunt Margaret was an herbal healer, which is a different thing altogether.
About some things, however, I have to admit that Aunt Margaret was very peculiar. For example, she was incapable of leaving her house and garden. I do not mean that she didn’t wish to leave; I mean that she could not leave. It made her physically ill to attempt to do so.
As we grew up, this infirmity proved to be a serious problem for Deborah and me. All of the other Hatfield girls had mamas to chaperon them, but Deborah and I had nobody. Deborah, who was by nature a serious and dignified person, managed to rise above this social handicap, but I freely confess that I was something of a hoyden.
In my more honest moments, I also have to confess that Lady Saunders had reason to object to Tommy’s and my marriage. There was nothing she could do about it, however, as Tommy was twenty-one and I had the approval of Aunt Margaret.
I stood in front of my mirror now, contemplating the twenty-seven-year-old woman who was reflected in the rather tarnished glass. A short lock of black hair had fallen across my brow and I tossed my head to flick it away.
I love this dress, I thought, as I turned this way and that, holding the gown up against me. The blue of the dress picked up the blue of my eyes, which were so dark that they often looked black.
I was profoundly grateful that I had decided that this was the year I absolutely had to have a new dress. The thought of appearing at Savile Castle in the old yellow was appalling.
Not that I wanted to impress the Earl of Savile, I assured myself hastily. Rather, it was a matter of pride. I did not wish George’s relations to know how poor I really was.
* * * *
I was carrying my portmanteau toward the stairs early the following morning when Savile called to me from behind, in the passageway. I stopped, and he came to take the bag from my hand. I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it again. If the man wanted to carry my portmanteau, let him.
Tim Haines was down at the stable doing the morning chores, so Nicky and Savile and I sat in the dining room and had breakfast. Nicky was remarkably cheerful, and I tried not to let either him or the earl see how dreadfully apprehensive I was about leaving him.
It wasn’t until we went out into the cold morning air, and the coach steps were let down for me, that I saw a flicker of uncertainty on my son’s face.
“I shall be home on the twentieth,” I said to him, and reached out to give him a brisk, reassuring hug. In return, his arms came up to hold me tightly. I kissed the top of his head, closing my eyes as I felt the silky texture of his hair under my lips. Then I forced myself to relax my grip on
Similar Books
