Read Online The Bachelor List by Jane Feather - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Feather
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white striped silk skirt with a wide band that accentuated her tiny waist.
She sat on the dressing stool to fasten the buckles on her heeled green kid shoes and then turned to the mirror. The heavy chignon had loosened and wisps of dark red hair clustered on her forehead. She debated the need to undo the whole elaborate construction and start again, but decided she didn't have the time, instead placing a pair of tortoiseshell combs strategically in the mass piled on top of her head.
Her face struck her as a trifle flushed so she dusted her cheeks with powder. Her hand hovered over the tube of lipstick, a birthday present from a friend whose natural coloring was rarely seen beneath rouge, powder, and lipstick. The new cosmetics were wonderfully convenient; they could even be carried in a handbag for running repairs. Or could if Constance ever bothered with them. She despised lipstick; it was more trouble than it was worth, leaving smudgy mouth-shaped imprints on glasses and white table napkins. So why was she considering it now? She wasn't trying to impress anyone this afternoon. She snatched her hand away from the lipstick as if the tube was red-hot. She simply intended to put Max Ensor firmly in his place if he darkened her door this afternoon and she could very well do that without artificially reddened lips.
The doorbell pealed through the quiet house and she jumped to her feet, smoothing down her skirt, checking that the tiny pearl buttons at the high neck of her blouse were all fastened. She hurried to the door and headed for the staircase as Jenkins's dignified tones drifted up from the hall below.
“Lady Bainbridge, good afternoon,” she said as she corrected her speed and descended the stairs with rather more decorum. She held out her hand to the rigidly corseted dowager in the hall and greeted the two younger women who accompanied her. They both wore spotted veils that they lifted in response to Constance's greeting. Two identical pairs of pale eyes were demurely lowered to the hems of their stiff bombazine gowns, bodices as firmly underpinned as their mother's.
Lady Bainbridge raised her pince-nez to her nose and subjected Constance to a critical stare. “You look a trifle flushed,” she declared. “I trust there's no fever in the house.”
“It's a warm afternoon,” Constance said, maintaining her smile with some difficulty. The woman was a distant cousin of Lady Duncan and had been the bane of her life with her constant carping criticism. Her twin daughters were pinched and pale as if they lived in the shadows and rarely saw the light of the day. Their mama considered sunlight ruinous to the complexion.
Lady Bainbridge sniffed and sailed ahead of Constance into the drawing room, where she scrutinized Prudence and Chastity with the same stare that clearly searched for something wanting. Apparently she failed to find it in either of the sisters' smiling countenances and very correct afternoon attire, because she gave another audible sniff and inclined her head in a stiff bow before turning her attention to the drawing room.
“You've allowed this room to become sadly shabby, Constance,” she declared. “Your mother always took such pride in her house.”
Since the sisters could well remember diatribes on the lack of beeswax and silver polish directed at their mother, they allowed this remark to pass over them. Lady Bainbridge seated herself on a sofa, then frowned and began to pick at what Prudence realized was a very faint coffee stain on the upholstered arm.
“Sit down, girls. Sit down. No need to stand there like gabies.” Her ladyship waved her fan at her daughters and Mary and Martha obediently perched on the edge of the opposing sofa.
“Tea, Lady Bainbridge?” Chastity brought a cup to their visitor while Jenkins proffered the plate of sandwiches.
Her ladyship peered at the offering on the platter and waved it away. She accepted the tea, however. Her daughters dutifully declined
She sat on the dressing stool to fasten the buckles on her heeled green kid shoes and then turned to the mirror. The heavy chignon had loosened and wisps of dark red hair clustered on her forehead. She debated the need to undo the whole elaborate construction and start again, but decided she didn't have the time, instead placing a pair of tortoiseshell combs strategically in the mass piled on top of her head.
Her face struck her as a trifle flushed so she dusted her cheeks with powder. Her hand hovered over the tube of lipstick, a birthday present from a friend whose natural coloring was rarely seen beneath rouge, powder, and lipstick. The new cosmetics were wonderfully convenient; they could even be carried in a handbag for running repairs. Or could if Constance ever bothered with them. She despised lipstick; it was more trouble than it was worth, leaving smudgy mouth-shaped imprints on glasses and white table napkins. So why was she considering it now? She wasn't trying to impress anyone this afternoon. She snatched her hand away from the lipstick as if the tube was red-hot. She simply intended to put Max Ensor firmly in his place if he darkened her door this afternoon and she could very well do that without artificially reddened lips.
The doorbell pealed through the quiet house and she jumped to her feet, smoothing down her skirt, checking that the tiny pearl buttons at the high neck of her blouse were all fastened. She hurried to the door and headed for the staircase as Jenkins's dignified tones drifted up from the hall below.
“Lady Bainbridge, good afternoon,” she said as she corrected her speed and descended the stairs with rather more decorum. She held out her hand to the rigidly corseted dowager in the hall and greeted the two younger women who accompanied her. They both wore spotted veils that they lifted in response to Constance's greeting. Two identical pairs of pale eyes were demurely lowered to the hems of their stiff bombazine gowns, bodices as firmly underpinned as their mother's.
Lady Bainbridge raised her pince-nez to her nose and subjected Constance to a critical stare. “You look a trifle flushed,” she declared. “I trust there's no fever in the house.”
“It's a warm afternoon,” Constance said, maintaining her smile with some difficulty. The woman was a distant cousin of Lady Duncan and had been the bane of her life with her constant carping criticism. Her twin daughters were pinched and pale as if they lived in the shadows and rarely saw the light of the day. Their mama considered sunlight ruinous to the complexion.
Lady Bainbridge sniffed and sailed ahead of Constance into the drawing room, where she scrutinized Prudence and Chastity with the same stare that clearly searched for something wanting. Apparently she failed to find it in either of the sisters' smiling countenances and very correct afternoon attire, because she gave another audible sniff and inclined her head in a stiff bow before turning her attention to the drawing room.
“You've allowed this room to become sadly shabby, Constance,” she declared. “Your mother always took such pride in her house.”
Since the sisters could well remember diatribes on the lack of beeswax and silver polish directed at their mother, they allowed this remark to pass over them. Lady Bainbridge seated herself on a sofa, then frowned and began to pick at what Prudence realized was a very faint coffee stain on the upholstered arm.
“Sit down, girls. Sit down. No need to stand there like gabies.” Her ladyship waved her fan at her daughters and Mary and Martha obediently perched on the edge of the opposing sofa.
“Tea, Lady Bainbridge?” Chastity brought a cup to their visitor while Jenkins proffered the plate of sandwiches.
Her ladyship peered at the offering on the platter and waved it away. She accepted the tea, however. Her daughters dutifully declined
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