Read Online The Primrose Path by Bárbara Metzger - Free Book Online
Authors: Bárbara Metzger
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needn’t run back to Mr. Spenser for every decision; Miss Armstead was to be considered a figure of authority.
In sprigged muslin? Angelina thought she should dress in somber colors and sturdy, practical fabrics, but Mavis swore otherwise. The architect, the builders, and the tradesmen would sooner respect a woman of fashion and taste than one who looked like a governess. Besides, wasn’t there already a dress length or two gathering dust in the sewing room? And here was Mavis, with thirty years of experience dressing elegant ladies going to waste, and nothing to do but groom Lucky, Lucy, Lacy, and the other longhaired dogs to within an inch of their little lives.
As for mourning Lady Sophie, Mavis clucked her tongue. “Milady never cared for the trappings of mourning, don’t you know. It had nothing to do with what’s in the heart, she always used to say. And she made sure you’d have a new start at a better life, didn’t she? Why, ‘twould be disrespectful of her memory to go around looking like old potatoes in a sack.”
So Angelina permitted herself to be convinced into modality. The weather was turning lovely and her heavy black bombazines weren’t suitable for romping with the dogs anyway. Light, simple gowns were much more the thing. If the high waists and narrow skirts flattered her graceful, slender figure, that was merely a bonus.
“But what about my hair?” Angelina complained when Mavis was done poking and pinning. “I’ll never look like a fashion plate with this unruly mop. Can you do anything with it?”
“Gladly,” the maid replied, and set to it with a will and a scissors.
Angelina hadn’t meant Mavis should cut all her hair off, but she had to admit that the short cap of little curls made her feel younger, more carefree. Now that she wasn’t worrying over her mistress, staying by her bedside night and day and later grieving, Angelina was sleeping better and eating better. She was outside more, too, and the sun added a touch of color to her cheeks, a honeyed glow to her brown curls.
Yes, she was starting a new life, this elegant creature in the mirror, even if it was the one Angelina had been born to but had never known. Now she almost felt equal to meeting the granddaughter of a duke, her own sister.
Mavis was pleased with her afternoon’s handiwork, too. “Don’t you look a treat, Miss Lena. A real lady and no mistaking. Now that hard times is past, blood will show.”
Angelina’s blood was as blue as any in Debrett’s. Half of it, anyway. The other half of her ancestry came from the minor gentry, respectable until Reverend Armstead heard the call from his Maker, and answered by making everyone else miserable. He didn’t care about titles, fortunes, or worldly goods. Souls were all that mattered. His son Peter’s soul was lost when he ran off with the Duke of Kirkbridge’s daughter, Rosellen.
Both of their names were struck from their respective family Bibles, but Peter and Rosellen Armstead didn’t care. With his earnings as a tutor and her small inheritance from her mother’s estate, they lived comfortably enough for two people in love. After five wonderful years they died together in an influenza outbreak, leaving two orphaned tokens of their affection. Neither set of grandparents was willing to claim the little girls, Angelina and Philomena, yet the Armsteads were too full of Christian morality to throw them on the dole, and the Kirkbridges were too full of pride. So they each took one. That was the last Lena had seen of her sister.
Philomena would look like this, she thought now, staring at her reflection and half listening to Mavis’s lecture about wearing a hat and not ruining her hands by bathing the dogs herself anymore. Mena would be a real lady. Lord Knowle would never mistake her for a servant.
* * * *
Viscount Knowle was soaking his sore muscles in a bath. He’d left the dog in the stable, not knowing if Spooky was housebroken or not. The spaniel had
In sprigged muslin? Angelina thought she should dress in somber colors and sturdy, practical fabrics, but Mavis swore otherwise. The architect, the builders, and the tradesmen would sooner respect a woman of fashion and taste than one who looked like a governess. Besides, wasn’t there already a dress length or two gathering dust in the sewing room? And here was Mavis, with thirty years of experience dressing elegant ladies going to waste, and nothing to do but groom Lucky, Lucy, Lacy, and the other longhaired dogs to within an inch of their little lives.
As for mourning Lady Sophie, Mavis clucked her tongue. “Milady never cared for the trappings of mourning, don’t you know. It had nothing to do with what’s in the heart, she always used to say. And she made sure you’d have a new start at a better life, didn’t she? Why, ‘twould be disrespectful of her memory to go around looking like old potatoes in a sack.”
So Angelina permitted herself to be convinced into modality. The weather was turning lovely and her heavy black bombazines weren’t suitable for romping with the dogs anyway. Light, simple gowns were much more the thing. If the high waists and narrow skirts flattered her graceful, slender figure, that was merely a bonus.
“But what about my hair?” Angelina complained when Mavis was done poking and pinning. “I’ll never look like a fashion plate with this unruly mop. Can you do anything with it?”
“Gladly,” the maid replied, and set to it with a will and a scissors.
Angelina hadn’t meant Mavis should cut all her hair off, but she had to admit that the short cap of little curls made her feel younger, more carefree. Now that she wasn’t worrying over her mistress, staying by her bedside night and day and later grieving, Angelina was sleeping better and eating better. She was outside more, too, and the sun added a touch of color to her cheeks, a honeyed glow to her brown curls.
Yes, she was starting a new life, this elegant creature in the mirror, even if it was the one Angelina had been born to but had never known. Now she almost felt equal to meeting the granddaughter of a duke, her own sister.
Mavis was pleased with her afternoon’s handiwork, too. “Don’t you look a treat, Miss Lena. A real lady and no mistaking. Now that hard times is past, blood will show.”
Angelina’s blood was as blue as any in Debrett’s. Half of it, anyway. The other half of her ancestry came from the minor gentry, respectable until Reverend Armstead heard the call from his Maker, and answered by making everyone else miserable. He didn’t care about titles, fortunes, or worldly goods. Souls were all that mattered. His son Peter’s soul was lost when he ran off with the Duke of Kirkbridge’s daughter, Rosellen.
Both of their names were struck from their respective family Bibles, but Peter and Rosellen Armstead didn’t care. With his earnings as a tutor and her small inheritance from her mother’s estate, they lived comfortably enough for two people in love. After five wonderful years they died together in an influenza outbreak, leaving two orphaned tokens of their affection. Neither set of grandparents was willing to claim the little girls, Angelina and Philomena, yet the Armsteads were too full of Christian morality to throw them on the dole, and the Kirkbridges were too full of pride. So they each took one. That was the last Lena had seen of her sister.
Philomena would look like this, she thought now, staring at her reflection and half listening to Mavis’s lecture about wearing a hat and not ruining her hands by bathing the dogs herself anymore. Mena would be a real lady. Lord Knowle would never mistake her for a servant.
* * * *
Viscount Knowle was soaking his sore muscles in a bath. He’d left the dog in the stable, not knowing if Spooky was housebroken or not. The spaniel had
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