Read Online The Secret History of the Pink Carnation by Lauren Willig - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Willig
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as quickly as possible.
‘Well, that’s that, then!’ Amy proclaimed cheerfully, making for the porthole to peer out. ‘There’s no point in arguing about it anymore, is there? Two hours and we’ll be in France! Do come look, Jane – don’t they look like dolls on the wharf?’
Miss Gwen stayed where she was, standing ramrod straight smack in the centre of the room. Richard sank back down into the chair he had been occupying when the ladies had barrelled into the room. ‘I don’t like this any better than you do,’ he said softly. ‘But I shall endeavour to stay out of your path if you will keep your charges out of mine.’
Miss Gwen afforded him a grudging nod. ‘We must hope it doesn’t rain,’ she said tartly, and stalked off to join her young ladies at the window.
Precisely three-quarters of an hour later, the first drops hit the porthole. Richard was alerted to it by Amy’s loud cry of distress.
‘It can’t be raining, it can’t be raining, it just can’t be raining,’ she muttered, like an incantation.
‘Yes, it can,’ said Richard.
Amy’s expression indicated that she was not amused. She cast him a look of great disdain that was somewhat diminished by the fact that the boat swayed suddenly and she had to stagger to catch her balance. ‘I can see that, can’t I?’ She returned to her mournful vigil by the window, but couldn’t resist turning around to ask anxiously, ‘How much longer do you think the trip will take?’
‘My dear girl, I already told you, anywhere from—’
‘I know, I know, anywhere from two hours to three days.’ She looked as frustrated as his mother’s cat when someone dangled a cloth mouse in front of her and then drew it away.
‘It depends on how bad the storm is.’
‘How bad do you –?’ A low growl of thunder cut off her words. ‘Never mind,’ she finished, just as Richard answered her unfinished question, ‘That bad.’
Despite herself, Amy laughed. The sound rang an unexpected note of gaiety in the rain-dimmed chamber. The portholes were too small to let in much light under any circumstances, and with the sun overcast with clouds, only the eerie grey glow of a stormy sky crept into the room. The gloom created a Sleeping Beauty effect. Jane had succumbed to sleep on a berth across the room, her embroidery still in her hand, her feet discreetly tucked up under the hem of her gown. Defying the usual laws of nature, Miss Gwen had managed to fall asleep upright in a rickety wooden chair. Even the combined forces of sleep and the rocking motion of the boat failed to relax Miss Gwen’s iron spine; she sat as bolt upright asleep as she had awake.
The only other person awake was Lord Richard Selwick.
Amy stifled the ignoble impulse to shake Jane awake. She needed to speak to someone about something, anything, just to dull the anticipatory jitters that were making her palms tingle. If she didn’t do something to distract herself soon, she would probably start running madly about the room or jumping up and down or twirling wildly in circles, just to spin off some of her excess energy. Even one of Uncle Bertrand’s lectures on cross-breeding sheep would be welcome.
Across the room, Lord Richard was sitting in a stiff wooden chair too small for his large frame, an ankle propped against the opposite knee, utterly engrossed in what looked to be some sort of journal. Amy stared shamelessly across the room, but she couldn’t make out the title. Whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly be worse than Uncle Bertrand’s husbandry manuals. Unless…she had heard of one journal devoted entirely to the planting of small root vegetables. But Lord Richard really didn’t look the sort to have a turnip obsession and Amy could feel the pins and needles of nervous energy darting from her hands all the way down to her feet, pushing her forward.
Her yellow skirts made a bright splotch of colour in the rapidly darkening cabin as she crossed the
‘Well, that’s that, then!’ Amy proclaimed cheerfully, making for the porthole to peer out. ‘There’s no point in arguing about it anymore, is there? Two hours and we’ll be in France! Do come look, Jane – don’t they look like dolls on the wharf?’
Miss Gwen stayed where she was, standing ramrod straight smack in the centre of the room. Richard sank back down into the chair he had been occupying when the ladies had barrelled into the room. ‘I don’t like this any better than you do,’ he said softly. ‘But I shall endeavour to stay out of your path if you will keep your charges out of mine.’
Miss Gwen afforded him a grudging nod. ‘We must hope it doesn’t rain,’ she said tartly, and stalked off to join her young ladies at the window.
Precisely three-quarters of an hour later, the first drops hit the porthole. Richard was alerted to it by Amy’s loud cry of distress.
‘It can’t be raining, it can’t be raining, it just can’t be raining,’ she muttered, like an incantation.
‘Yes, it can,’ said Richard.
Amy’s expression indicated that she was not amused. She cast him a look of great disdain that was somewhat diminished by the fact that the boat swayed suddenly and she had to stagger to catch her balance. ‘I can see that, can’t I?’ She returned to her mournful vigil by the window, but couldn’t resist turning around to ask anxiously, ‘How much longer do you think the trip will take?’
‘My dear girl, I already told you, anywhere from—’
‘I know, I know, anywhere from two hours to three days.’ She looked as frustrated as his mother’s cat when someone dangled a cloth mouse in front of her and then drew it away.
‘It depends on how bad the storm is.’
‘How bad do you –?’ A low growl of thunder cut off her words. ‘Never mind,’ she finished, just as Richard answered her unfinished question, ‘That bad.’
Despite herself, Amy laughed. The sound rang an unexpected note of gaiety in the rain-dimmed chamber. The portholes were too small to let in much light under any circumstances, and with the sun overcast with clouds, only the eerie grey glow of a stormy sky crept into the room. The gloom created a Sleeping Beauty effect. Jane had succumbed to sleep on a berth across the room, her embroidery still in her hand, her feet discreetly tucked up under the hem of her gown. Defying the usual laws of nature, Miss Gwen had managed to fall asleep upright in a rickety wooden chair. Even the combined forces of sleep and the rocking motion of the boat failed to relax Miss Gwen’s iron spine; she sat as bolt upright asleep as she had awake.
The only other person awake was Lord Richard Selwick.
Amy stifled the ignoble impulse to shake Jane awake. She needed to speak to someone about something, anything, just to dull the anticipatory jitters that were making her palms tingle. If she didn’t do something to distract herself soon, she would probably start running madly about the room or jumping up and down or twirling wildly in circles, just to spin off some of her excess energy. Even one of Uncle Bertrand’s lectures on cross-breeding sheep would be welcome.
Across the room, Lord Richard was sitting in a stiff wooden chair too small for his large frame, an ankle propped against the opposite knee, utterly engrossed in what looked to be some sort of journal. Amy stared shamelessly across the room, but she couldn’t make out the title. Whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly be worse than Uncle Bertrand’s husbandry manuals. Unless…she had heard of one journal devoted entirely to the planting of small root vegetables. But Lord Richard really didn’t look the sort to have a turnip obsession and Amy could feel the pins and needles of nervous energy darting from her hands all the way down to her feet, pushing her forward.
Her yellow skirts made a bright splotch of colour in the rapidly darkening cabin as she crossed the
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