to be.
But he didn’t have her.
Somehow she would find a way to curtail his crew’s early-morning
noisemaking. She need only wait until inspiration struck and then she would
have her solution.
But now, almost two weeks later, a satisfactory resolution had
still not presented itself, nor had she found any easy means of relieving the
tedious monotony of her days.
A bird landed on a tree branch just outside the upstairs drawing
room window. She watched him preen his wings for a long moment before he dashed
off in a streak of white and brown.
Lord,
Jeannette thought,
shoot me now. I am so sick
of the idles.
Wilda sat nearby, a crochet hook and yarn flying through her
nimble fingers. Sighing, Jeannette focused once more on the stitchery in her
own hands.
Not long after, the daily racket outside abruptly ceased,
signaling the end of another workday. Jeannette’s spirits perked up. Once the
men left for the afternoon, it was her habit to go outside for a stroll,
certain she could walk the grounds unmolested by a certain impertinent Irishman
and his discourteous hound.
She forced herself to sew for another twenty minutes, then hastily
thrust her embroidery into a basket and rose to her feet. “I’m going for a walk
before supper, cousin. Would you care to join me?”
Wilda’s fingers paused, gentle eyes glancing upward. “Thank you,
dear, but no. You go ahead and enjoy your exercise.”
Jeannette nodded, walked rapidly from the room.
A few minutes later, she made her way downstairs, an adorable
Oatland Village hat with its double curved brim perched jauntily on her head.
Almond-hued ribbons streamed downward from where they were tied beneath her
chin, the shade a perfect foil for her willow green muslin day dress. On her
feet, she wore calfskin slippers, as supple and green as new spring leaves.
Gravel crunched beneath those shoes as she exited the house and
set out along one of the paths that led deep into the gardens beyond. A delicate
breeze stirred her skirts, the afternoon sun fine and full. Clouds drifted
overhead in striated puffs, their underbellies shadowed by the faintest hint of
gray, signaling the possibility of rain as late afternoon turned to evening.
But she didn’t mind risking a little wet, relieved to be out of
the oppressive confinement of the house. She wasn’t used to such unrelenting
solitude. Hour upon hour with nothing to do but sew and pen letters and share
increasingly tiresome rounds of small talk with Wilda.
Her cousin meant well, but mercy, the woman could rattle on about
nothing for hours at a time. This afternoon the discussion had focused on the
best methods for storing linens, with a thirty-minute oration on the
preparation of Wilda’s favorite decoction for combating moths.
Gads, why couldn’t there be some sort of nearby entertainment?
Even a simple country dance would be a welcome relief.
Her footsteps slowed, stopped altogether before a large massing of
pink foxglove, a few round black and yellow bees lumbering in and out of the
cup-shaped flowers on their quest to collect pollen. Jeannette barely noticed
the insects or the flowers, too preoccupied with her imaginings.
She could see the assembly room now, the space ablaze with
candlelight and frivolity, laughter floating on the air amidst the mingled
fragrance of a dozen different perfumes.
She, of course, looked stunning. Attired in a bravura confection
of shot ivory silk with an overskirt of the palest celestial blue, a smattering
of forget-me-knots threaded into her silky upswept hair. All the other ladies
would watch her, awestruck in their envy, while the men stared, their gazes
full of admiration for her exquisite feminine beauty and grace.
The handsomest young gentleman in the room would approach, bow low
over her gloved hand, then beg for a dance. She would laugh and flirt, tease
him for a breathless moment as if her agreement was uncertain. Then she would,
of course, accept, the two of them taking to the floor
But he didn’t have her.
Somehow she would find a way to curtail his crew’s early-morning
noisemaking. She need only wait until inspiration struck and then she would
have her solution.
But now, almost two weeks later, a satisfactory resolution had
still not presented itself, nor had she found any easy means of relieving the
tedious monotony of her days.
A bird landed on a tree branch just outside the upstairs drawing
room window. She watched him preen his wings for a long moment before he dashed
off in a streak of white and brown.
Lord,
Jeannette thought,
shoot me now. I am so sick
of the idles.
Wilda sat nearby, a crochet hook and yarn flying through her
nimble fingers. Sighing, Jeannette focused once more on the stitchery in her
own hands.
Not long after, the daily racket outside abruptly ceased,
signaling the end of another workday. Jeannette’s spirits perked up. Once the
men left for the afternoon, it was her habit to go outside for a stroll,
certain she could walk the grounds unmolested by a certain impertinent Irishman
and his discourteous hound.
She forced herself to sew for another twenty minutes, then hastily
thrust her embroidery into a basket and rose to her feet. “I’m going for a walk
before supper, cousin. Would you care to join me?”
Wilda’s fingers paused, gentle eyes glancing upward. “Thank you,
dear, but no. You go ahead and enjoy your exercise.”
Jeannette nodded, walked rapidly from the room.
A few minutes later, she made her way downstairs, an adorable
Oatland Village hat with its double curved brim perched jauntily on her head.
Almond-hued ribbons streamed downward from where they were tied beneath her
chin, the shade a perfect foil for her willow green muslin day dress. On her
feet, she wore calfskin slippers, as supple and green as new spring leaves.
Gravel crunched beneath those shoes as she exited the house and
set out along one of the paths that led deep into the gardens beyond. A delicate
breeze stirred her skirts, the afternoon sun fine and full. Clouds drifted
overhead in striated puffs, their underbellies shadowed by the faintest hint of
gray, signaling the possibility of rain as late afternoon turned to evening.
But she didn’t mind risking a little wet, relieved to be out of
the oppressive confinement of the house. She wasn’t used to such unrelenting
solitude. Hour upon hour with nothing to do but sew and pen letters and share
increasingly tiresome rounds of small talk with Wilda.
Her cousin meant well, but mercy, the woman could rattle on about
nothing for hours at a time. This afternoon the discussion had focused on the
best methods for storing linens, with a thirty-minute oration on the
preparation of Wilda’s favorite decoction for combating moths.
Gads, why couldn’t there be some sort of nearby entertainment?
Even a simple country dance would be a welcome relief.
Her footsteps slowed, stopped altogether before a large massing of
pink foxglove, a few round black and yellow bees lumbering in and out of the
cup-shaped flowers on their quest to collect pollen. Jeannette barely noticed
the insects or the flowers, too preoccupied with her imaginings.
She could see the assembly room now, the space ablaze with
candlelight and frivolity, laughter floating on the air amidst the mingled
fragrance of a dozen different perfumes.
She, of course, looked stunning. Attired in a bravura confection
of shot ivory silk with an overskirt of the palest celestial blue, a smattering
of forget-me-knots threaded into her silky upswept hair. All the other ladies
would watch her, awestruck in their envy, while the men stared, their gazes
full of admiration for her exquisite feminine beauty and grace.
The handsomest young gentleman in the room would approach, bow low
over her gloved hand, then beg for a dance. She would laugh and flirt, tease
him for a breathless moment as if her agreement was uncertain. Then she would,
of course, accept, the two of them taking to the floor
Similar Books
