Read Online With Love From Ma Maguire by Ruth Hamilton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ruth Hamilton
Ads: Link
to adorn his home and walk by his side.
‘That smile makes you look ridiculous,’ murmured his well-bred wife. ‘Do as you wish, I shall not fight you. There is nothing to fight about.’ She left the room, closing the door firmly in her wake.
Richard paced the floor, the ulcer on his shin stinging even more now that his temper was up. Aye, she’d never slam a door, would she? Whereas Philly Maguire would have had foundations shaking by this time. But he knew Beatrice well enough by now, recognized that she’d make him suffer one way or another. Devious, she was. Like a bad nut covered in sugar, the thin coating cracking here and there to let a bitter kernel show through. Whether or no he’d been the cause of her nastiness – well, he neither knew nor cared. But one thing was sure. He would reap the dubious benefits of today’s brief episode of honesty. No matter how well a man kept his wife down, there was one area where she reigned supreme come what may. From this day, his life at home promised to improve not one jot.
She told herself that she was cleaning up for pride’s sake. After all, he likely lived in a mansion full of statues and rugs from heathen parts, forty rooms of stately living and good taste. She took jars of goose-grease and bottles of olive and camphorated oils from the oven where they always sat warming except when baking was in progress, then flicked a final duster over her gleaming black-leading. No, she wouldn’t take him into the parlour, because the small cast iron grate in there had never seen coal and she wasn’t going to spoil those blue and white side-tiles just for him. All the same, he’d have been surprised, no doubt, to be shown all that grandeur in a mill-girl’s house. In front of the parlour fireplace sat a beautiful tapestry screen with a stag woven into its centre. Then there was the piano with its twin candelabra all polished and bright, her aspidistra plants – firstly, the splendid monster in the centre of the table, then its two younger brothers in copper tubs on the hearth. Yes, it was a pity he’d never see her green velvet door curtain with matching mantel cover and tablecloth, all with hand-applied gold fringes. And the good mahogany chairs tucked up to the table, the shiny horsehair sofa along the wall.
She checked herself, tut-tutting aloud while she straightened the handmade rug in front of a roaring fire. Why on earth should she want to impress him at all? Was it that she needed to impress him, or did she simply seek to avoid his contempt – or his pity? She whipped off the starched linen cloth and smiled down at her kitchen table. Most women had a white scrubbed item to work on, but she was blessed with two good tables – or cursed when she considered where Seamus might have acquired them. This unusual piece was octagonal and inlaid with many woods, the pattern radiating from a rich red central block that formed the top of the pedestal. To work on it at all, she had to cover it with many layers of blanket and sheeting, so precious was its magnificent surface.
Everything was in its place. On the large dresser stood the Sacred Heart and the Virgin, each on a wooden plinth and encased under a polished glass dust-dome. Her few concessions to frivolity, including a boy with cherries and a porcelain crinolined lady, also sat on the burnished dresser, their reflected backs showing in the attached mirror. Before the fire stood two easy chairs, one upholstered in carpet, the other in leather. The flagged floor was covered by oilcloth, well-scrubbed and with the flag joints showing through like a pattern of large squares. A single rug, carefully pegged on winter evenings out of clipped-up clothes, was as clean as it could be, having had the life beaten out of it on the back yard line. Two brass candlesticks and a crucifix stood on the mantelpiece, always on display in a Catholic home in case Extreme Unction or a Mass for the sick should ever be required on the
‘That smile makes you look ridiculous,’ murmured his well-bred wife. ‘Do as you wish, I shall not fight you. There is nothing to fight about.’ She left the room, closing the door firmly in her wake.
Richard paced the floor, the ulcer on his shin stinging even more now that his temper was up. Aye, she’d never slam a door, would she? Whereas Philly Maguire would have had foundations shaking by this time. But he knew Beatrice well enough by now, recognized that she’d make him suffer one way or another. Devious, she was. Like a bad nut covered in sugar, the thin coating cracking here and there to let a bitter kernel show through. Whether or no he’d been the cause of her nastiness – well, he neither knew nor cared. But one thing was sure. He would reap the dubious benefits of today’s brief episode of honesty. No matter how well a man kept his wife down, there was one area where she reigned supreme come what may. From this day, his life at home promised to improve not one jot.
She told herself that she was cleaning up for pride’s sake. After all, he likely lived in a mansion full of statues and rugs from heathen parts, forty rooms of stately living and good taste. She took jars of goose-grease and bottles of olive and camphorated oils from the oven where they always sat warming except when baking was in progress, then flicked a final duster over her gleaming black-leading. No, she wouldn’t take him into the parlour, because the small cast iron grate in there had never seen coal and she wasn’t going to spoil those blue and white side-tiles just for him. All the same, he’d have been surprised, no doubt, to be shown all that grandeur in a mill-girl’s house. In front of the parlour fireplace sat a beautiful tapestry screen with a stag woven into its centre. Then there was the piano with its twin candelabra all polished and bright, her aspidistra plants – firstly, the splendid monster in the centre of the table, then its two younger brothers in copper tubs on the hearth. Yes, it was a pity he’d never see her green velvet door curtain with matching mantel cover and tablecloth, all with hand-applied gold fringes. And the good mahogany chairs tucked up to the table, the shiny horsehair sofa along the wall.
She checked herself, tut-tutting aloud while she straightened the handmade rug in front of a roaring fire. Why on earth should she want to impress him at all? Was it that she needed to impress him, or did she simply seek to avoid his contempt – or his pity? She whipped off the starched linen cloth and smiled down at her kitchen table. Most women had a white scrubbed item to work on, but she was blessed with two good tables – or cursed when she considered where Seamus might have acquired them. This unusual piece was octagonal and inlaid with many woods, the pattern radiating from a rich red central block that formed the top of the pedestal. To work on it at all, she had to cover it with many layers of blanket and sheeting, so precious was its magnificent surface.
Everything was in its place. On the large dresser stood the Sacred Heart and the Virgin, each on a wooden plinth and encased under a polished glass dust-dome. Her few concessions to frivolity, including a boy with cherries and a porcelain crinolined lady, also sat on the burnished dresser, their reflected backs showing in the attached mirror. Before the fire stood two easy chairs, one upholstered in carpet, the other in leather. The flagged floor was covered by oilcloth, well-scrubbed and with the flag joints showing through like a pattern of large squares. A single rug, carefully pegged on winter evenings out of clipped-up clothes, was as clean as it could be, having had the life beaten out of it on the back yard line. Two brass candlesticks and a crucifix stood on the mantelpiece, always on display in a Catholic home in case Extreme Unction or a Mass for the sick should ever be required on the
Similar Books
