After Clare Read Free Page B

Val was sure, for he and Sir Patrick had never met, although he had sometimes received gifts at birthdays and the like which he suspected had not come from him – or not without prompting.
    Now, remembering this generosity, he felt ashamed of using the absurd nickname he and Poppy had once thought so amusing – why, he could not now recall.
    â€˜Paddy Fitzallan did promise to look out for you, remember, even though he seemed to find it convenient to forget more often than not,’ Poppy reminded him, ‘so you see why I think we might even have to consider hiring a suit for you, dear brother, so that you can be at the wedding. Just a jog to the memory.’
    â€˜You are the giddy limit sometimes, Sis.’
    â€˜Well, since he died without seeing fit to leave you anything – or scarcely anything . . .’
    â€˜Maybe he hadn’t anything more to leave?’
    â€˜But she has, hasn’t she?’
    His expression as he stared at her turned to pity. It hurt Poppy more than it hurt him to be poor. What, in the ultimate, did it matter, as long as you ate and had somewhere to sleep? But sometimes he thought Poppy would do anything to be free of the worry about money. He said softly, ‘Don’t be like this, Pops. It’s twisting the way you are, as if you didn’t care any more, though I know you do.’ He paused. ‘You’ll have to get over him some time, you know, but this isn’t the way.’
    â€˜I don’t know what you mean,’ said Poppy.
    Rosie stood in the middle of Dee’s bedroom for her last fitting, feeling a fool in pale primrose crêpe-de-Chine. Yellow – it
was
yellow, whatever Dee liked to call it – was positively the
last
colour she would have chosen for herself, though she felt there was probably nothing else that would suit her either, not with this gingerish hair and pale skin. She was certain it would make her look washed-out, or jaundiced, and cruelly emphasize the band of freckles across her nose.
    â€˜Do pull your shoulders back, for goodness’ sake, Rosie,’ her sister said impatiently. ‘It doesn’t make you look one inch shorter to hunch up like that.’
    Rosie tried to do as she was bid. It was Dee’s wedding, after all, and she knew that it was useless to try and make herself look inconspicuous, since that was something she would never achieve, however hard she tried. Having been told decisively that no, she could not wear flat shoes, she was going to tower even more over them all, especially over Dee, who took after their mother, and not after their father’s side of the family, the tall Markhams. But yellow! It was all right for the other five bridesmaids, most of whom came in varying shades of brunette, and it was, of course, all part of the colour scheme, everything designed to complement the bride’s flaxen hair and Dresden-china complexion. Not that
Dee
would be wearing primrose – ivory slipper satin for her, orange blossom circling her brow and holding down Great-grandmother’s cherished Valenciennes lace veil, a single string of pearls round her neck, her bouquet a sheaf of pale roses and lilies, dripping with maidenhair fern and, tucked in for luck, a sprig or two of Scottish white heather. The white heather would also feature in the flower arrangements around the church, as a gesture to all the Erskines who would have made the long journey down from Scotland. There was going to be a lot of tartan, too, at this wedding. Rosie suppressed a giggle at the thought of Hamish with bare knees and a kilt.
    For the bridesmaids, there were to be posies of cream moss rosebuds, a fillet of gold leaves across their brows, buckled black satin shoes and the black and gold enamelled pendants the bridegroom was going to give all of them, and of course the wretched primrose dresses.
    â€˜Ouch!’ Rosie winced as a pin stuck into the fleshy part of her hip.
    â€˜Sorry, Miss Rosie,