Amanda Scott Read Free Page A

Carolyn said dryly, “five thousand invested in the funds is an independence, ma’am, but scarcely a fortune, certainly not to the beau monde . That fact I discovered the instant I made my come-out. I did have several eligible offers—indeed, I have been twice betrothed, have I not—but I am still unwed for the simple reason that I could not imagine myself married to any of them, and since Godmama has said she will hire herself out as a cook’s maid before she will ever again stay at Skipton London House with Matilda, my second Season was doubtless my last. Godmama promised I would meet any number of eligible young men in Bath, but of course, the town being no longer the fashionable place it once was, I seem to meet only unsuitable ones, so although I did think it would be amusing to live in Sydney’s house, he keeps flitting off hither and yon to auctions and whatnot, and it has not been amusing at all.”
    “Nevertheless,” Miss Pucklington said, “you will never be entirely dependent upon relations for your bread and board, as I am, nor so apprehensive of being left alone in the world.”
    “Well, I don’t know about that,” Carolyn said without thinking. “The funds could be wiped out, I suppose, and most women are dependent upon someone, are they not? Of course, if you mean that I shan’t ever have to toady to some rich relative out of fear of being disowned if—Oh, forgive me,” she exclaimed, stricken by the bitter look on Miss Pucklington’s face. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Puck! I spoke heedlessly. Oh, you must forgive me!”
    “You said nothing that is not true, so there is nothing to forgive,” Miss Pucklington said, setting aside the book and picking up her knitting. “I shall just finish my shawl before I begin to read. You must pardon me if I do not speak any more just now. If I do so, I shall lose count of my stitches.”
    Carolyn knew that Miss Pucklington could knit blindfolded. She knew, too, that she had killed, for the moment at least, any desire in the older woman to read a romantic tale. Consequently, and not for the first time, she found herself wishing she had bitten her tongue before speaking her thoughts aloud.
    She picked up her book, but it was some time before she was able to concentrate again on Miss Laura’s adventures, because the steady clicking of knitting needles sounded a constant rebuke in her ears. At last, however, the fire’s crackling warmth and the rhythmic soughing of the wind through the trees outside the window relaxed her and she was drawn again into the tale.
    When the library door flew back on its hinges and the dowager Lady Skipton, her stout figure swathed in dark blue silk edged with yards of ecru lace, sailed into the room with a fat liver-and-white spaniel huffing and puffing in her wake, Carolyn and Miss Pucklington both jumped. “So here you are, the pair of you,” the dowager announced, raising her gold-rimmed lorgnette to her pale gray eyes and glaring at them through it.
    With rare presence of mind, Miss Pucklington slipped the blue volume from her lap into the knitting bag and dropped her knitting atop it as she scrambled to her feet. “Cousin Olympia, I thought you were resting. Why did you not send for me?”
    Plumping her bulk down in the second wing chair with such force that Carolyn feared for its slender, delicately arched legs, Lady Skipton straightened her lace cap and said, “I should not have to send for you, Judith. Pray, hand me that red-velvet cushion. Heaven knows,” she added as Miss Pucklington hurried to place the cushion at her back, “I do not expect much in return for my generosity, but I do think you might have the goodness to remember when it is time for dear Hercules to have his little walk.”
    “Oh, dear,” Miss Pucklington said, “how very remiss of me, to be sure. I had no idea the hour was so far advanced. I’ll take him at once, shall I?”
    “You’ll have to fetch his lead, for I forgot to