Angel in Scarlet Read Free Page B

expected ’em to be … well, kind of unique and rare, like those porcelain figurines they made in Sèvres, elegant and exquisite and beautiful to behold. Clinton Meredith was beautiful to behold, sure, I granted that, but he wasn’t one bit better than Bertie Anderson who’d laid every lass he could, got three of ’em pregnant and finally had to run away to sea to keep from bein’ beaten up by Mary York’s four brothers. Laura might wear sumptuous blue velvet and paint her face cleverly, might speak in a flat, tony voice, but those were the only things that set her apart from Masie Brown who took on four boys at a time in the haystack behind her father’s barn. As I thought about all this, I realized I’d learned an important lesson, one I’d remember always. Never, ever would I be intimidated by anyone just because they happened to be better born than me. I wouldn’t even be intimidated by the King himself, and Lord knew he was a randy buck, if half the things they said about him were true.
    Clinging to the limb with my knees, stretched out flat, my cheek resting on the rough bark, I watched sunlight dapple the trembling green leaves and thought about all this business of humping and roiling about on mattresses and in stacks of hay. I knew what they did , of course, had since I was nine—the man got hard and stuck his thing between the woman’s legs and they wiggled around and thrashed their limbs—but what I didn’t understand was why . Seemed kind of clumsy to me, seemed kind of silly as well. Eppie claimed it was supposed to be fun, but what did she know? Me, I’d rather be curled up in a big leather chair with a book in my hands and the cat in my lap, a dish of lemon drops nearby.
    Not that I ever had much chance to do that , I added to myself, not with all the chores Marie was always finding for me to do.
    Better be on your way back, Angie, I told myself, and I began scooting backward, the bark scraping my knees a little. The limb wobbled, seemed to sway, and the leaves rattled. I lost my balance, swung around, and then I was hanging from the limb with my knees and my hands and the limb swayed wildly and I heard loud padding noises and then snarls and then savage barking, directly beneath me. I looked down and saw three ferocious greyhounds leaping up high and snapping, trying their best to sink their fangs into my backside which was just barely out of reach. Jemminy! I clung to the limb and felt my face turning white and knew I was a goner for sure unless I could swing back up onto the limb. The greyhounds leaped higher and higher, yowling fiercely, and one of ’em got his fangs into my faded pink cotton skirt that was dangling down and I felt it tearing and then a big patch of it was gone and the dog had it on the ground, shaking it in his jaws like it was a dead rabbit. The other two tried to take it away from him and they all began to fight.
    Holding my breath, closing my eyes, summoning every ounce of strength I had, I swung my body up until I was stretched out flat on the limb again, looking down at the beasts, and then I seemed to freeze. I couldn’t move. I could only stare in horror at the yowling, scrambling, snapping animals tearing that scrap of pink cotton into shreds. I had to get out of the tree, get onto the wall, get down to the ground on the other side, but my body was locked into place and I could scarcely breathe, much less scoot back along the limb. The dogs finally abandoned the cloth and started leaping at the limb again, fangs bared, eyes gleaming fiercely, lithe, nimble bodies leaping higher, higher still.
    â€œStay!” a voice roared.
    The three greyhounds promptly sat back on their haunches and looked as innocent and harmless as lambs, wagging their stumps of tails playfully. I saw a man approaching—dirty black boots, soiled black breeches that clung to his long legs like a second skin, a coarse white cotton