Beggar’s Choice Read Free Page A

or as likely as not she’ll bring some one back with her—and though I hope I’m not inhospitable, one does have to consider one’s servants a little , and I must say that I think Eliza has grounds for complaint—though of course your Aunt Willy thinks I spoil her—but, as I always say, I’d rather have one spoilt cook and keep her than have thirteen cooks in a year like your Aunt Willy.”
    Mrs. Lester took a small lace-edged handkerchief out of a large gray silk bag and rubbed the tip of her nose with it until it was quite pink. Then she put the handkerchief back and shut the bag with a snap.
    Aunt Carrie always reminded Isobel of a white rabbit—her pretty white hair; her tendency to get pink about the eyes and nose; her air of timid antagonism. As she went upstairs with Isobel, she looked like a rabbit at bay over its last lettuce leaf.
    Just as they reached the top, the hall door burst open and Miss Willy Tarrant burst in. There was more to it than that, because actually a latchkey was introduced and withdrawn; but the effect was the effect invariably produced by Miss Willy’s arrival. She burst in accompanied by several other people, and her voice, deep, full, and resonant, instantly filled the small house.
    â€œParker—I’m in. Where’s Mrs. Lester? Oh, and Parker—three more to lunch—perhaps you’d better tell Eliza.” She surged towards the stairs. “Come along, Janet. Carrie! Car rie! Here we are. I’ve brought Janet to lunch. And I don’t believe you know the Markhams—two of the very best. Bobby, this is my sister, though you wouldn’t think it—and this is my niece, Isobel, who lives with me. Cis, where have you got to?”
    Mrs. Lester remembered that she was a lady. She trembled with passion, but she shook hands with Janet Wimpole, who was a connection, with the fat bald-headed man who, most unsuitably, was Bobby, and with the thin dowdy girl, who appeared to be Cis.
    Miss Willy filled the drawing-room with her deep voice, her presence, and her overpowering self-possession. She was tall and stout, but she seemed to be taller and stouter than she really was. She was tightly molded into a bright black satin garment relieved with pink. Her face was red and sunburned above the pale pink of a tulle scarf. Her black hair crisped and waved like a wig and was only lightly touched with gray. She had removed a pink felt hat as she came in, and it lay, where she had tossed it, on a table devoted to framed photographs of Mrs. Lester’s grandchildren and a bowl of potpourri .
    The gong sounded, and they went down to the dining-room. Each guest received about a tablespoonful of soup, after which Parker set down in front of her mistress a Sheffield entrée dish containing the six small cutlets which had been intended for the three ladies. “And not another bite, nor drop, nor bit, nor sup goes out of this kitchen,” Eliza had declared as she dished them up.
    Miss Willy burst out laughing.
    â€œI told you it would be pot luck—you can’t say I didn’t! But there’s a ham. Parker, where’s the ham? Bring up the ham, and we shan’t starve.”
    Parker looked at her mistress.
    â€œThe ham will do nicely,” said Mrs. Lester in a small pinched voice.
    Parker coughed and drew nearer.
    â€œIf you please, ma’am, Eliza didn’t think the ham was fit to send up.”
    Mrs. Lester blenched visibly. She had lived for fifteen years with Eliza, and she recognized an ultimatum.
    Miss Willy sprang to her feet.
    â€œOh, nonsense—nonsense! I’ll go and see Eliza myself. It was a very good ham, and plenty of it. Help the cutlets, Carrie—I shan’t be a moment—you and I and Isobel will have ham. You needn’t come, Parker—I’ll just go and speak to Eliza.”
    Janet Wimpole wanted to laugh. She was a fair, lovable creature, a childless widow of thirty-five,