Elizabeth Mansfield Read Free Page B

about her, even her appearance and the way she dressed. To Kate, it made her mama appear more grandmotherly than motherly. An enormous lace cap covered her hair, which—if she'd permitted anyone to see—had not a strand of gray. Her gown was a plain blue round-gown, which was bad enough, but what made it worse was the apron that covered it. It was a special apron Mama had designed herself. Its bodice was partitioned with a row of small pockets, each one bearing one skein of colored embroidery thread. A placket over her left breast was punctuated with needles of various sizes. Special magnifying glasses were perched on her nose. Was there any wonder that she appeared to be decades older than her years?
    The needlework itself would be considered quite artistic, Kate supposed, by those who cared for such things, but to Kate it hardly seemed worth the enormous effort. The work required not only huge amounts of time but very complicated paraphernalia. There were not only skeins of thread to be untangled, needles constantly to be threaded, and the fabric stretched over an elongated rectangular frame, but Mama had concocted a four-legged, wheeled cart on which to carry her work. She made a ludicrous appearance pulling the clumsy thing behind her wherever she went!
    What Kate didn't understand was what induced her mother to do all this. The entire household was already overstocked with her needlework. How much more did they need? Every upholstered chair had an embroidered doily on its back. Every room had at least three framed examples of her art. Every bed in all seven bedrooms sported a number of embroidered pillows. When would she decide that she'd created a sufficiency?
    Kate sighed. "Must you keep sewing, Mama, when I'm trying to get a thoughtful answer from you?"
    "I gave you a thoughtful answer. I said there's nothing wrong with your character."
    "That was not a thoughtful answer. That was a mother's answer."
    "But I am your mother. How else can I answer?"
    "You can try to be a bit objective, can't you?"
    "It's hard to be objective about one's own flesh and blood." Between stitches, Lady Isabel threw her daughter a quizzical look. "What made you ask such a strange question, my love?"
    "The matter came up today," Kate replied glumly. “Twice!"
    "A matter regarding your character?"
    "Yes, and the assessments were not at all in agreement with yours."
    The needle stopped again. "Are you saying that someone found fault with you?"
    “Two someones. In one morning."
    "Who on earth could possibly find fault with your character?" her mother asked in perfect sincerity.
    “Two gentlemen, Mama, neither of whom was obliged to look on me in a motherly way."
    "And what fault did they find, I'd like to know!" the mother declared in offense.
    Kate lifted her legs up on the hearth and wrapped her arms about them. "One said I was arrogant—"
    "Did he, indeed! Who was the bounder?"
    "Lord Ainsworth."
    "Hmmmph!" Her ladyship's brows rose in offense. "What cheek! He's a fine one to talk about character! I understand from the on-dits in town that the fellow is a rake."
    "A rake? Really?" Kate was surprised. "He didn't seem—"
    "Why not?" Lady Isabel asked curiously. "Wasn't he handsome and dashing?''
    Kate shut her eyes, trying to picture him again. "Somewhat handsome I suppose," she said, remembering her first reaction to him, "but not particularly dashing. He's losing his hair."
    "Nevertheless, young ladies evidently fall at his feet. They say that Beatrice Hibbert threw over an earl in hope of Ainsworth, and all for naught. And I've heard that Miss Landers, Lady Elinor's second daughter, went into a decline when he didn't come up to scratch."
    Kate shook her head. "But that's beside the point, Mama. Whatever his character, he certainly maligned mine. And, not three hours later, Percy did, too!"
    "Percy? Percy Greenway, who's adored you since infancy? He called you arrogant?"
    "Worse than that. He said that I was impossible to like!"
    Her