Joan Smith Read Free

just daydreaming, except London had such an aura of glamour that it seemed within the realm of possibility that something interesting might occur.
    “I can live without balls for a year. I never expected I would end up a tutor, though, when Norman moved us to London. Still, it passes the time and gives us some spare change. Perhaps this letter says something about money,” she said hopefully, drawing a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and straightening it out on her knee to frown at it in perplexity. “It says money—or is it mare, or possibly mirey, only he has forgotten to dot the i. Yes, that’s it; the roads around Brighton are mirey. What a catastrophe! He is off to Brighton for the selling races. He’ll be putting up at the Princes. No, no, he doesn’t mean the Prince’s Pavilion, Auntie! It’s the name of an hotel there—a cheap hotel.”
    “There should be plenty of money at least,” Mrs. Harrington said. “He got over a thousand guineas for letting Walbeck Park for the year. I daresay he has spent it all on a horse by now. There’ll be stabling fees and trainer’s fees and entrance fees for the races. He’ll never recover a penny of it either. To be thinking he can win the Triple Crown with some bowlegged filly no one ever heard of is the height of nonsense. I can’t for the life of me imagine why you encouraged your brother in this folly, Trudie.”
    Trudie lifted her eyes from the crumpled letter and stared out the window. Nothing was visible beyond, for darkness had fallen. Glancing at her, her aunt thought the girl was miles away. Her dark eyes were glazed, her full lips turned up at the edges. Her auburn hair, lit from behind by the lamp, glowed like fire. Just as her aunt despaired of having a reply, Trudie returned to attention.
    “Oh, I don’t know,” she said pensively. “I think everyone deserves one folly in his life, don’t you?”
    “I never had one,” Mrs. Harrington answered promptly. “And neither have you.”
    “Norman is young—too young to get married, as he would have done had he stayed at Walbeck. Since he came down from university, Georgiana Halley has regarded him with a very proprietary eye. She’s hastening him into it. He’s not ready. Let him take one year out of his life to live his folly. What is he losing? The rent from Walbeck will cover all the expenses, and at the year’s end, he’ll go back home and become a good squire. Squire Barten. And only think if he should win, Auntie! Imagine the glory of winning the Triple Crown, and then the Golden Bowl at Ascot. He means to sweep the board clean. The time to try such things is while you’re young, with no heavy obligations. The Alexanders will take excellent care of Walbeck for us. I don’t mind living in rooms for one year. It’s rather fun,” she added bravely.
    Mrs. Harrington’s stern eye roved the modest dining room, through the open door to the equally modest saloon, and back to her niece. “It cannot be much fun giving Latin lessons three nights a week,” she pointed out.
    “I don’t mind. I’m not doing it for the money, you know. Norman gave us enough to live on. Indeed, I don’t take any pay from Mr. Haskins, whose papa can’t afford it. Peter was going to hire a tutor in any case, and he says I explain it to him better than any tutor he ever encountered, so why should I not accept a fee from him? He’s loaded with blunt.”
    “Pooh!” her aunt said with lively disgust. “He likes to sit and moon at you across the table. I would not mind you giving Lord Clappet, Norman’s particular friend, a little help, but I do not think it quite the thing for him to have brought his friend along. I don’t just care for that Nicolson fellow. There is something uncouth about him, with all his airs and graces.”
    A spark of mischief danced in the dark depths of Trudie’s eyes. “Sir Charles Nicolson uncouth? How can you say so? Nick is top of the trees, Auntie. He told me so