Lace for Milady Read Free Page A

allowed a good walking pace. The green silk would have been similarly styled had Slack not enraged me with her ceaseless jibes. In retaliation, I had it cut low enough to expose more of my chest than had been formerly shown to the world, and did take in the waist and hips sufficiently to give an indication of my figure. In fact, when I stood before my mirror, I doubted I would have the nerve to appear in public in the outfit, and cursed Slack’s humour and my temper that had caused me to ruin a guinea’s worth of good material. It was quite dashing, but it was not me.
    Lady Inglewood raised her brows when I first called in the yellow striped, but as it caused George to evince more interest than formerly in me, she did not object verbally.
    I enjoyed those first few weeks at the Dower House. There was sufficient novelty in coming to a new place and making new friends, trimming up my home to a more stylish appearance and generally getting the lay of the land to keep me entertained. I had my walks along the beach that still amused me, and I had my carriage to drive me to town. I felt life could offer little more. But as August drew to a close and September came upon us, I began to perceive that the keening winds of winter would make my walks along the sea uncomfortable. It was then I took the decision to buy myself a mount. I had procured before coming to Sussex the team to pull my carriage, and had a small stable set up, so why not add a hack to it? I had always wanted to ride. My first attempt along this line led to a new acquaintance and several other items of interest, so I shall make it a new chapter.
    Slack is sitting across the room rattling the newspaper impatiently, which means she wants her tea and my company. Truth to tell, I find this writing business tedious enough that I could do with a cup of tea myself. I shall resume the chronicle tomorrow.
     
    Chapter Two
     
    When I read a book, I like to have an idea how my characters look. Not that I adhere slavishly to the author’s description—I usually give the hero black hair, whatever his creator decrees, and the heroine blond, but still one likes to have some general notion, and as I have mentioned Lady Ing, as Slack and I took to calling my aunt, several times, I shall essay my hand at a portrait. She is short but appears tall. I don’t know how she achieves it, a throwing back of her shoulders and tilting her chin up perhaps cause the eyes to travel upward. She has a truly hideous, brindled shade of hair, brownish-red turning to grey, that she wears in a complicated arrangement of loops and swirls. With this awful mop she chooses purple and bile green gowns—one colour at a time, that is, not a mixture. She has close-set dark eyes and a sharp nose not unlike Slack’s. Her voice is both nasal and strident, the unloveliest part of the woman. She walks with short, quick steps, jerky, unbecoming, and is not at all like my mama. All this unattractive appearance is forgotten when she gets atop her mount. As I have mentioned, she is an accomplished horsewoman, an accomplishment I admire but do not envy, as certain people have hinted. Having few close friends as yet, I approached my aunt on the subject of buying a mount. I felt the duty would devolve on George, and was willing to accept this.
    She surprised me, as she usually managed to do. “I’ll sell you Juliette,” she said at once. Juliette was her own mount, a high-bred mare, really very handsome, indeed, a bay. I had often seen the two of them going across the park or down the road, and when I thought of riding, I thought of myself riding something akin to Juliette.
    “What will you ride yourself?” I asked her.
    “I am reaching the age where I must give it up. I have a little twinge of pain in my elbows that is worse after riding.” She looked still young enough and spry enough to ride for ten years, but I did not question her. I presume she knew if her elbows ached.
    “Very well. What price do you