Mississippi Raider Read Free Page B

bathroom.
    If the young man who had come down from the
horse and almost descended upon her had been able to see Belle Boyd
at that moment, he would have been left with no doubts whatsoever
with regard to her sex. She had just returned from the bathroom
next door to the sitting room of her living quarters on the first
floor of the mansion, her coal-black hair drawn tightly and bunched
into a bun at the back of her head. In addition to her face being
radiantly beautiful, albeit with more of a tan than was considered
socially acceptable for one of her class and age, it had a
suggestion of strength of will and intelligence beyond average.
What was more, displayed because all she had on were white cotton
pantalets—the ankle-long legs trimmed by blue lace—and heelless
white slippers, the rest of her bodily contours ideally
supplemented her features.
    Five feet seven in height, the
girl was far from flat-chested or skinny despite being slender. In
fact, being so firm that the dark brown nipples were slightly
uptilted, her breasts were well developed for her age. Although not
sufficiently to qualify as being “hourglass” in lines, her torso
slimmed at the waist and opened out to curvaceous buttocks.
Well-defined muscles showed in her arms, and the graceful ease with
which she moved suggested that the same applied to her lower limbs.
All in all, she exuded a sense of controlled power and of being in
an excellent physical condition that was not a common trait— or
even considered necessary by the more conventional of their
peers—for members of her sex and age in the Southern
states.
    Some aspects of the room in
which the conversation was taking place gave indications of how
unconventional was Belle ’s upbringing and outlook. Its four-poster bed,
the dressing table, wardrobe, and most of the other furniture and
fittings were such as might have been expected in any wealthy
Southern household. However, there were intimations that its
occupant did not conform strictly to the conventional dictates
Southron society expected of a well-bred and correctly raised young
woman.
    One wall was lined with
full-length mirrors, to which was fitted the kind of horizontal
wooden rail used in ballet schools to not only allow limbering up
and other exercises to be performed, but to let the one doing so
see what was taking place. As it had never been intended to help
her attain a professional career in even that highly regarded and
generally considered respectable section of the theater, such a
fitment just qualified as being socially acceptable. Less so was
the well-polished walnut box on the mantelpiece; it held a
magnificent matched brace of dueling pistols bearing the name of
the renowned master gunmaker Elijah Manton & Son of London,
England, along with a powder flask, bullet mold, and other items
necessary for their loading and maintenance. Nor were the pair of
equally well-made epee de combat from the same illustrious source, surmounted by a
fencing mask, which formed a gleaming cross on the wall above the
fireplace, any more in keeping with convention. At the other side
of the room stood a dressmaker’s dummy in the shape of a full-size
female head and torso, which was balanced upon a rounded base
instead of the more usual flat stand. However, as it was not
intended to be used for any kind of commercial purpose, it would
just pass muster as being permissible.
    “ Fun!”
sniffed Auntie Mattie, knowing the reason for—if never having
approved of—her unconventional upbringing. iii “Your poppa allus wanted a son, and you’ve done
everything you can to give him one, what with riding astride,
shooting, fencing, ’n’ all the rest.”
    “ Oh,
come on, now,” the girl requested with a smile. “I’ve never shirked my dancing
lessons.”
    “ You
for surely never did, at that,” Aunty Mattie admitted, but clearly
with more reservation than approbation. “Only, it wasn’t for dancing you took to ’em so
good ’n’