Petticoat Rebellion Read Free

cupola, the curving colonnades that finished in a large, sweeping wing on either side. The stone had weathered to the golden warmth of honey.
    “Kent’s park was reworked by Capability Brown,”Lady Susan continued. “The winding water you see is dammed by a ruled dyke. There are extensive views in all directions. The eighteenth century insisted on an unbounded view.”
    Annabelle frowned. She could see very well that the view was bounded by the horizon, but she did not risk Lady Susan’s wrath by mentioning it.
    The carriage drew up in front of the pedimented doorway, and the ladies were assisted from the carriage by the one footman Miss Slatkin had provided to accompany her charges. The great oaken door was thrown open, and they were duly admitted into a square central hall that rose two stories, terminating in a ceiling window that allowed sunlight to fall on the marble floor below, and the marble statues set into niches. A series of doors around the square gave glimpses of the stately rooms beyond. Each doorway had a pilaster and pediment; some featured marble figures as large as life, reclining on the sides of the pediments. They appeared to represent culture. One held a book, one a flute, another a lute, one a globe, and one an astrolabe.
    All this finery was brought to earth by a gentleman’s curled beaver tossed rakishly on the head of a Roman statue of an athlete, with a chiffon scarf tied around its ankle.
    “Good day, Sifton,”Lady Susan said to the butler. She had visited the Hall five years before, and never forgot a name or a face connected in any way with the nobility.
    “Your ladyship,”he replied, bending at the waist.
    Sifton led them to a door that would have allowed a haywain to pass without disturbing its cargo, and announced, “Lady Susan and her guests, your ladyship.”
    The room was so overwhelming, with molded cornices, two marble fireplaces, splendid portraits in gilded frames, masses of flowers, bronze busts on tables, and a great deal of heavy, carved furnishings, that one was inclined to overlook the déclassé-looking dame on the sofa. The most remarkable thing about Lady Penfel, in Abbie’s view, was that she resembled an aging lightskirt. She wore her hair a la mouton. The frizz of tight curls about her hagged, rouged face was an unlikely bronze hue. Her stylish crepe gown was that hard-to-wear shade of blue called ultramarine, that looked best on ruddy-faced sailors.
    Lady Susan strode forward and placed a kiss on the lined cheek. She introduced Miss Fairchild and her school friends.
    After a few words of greeting and inquiry for various members of Susan’s family, Lady Penfel said, “Don’t let me detain you, ladies. I’m sure Miss Fairfield has plans for you. Sifton will show you to your rooms and give you anything you need. Hot water, a nice cup of tea ...”
    Her voice trailed off as she lifted the copy of The Ladies Magazine she held on her lap and stuck her nose into it. Lady Susan led the group away.
    “What a quiz!”Kate said, stifling a snicker.
    “Her ladyship must be feeling poorly,”Lady Susan explained. “No doubt that is why she mispronounced your name, Miss Fairchild.”
    “That’s odd,”Annabelle said. “My Aunt Esther has been dying forever, and she remembers everything.”
    “Your Aunt Esther, if I recall, is not a countess,”Susan replied.
    “No, she has no head for numbers at all.”
    Kate poked Abbie in the ribs. “I wonder how a duchess behaves when she is poorly,”she said in a low tone. “She probably forgets her own name. I noticed Lady Penfel didn’t forget to use her rouge pot.”
    “Personal remarks are never in good taste, Miss Fenwick,”Abbie replied as severely as she could, then spoiled the lesson by smiling.
    “Aren’t we going to have any luncheon?”Annabelle asked. “I am so hung—Oh, sorry, Lady Susan. I am feeling so peckish, I could eat a cow.”
    Abbie did not chastise her. She was hungry herself. What a strange visit