Summer's End

Summer's End Read Free Page B

Book: Summer's End Read Free
Author: Amy Myers
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about luncheon today was worth it. By the time she and Laurence had returned for breakfast, the family had departed save for George, still munching his ravenous way through toast and marmalade. Her genuinely enthusiastic reception of the egg he had painted for her, complete with caricature of Grandmother Buckford (which she had hastily whipped away before Laurence could see it) had temporarily banished his opposition to the advent of the Swinford-Brownes forluncheon, just as she had hoped. Much the best way to avoid dispute. The cloudy morning was dithering between declaring itself spring and retreating back to the uncertainties of March. She felt rather the same herself: in a few moments she must walk to the church with Laurence thus declaring herself a symbol. To be within the walls of the Rectory with her family would be her preference.
    â€˜Skulking, Elizabeth?’
    Tilly had found her out, and come to join her in the porch. Elizabeth liked Tilly though they had little in common and treated each other with caution. One of the few things they did share, however, was a lack of interest in fashion, Tilly because she thought it of no importance, though her tall spare figure and innate grace made her always look smart and stylish, Elizabeth because her striking good looks and mature figure needed little pampering; she wore what colours and styles she chose, not what fashion houses and magazines dictated.
    â€˜Listening to the cuckoo, Tilly.’
    You’ve got at least one inside, Tilly thought to herself, but did not speak aloud. This Mother Hen had no sense of humour where her chicks were concerned. ‘The bluebells will be out soon,’ she commented brightly.
    Elizabeth did laugh at this. ‘All right. Skulking. Hatted and gloved to go on parade three-quarters-of-an-hour early for once.’
    â€˜I’m honoured.’ Laurence Lilley, carrying stole and chasuble over his arm, came to join his wife. When Laurence saw Tilly as well, he raised his eyebrows even higher. ‘I am doubly honoured. Why so early?’
    Elizabeth brushed this aside. ‘Have you talked to Isabel again, Laurence?’
    He pulled a face. ‘No chance. I had to return to the vestry and don my Solomon’s mantle to settle a dispute between Mrs Mabel Thorn and Mrs Lettice as to which fair linen cloth should be laid for the Eucharist. It left no time for family discussions. You must have noticed Mrs Lettice had laid her grandmother’s cloth, elegantly trimmed with lace and far too Roman for Mrs Thorn. She insisted on its being changed for this service.’
    â€˜Isn’t that the sacristan’s job?’ Elizabeth asked mildly. She hadn’t noticed, of course. She had been carried away with the music and majesty of Easter.
    â€˜Poor old Bertram has only held the position since Lady Day, Elizabeth, and Mrs Lettice is of Mutter stock. If I set him to resolve a quarrel between a Mutter and a Thorn, he’ll faint into the grave Job Fisher has just finished digging.’
    â€˜Laurence!’ Elizabeth was still capable of being taken aback when her husband joked on ‘church ground’. To her, the division between the formality of Church and the rumbustious informality of home was absolute.
    â€˜Come, Elizabeth. We are adult. I meant no disrespect.’ He paused. ‘And Isabel, too, is adult, you must remember. She makes her own choice.’
    It was Tilly who built the bridge. ‘They’re all sensible children, Elizabeth, thanks to you both. They know what they want.’
    â€˜But are they right?’ Elizabeth’s anxiety gripped her with a painful intensity, though no sign of it appeared on her placid face. Four daughters, one son, all her babies. No, that was not all, for there had been her darling Millicent, and the gap her baby left was as real to her as the five living children: Isabel, the butterfly that blindly fluttered where it chose; Caroline, the bird that longed

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