The Sparks Fly Upward Read Free

than the sedate weeks she’d spent uncomplainingly at the house in Chelsea where Makepeace had been unable to rouse herself to do much more than arrange a couple of whist parties and accept tonight’s invitation.
    She should have done; she knew that. Force of circumstance had meant that others had played a greater part in bringing her three daughters up than she had; she’d been too busy. In the case of Jenny and Sally, the two youngest, they’d been left in the care of their father’s Northumbrian sister-in-law while she herself worked on the coal-shipping end of her and her husband’s mine.
    The mine accident that had caused Andra Hedley’s death had imbued Newcastle and its surroundings with insupportable horror for Makepeace and she had moved away, refusing to return. Jenny and Sally still lived there. These last few weeks had been the longest time mother and daughter had spent together since Jenny reached puberty.
    And I’ve done nothing for her.
    Even less had been done for an irate Sally, who was too young to come out and had been left behind in the north.
    No, she had done nothing for her daughters, except to make them rich.
    She nodded her head towards the dancers. ‘And if young Frog-me-lad thinks he’s getting his hands on a penny of our Jenny’s money, he can think some more,’ she said out loud.
    â€˜Oh, Ma,’ said Philippa sadly.
    â€˜What? What ?’
    â€˜Listen to yourself.’
    I do, she thought. I can hear my own discontent and I can’t stop. Time had ameliorated shock and grief but not the way she had accustomed herself to them; misery had become a habit. So had its infliction on others.
    When she’d entered her dressing room tonight, she’d seen that Hildy had lain a gray silk gown out for her because ‘Ah’m not lettin’ ye flap round that theor ballroom like a craa.’
    She’d supposed she could not but she’d sworn at her maid for making her put off the deep mourning she’d worn for nearly two years. Not that it made a difference; Hildy was used to being sworn at.
    For a long while after Andra was killed she’d not cared what she wore, wandering like a madwoman in a shift and bare feet. Now the customary mourning period was long past, but she still wore black so that she could be a mobile memorial to him, a bitter remonstrance for those who persisted in getting on with their lives, even though, as time went on, her own pain treacherously lodged itself in an attic of her brain where she could begin to live with it.
    She would put on black again tomorrow because to wear anything else would mean exerting herself out of her irritable inertia and she had no idea how to do it. Her habit was black, like her temper.
    And you look well in it , said Makepeace’s conscience. This was a new and guilty realization that made her crosser; black suited her white skin and her red hair which was still only slightly frosted; she’d begun to suspect that vanity was superseding sorrow.
    Two tall men took their seat at her table. ‘I am surprised Miss Jenny has been permitted to take part in this exhibition,’ Reverend Deedes said. ‘Had I been here at the time I should have advised against it.’ He addressed the air as if it were a congregation.
    â€˜Where were you then?’ she snapped. Deedes, cadaverous and forty, was not a young girl’s dream as an escort, certainly not Jenny’s, but he was Makepeace’s neighbor in Chelsea and, due to her reduced social circle, the only bachelor she’d been able to think of. It had been nice for him to be asked; the bugger could at least do his job.
    His companion leaned across the table. ‘William, we have been so neglectful of the ladies it little behooves us to complain if they desert us.’ He put his hand over Makepeace’s, smiling. ‘But forgive us, missus; William and I have been about the Lord’s work.’ He