locket and get the clothes and go to the assembly and just… well…
see.
”
“My idea exactly,” said Amanda, putting her feet up on the fender. But in her mind’s eye, she and Richard were already out on the King’s Highway calling on some bloated lord with more money than was good for his soul to part with some of it.
The next day brought rain, fine drizzling rain, which turned to ice as soon as it hit the ground.
The glorious plans of the night before seemed like a childish fantasy, and without referring to it, Richard and Amanda had each privately decided the whole thing was madness induced by stress and brandy.
But their “uncle’s” heir, Mr. Brotherington, chose to pay them a visit. Aunt Matilda was mercifully still asleep.
He was a thick, brutish-looking man with a harsh red face and small black eyes. An expensive morning coat was stretched across his shoulders and his cravat was tied in a travesty of the Oriental, which meant his starched shirt points were cutting into his jowls. He wore an old-fashioned wig and smelled of sweat, imperfectly disguised by musk. His lower limbs dropped from the heights of fashion, being encased in moleskin breeches and square-toed boots caked with mud.
It transpired he had had a lecture from the lawyer, a lecture from the vicar, and a lecture from the local squire over his lack of concern for the destitute Colbys.
And so he had assumed that the Colbys had put these worthy gentlemen up to it and had come to give them a piece of his mind.
The Colby twins bristled with rage but were not in the way of contradicting their elders. At last, Mr. Brotherington, having had his say uninterrupted, allowed his coarse features to relax in the semblance of a smile and said he had found work for Amanda which would enable her to take up her rightful role in life.
“Which is?” demanded Amanda, her normally pale face flushed.
“As companion to my daughter, Priscilla.”
Amanda looked at Richard and shook her head in a disbelieving sort of way. Priscilla, although only two years older than Amanda, was spoiled and overbearing and had inherited the worst of her father’s bullying qualities.
“I would rather
starve
,” she said passionately.
“Then starve,” said Mr. Brotherington viciously. “You Colbys were always too top-lofty in your ways. Nothing like a few hunger pangs to bring the pair of you down a peg. You’ve done nothing but set yourself apart and look down your noses at my Priscilla. Well, you’ll get your comeuppance. I’ll tell Squire how you sneered at the very idea of genteel work, Amanda Colby.”
“
Miss
Amanda to you, Mr. Brotherington,” said Amanda sweetly. She went and held open the door. “
And
may I remind you, sir, since you so clumsily aspire to rise in the ranks of the beau-monde, that a
gentleman
making a call never stays above ten minutes, and you have been prosing on for quite twenty.”
“Pah!” shouted Mr. Brotherington, cramming his hat down on his wig.
Richard took a step forward and loomed over him.
Mr. Brotherington cast him a fulminating look and strode from the room.
Amanda whirled about and ran upstairs, her old-fashioned chintz skirts flying about her slippers. In two minutes she was back, the gold locket clutched in one hand.
“Take it to the pawn,” she said to Richard.
Richard slowly held out his hand, a troubled look on his face.
“What ails you, Richard?” demanded Amanda sharply. “I would rather die of hempen fever than die of poverty.”
“Don’t talk cant,” said Richard automatically. “If you mean you would rather hang, then say so.”
“Then what is the matter?” asked Amanda. “You are not worrying about your own neck, I trust?”
“Not I,” said Richard. “It is just… I am afraid—”
“A Colby
afraid
!”
“Let me finish. I am afraid I cannot dance, so how can I escort you to the
see.
”
“My idea exactly,” said Amanda, putting her feet up on the fender. But in her mind’s eye, she and Richard were already out on the King’s Highway calling on some bloated lord with more money than was good for his soul to part with some of it.
The next day brought rain, fine drizzling rain, which turned to ice as soon as it hit the ground.
The glorious plans of the night before seemed like a childish fantasy, and without referring to it, Richard and Amanda had each privately decided the whole thing was madness induced by stress and brandy.
But their “uncle’s” heir, Mr. Brotherington, chose to pay them a visit. Aunt Matilda was mercifully still asleep.
He was a thick, brutish-looking man with a harsh red face and small black eyes. An expensive morning coat was stretched across his shoulders and his cravat was tied in a travesty of the Oriental, which meant his starched shirt points were cutting into his jowls. He wore an old-fashioned wig and smelled of sweat, imperfectly disguised by musk. His lower limbs dropped from the heights of fashion, being encased in moleskin breeches and square-toed boots caked with mud.
It transpired he had had a lecture from the lawyer, a lecture from the vicar, and a lecture from the local squire over his lack of concern for the destitute Colbys.
And so he had assumed that the Colbys had put these worthy gentlemen up to it and had come to give them a piece of his mind.
The Colby twins bristled with rage but were not in the way of contradicting their elders. At last, Mr. Brotherington, having had his say uninterrupted, allowed his coarse features to relax in the semblance of a smile and said he had found work for Amanda which would enable her to take up her rightful role in life.
“Which is?” demanded Amanda, her normally pale face flushed.
“As companion to my daughter, Priscilla.”
Amanda looked at Richard and shook her head in a disbelieving sort of way. Priscilla, although only two years older than Amanda, was spoiled and overbearing and had inherited the worst of her father’s bullying qualities.
“I would rather
starve
,” she said passionately.
“Then starve,” said Mr. Brotherington viciously. “You Colbys were always too top-lofty in your ways. Nothing like a few hunger pangs to bring the pair of you down a peg. You’ve done nothing but set yourself apart and look down your noses at my Priscilla. Well, you’ll get your comeuppance. I’ll tell Squire how you sneered at the very idea of genteel work, Amanda Colby.”
“
Miss
Amanda to you, Mr. Brotherington,” said Amanda sweetly. She went and held open the door. “
And
may I remind you, sir, since you so clumsily aspire to rise in the ranks of the beau-monde, that a
gentleman
making a call never stays above ten minutes, and you have been prosing on for quite twenty.”
“Pah!” shouted Mr. Brotherington, cramming his hat down on his wig.
Richard took a step forward and loomed over him.
Mr. Brotherington cast him a fulminating look and strode from the room.
Amanda whirled about and ran upstairs, her old-fashioned chintz skirts flying about her slippers. In two minutes she was back, the gold locket clutched in one hand.
“Take it to the pawn,” she said to Richard.
Richard slowly held out his hand, a troubled look on his face.
“What ails you, Richard?” demanded Amanda sharply. “I would rather die of hempen fever than die of poverty.”
“Don’t talk cant,” said Richard automatically. “If you mean you would rather hang, then say so.”
“Then what is the matter?” asked Amanda. “You are not worrying about your own neck, I trust?”
“Not I,” said Richard. “It is just… I am afraid—”
“A Colby
afraid
!”
“Let me finish. I am afraid I cannot dance, so how can I escort you to the
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