The Waltzing Widow/Smith Read Free

standing idle these three years since Cousin Hanna died. Bring it into shape and rent it. It would bring five hundred a year easily.”
    “Pooh, five hundred. What good is that? Cost more than that to fix it up.”
    “It wouldn’t cost five. It only wants cleaning and weeding.”
    “Anyway, it’s half yours. Mean to say, Papa built it on your land. I don’t consider it mine in the least. Often wondered why you don’t let it.”
    “Because it is yours, ninnyhammer!” Avedon’s patience broke at this lack of interest in important estate matters. “The land was not signed over to your father, but he built the house, and it is yours to do with as you wish. Send Jobber down to clean it up, and rent it.”
    “You might have told me!” Bigelow said with an injured air. But as the realization that there was money to be had sunk in, he cheered up. “By Jove, I’ll do it. I saw the dandiest little curricle-hung rig, Uncle. Yellow, with straw seats and backs. All the crack for summer.”
    “Grow up, Tony. You have a curricle, a gig, and a whiskey, along with your traveling coach and your town carriage and over two dozen horses. What do you want with another rig?”
    “I wager I could get it for a hundred pounds. It’s a summer carriage.”
    “We don’t have summer in England,” Avedon said comprehensively, though it struck him that he was feeling excessively warm at the moment. “You can console yourself with the thought that the money will help to finance Mrs. Lacey’s sojourn at Tunbridge Wells.”
    “That’s small consolation to me. She was a fine-looking woman. Nice red curls.” A fond smile hung on Tony’s lips.
    “And rouged cheeks to go with them, vulgar creature! Next you will be calling her a lady. When you rent Rose Cottage, make demmed sure it is not to a widow with a dozen screaming brats to destroy our peace. The place is nearer to my house than yours. In fact, I shall put the advertisement in the paper myself. We’ll advertise in London and hope to get some genteel retired couple.”
    “Excellent. And about the rattan curricle—”
    Avedon speared him with a sharp stare. “If you must have a straw carriage for summer, use the hay wain. Now I’m busy—”
    “I’m practically gone.”
    Avedon said, “Good day,” pulled a sheaf of papers toward him, and batted his hand to indicate the meeting was over.
    Bigelow unfolded his slender frame from the petit point chair and stalked from the room in a state of high dudgeon. Avedon, glancing in the mirror, thought his nephew strongly resembled an irate rooster.
    Left alone, Avedon put his head into his hands and sighed. Beyond the window the trees were in full leaf. It seemed only yesterday he had been looking out at blossoms. How quickly the time flew by. He hadn’t really minded missing the season. At one and thirty, he had ceased to find much amusement in it, though he knew he ought to be finding a wife and starting a nursery. His remaining at home had led Lady Beatrice Buckley to hope she might grab him. An unappetizing vision of her spreading girth, invariably robed in outlandish peacock colors, and topped with her black hair arranged in convoluted masses, floated into his mind. He shuddered.
    Yet he had no difficulty setting her down when she came calling. A worse outcome of staying at home was that his sister, Sally—Lady Sara to the rest of the world—came pouncing down on him. By some freak of chance, the worldly Lady Sara had married Dr. Rutledge, a minor ecclesiastic. Over the years he had risen to deacon of St. Giles. Archdeacon Nivens had recently died, leaving the way open for promotion. The difficulty was that there were four other deacons of equal eligibility in the running. She wanted Avedon to secure the place for her husband, but Dr. Rutledge was domiciled in Hampshire, where his own connections were restricted.
    In any case, everyone knew those appointments were political. The Tories would choose, and Avedon prided himself