Timothy’s barouche.
My heart sank. This could mean only one thing: Dread Cousin Hetty had arrived.
Hetty’s mother, Aunt Penelope, always put me in mind of a rather tottyheaded chicken. The gowns and bonnets that she wore—always extravagantly decorated with lace and ribbons that fluttered like feathers—made her look like one, too. I was fond of her, however, and had always affectionately called her “Aunt P.”
Needless to say, I had never called Aunt Priscilla that. Not only did she disapprove of nicknames, but I was too intimidated to call her anything of that sort.
When Aunt P. entered the house, there was her usual flurry of hugging, kissing and, well, clucking.
Uncle Timothy came in behind his wife. He looked every inch the dignified country lawyer that he was. His looks were a bit deceiving, however, as there was nothing he enjoyed more than impishly teasing his only child, not to mention me, whom he called his “favorite-albeit-only-niece.” He bowed to his sister-in-law, heartily shook hands with his brother and nephew, and finally bussed me on the cheek.
The last of the family to enter the house was Hetty. As usual, her carriage dress was of the latest fashion, with sleeves ballooning to her elbows and three stiff flounces belling out the skirt. It was the exact same blue as her eyes, matched by the blue ribbons and plumes of her stylish bonnet.
After Hetty flounced into the house, she shook hands with her aunt and uncle.
Then she gave Joss an unnecessarily lengthy hug, at least to my eyes. I know that first cousins are allowed to marry, I thought, but I do hate to see Hetty throwing herself at my poor, unsuspecting brother.
Finally, my cousin directed a distant nod towards me.
Quite a difference from the way she used to treat me, I mused. She would play with me by the hour. I remember that often, after one of our “tea parties,” she would pick me up and twirl me around and call me her “dear little shadow.” Well, she obviously does not want me to be her shadow any longer.
“You must tell us all about meeting Lafayette, Henrietta,” said Prissy, motioning them all to follow her into the parlor and to sit down. “How very interesting that must have been!”
Hetty looked around the room as if in search of the piece of furniture most becoming to her attire, then sank down gracefully on the blue damask sofa. She pulled out a lacy white fan and waved it in front of her face. “La, it was quite wonderful. Such a handsome gentleman! So noble. And so famous!”
“What a thrill for our Hetty,” Aunt P. said with a girlish giggle. “But I think that Lafayette was very pleased to meet her as well. I am certain that even he seldom sees such a beautiful girl. He spoke to her directly, you know, and more than just a greeting. He was not able to exchange words with all the other girls, except for the usual ‘howdeedos,’ of course.”
Uncle Timothy chuckled. “But we should tell them exactly what Lafayette said to Hetty, my dear. It was quite droll. I am happy to tell that tale.”
And he did, although Hetty did not appear pleased with his recital.
Apparently Lafayette had gone down the line shaking hands with the girls—all one hundred or more. When he went to shake Hetty’s hand, however, he saw that she was wearing his portrait on her gloves.
“Then he said ‘Sorry, my dear girl.’” Uncle Timothy grinned. “’I have stopped kissing the hands of ladies wearing my portrait on their gloves. Smacks too much of égotisme . I feel a bit uneasy even shaking hands with myself, so I will just do this.’ Then he bowed to her.”
“’Twas a most elegant bow,” sighed Aunt P. “So very courtly and low. He probably bowed in just such a way in his youth to the poor French king.”
Hetty preened like a peahen. “It is too bad you will not be able to meet him, Clara. A French nobleman! A marquis ! And so very rich! But I fear he will not be visiting every tiny village school like the
My heart sank. This could mean only one thing: Dread Cousin Hetty had arrived.
Hetty’s mother, Aunt Penelope, always put me in mind of a rather tottyheaded chicken. The gowns and bonnets that she wore—always extravagantly decorated with lace and ribbons that fluttered like feathers—made her look like one, too. I was fond of her, however, and had always affectionately called her “Aunt P.”
Needless to say, I had never called Aunt Priscilla that. Not only did she disapprove of nicknames, but I was too intimidated to call her anything of that sort.
When Aunt P. entered the house, there was her usual flurry of hugging, kissing and, well, clucking.
Uncle Timothy came in behind his wife. He looked every inch the dignified country lawyer that he was. His looks were a bit deceiving, however, as there was nothing he enjoyed more than impishly teasing his only child, not to mention me, whom he called his “favorite-albeit-only-niece.” He bowed to his sister-in-law, heartily shook hands with his brother and nephew, and finally bussed me on the cheek.
The last of the family to enter the house was Hetty. As usual, her carriage dress was of the latest fashion, with sleeves ballooning to her elbows and three stiff flounces belling out the skirt. It was the exact same blue as her eyes, matched by the blue ribbons and plumes of her stylish bonnet.
After Hetty flounced into the house, she shook hands with her aunt and uncle.
Then she gave Joss an unnecessarily lengthy hug, at least to my eyes. I know that first cousins are allowed to marry, I thought, but I do hate to see Hetty throwing herself at my poor, unsuspecting brother.
Finally, my cousin directed a distant nod towards me.
Quite a difference from the way she used to treat me, I mused. She would play with me by the hour. I remember that often, after one of our “tea parties,” she would pick me up and twirl me around and call me her “dear little shadow.” Well, she obviously does not want me to be her shadow any longer.
“You must tell us all about meeting Lafayette, Henrietta,” said Prissy, motioning them all to follow her into the parlor and to sit down. “How very interesting that must have been!”
Hetty looked around the room as if in search of the piece of furniture most becoming to her attire, then sank down gracefully on the blue damask sofa. She pulled out a lacy white fan and waved it in front of her face. “La, it was quite wonderful. Such a handsome gentleman! So noble. And so famous!”
“What a thrill for our Hetty,” Aunt P. said with a girlish giggle. “But I think that Lafayette was very pleased to meet her as well. I am certain that even he seldom sees such a beautiful girl. He spoke to her directly, you know, and more than just a greeting. He was not able to exchange words with all the other girls, except for the usual ‘howdeedos,’ of course.”
Uncle Timothy chuckled. “But we should tell them exactly what Lafayette said to Hetty, my dear. It was quite droll. I am happy to tell that tale.”
And he did, although Hetty did not appear pleased with his recital.
Apparently Lafayette had gone down the line shaking hands with the girls—all one hundred or more. When he went to shake Hetty’s hand, however, he saw that she was wearing his portrait on her gloves.
“Then he said ‘Sorry, my dear girl.’” Uncle Timothy grinned. “’I have stopped kissing the hands of ladies wearing my portrait on their gloves. Smacks too much of égotisme . I feel a bit uneasy even shaking hands with myself, so I will just do this.’ Then he bowed to her.”
“’Twas a most elegant bow,” sighed Aunt P. “So very courtly and low. He probably bowed in just such a way in his youth to the poor French king.”
Hetty preened like a peahen. “It is too bad you will not be able to meet him, Clara. A French nobleman! A marquis ! And so very rich! But I fear he will not be visiting every tiny village school like the
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