shall send my groom off for her. I must remain here and get the cottage ready for her. As you so kindly pointed out, it is in no shape for company.”
Her eyes sparked angrily. “Don’t let me keep you from your dissipations,” she said, and flounced out of the room.
Chapter Nine
That afternoon Cressida received an invitation from Lady Dauntry inviting her household to an informal dinner at the castle that evening. She promised it would be a small, quiet do, in keeping with the baroness’s rustication. It made a pleasant diversion, as Beau was no longer available for company. Since the arrival of his yacht, she had scarcely seen him. He did not even come to the house for lunch, causing grim forecasts of sunstroke, starvation, and, of course, eventual drowning from Miss Wantage.
Cressida drove Miss Wantage into the village in the afternoon to exchange the vulgar silk threads for pastel ones. Miss Wantage could happily have spent the whole day in the drapery shop, comparing prices and quality, and pointing out to Cressida that Mrs. Flynn, whom Cressida had never heard of, had a gown made of that blue mulled muslin last year and it had faded shockingly.
“They are asking nine shillings the yard!” she exclaimed. “I am sure Mrs. Flynn paid only six—and well paid for it was at that price. It is not real Indian muslin,” she said, holding an end up to the light to check the closeness of the weave and the density of the threads.
"The embroidery supplies are over here,” Cressida said, trying to nudge her in the proper direction.
“Just look at this, Cressida!” was Miss Wantage’s reply. “The Indian muslin is fifteen shillings the yard! Did you ever hear of such a thing? Plain old muslin. Mind you, the green sprigged pattern is pretty. They do not carry the green sprigged in Bath.”
“Would you like a few yards, Miss Wantage?” Cressida asked. Perhaps that was why she lingered so long over the ells.
“I would not be caught dead in it at my age. We aging ladies must be a little careful what colors we wear.” Her eyes just glanced off Cressida’s pink sprigged muslin. “Mutton dressed as lamb, as my papa was used to say. If I were buying any material, I would buy a good merino for a winter suit. Not that I am hinting!”
Her pale fingers moved over to the winter materials, landing on a bolt of gray merino (at a guinea a yard). After much discussion, Miss Wantage was prevailed upon to take four yards as a gift. “And the extra half yard for errors,” she added. “One never knows, a sleeve might be cut wrong, and then where are you, with the source of the material miles away in Beachy Head?”
They moved on to the buttons (common), lace (that lot never came out of Belgium!), and needles. The worst to be said of them was that the eyes were too small. Finally they reached the embroidery threads, only to discover that Miss Wantage had “accidentally” left the vulgar bright ones at home, which did not prevent her from snapping up the pastel shades. A full hour later they left the shop to find the sky had darkened during their sojourn amid the sewing materials.
Miss Wantage shook her head. “I hope Beau has the sense to come in out of the rain, but I doubt it.”
It had begun sprinkling by the time they reached home, giving great pleasure to Miss Wantage, who had insisted on the closed carriage. Beau’s yacht was seen a mile out at sea, but as the wind was not strong, Cressida could not be convinced to either fear for his life or send a rescue ship out after him. At six Beau came bouncing into the saloon, his face ruddy and his hair looking like a haystack.
“By Jove, this is something like! Nick let me work the rudder. I brought us into harbor with a little help from Nick and the crew.”
“Who is Nick?” Miss Wantage inquired, for she mistrusted this name of ill omen.
“My captain, Nick Bolton. An excellent fellow. He sailed under Nelson, until he had his arm shot off. Nelson, I
Her eyes sparked angrily. “Don’t let me keep you from your dissipations,” she said, and flounced out of the room.
Chapter Nine
That afternoon Cressida received an invitation from Lady Dauntry inviting her household to an informal dinner at the castle that evening. She promised it would be a small, quiet do, in keeping with the baroness’s rustication. It made a pleasant diversion, as Beau was no longer available for company. Since the arrival of his yacht, she had scarcely seen him. He did not even come to the house for lunch, causing grim forecasts of sunstroke, starvation, and, of course, eventual drowning from Miss Wantage.
Cressida drove Miss Wantage into the village in the afternoon to exchange the vulgar silk threads for pastel ones. Miss Wantage could happily have spent the whole day in the drapery shop, comparing prices and quality, and pointing out to Cressida that Mrs. Flynn, whom Cressida had never heard of, had a gown made of that blue mulled muslin last year and it had faded shockingly.
“They are asking nine shillings the yard!” she exclaimed. “I am sure Mrs. Flynn paid only six—and well paid for it was at that price. It is not real Indian muslin,” she said, holding an end up to the light to check the closeness of the weave and the density of the threads.
"The embroidery supplies are over here,” Cressida said, trying to nudge her in the proper direction.
“Just look at this, Cressida!” was Miss Wantage’s reply. “The Indian muslin is fifteen shillings the yard! Did you ever hear of such a thing? Plain old muslin. Mind you, the green sprigged pattern is pretty. They do not carry the green sprigged in Bath.”
“Would you like a few yards, Miss Wantage?” Cressida asked. Perhaps that was why she lingered so long over the ells.
“I would not be caught dead in it at my age. We aging ladies must be a little careful what colors we wear.” Her eyes just glanced off Cressida’s pink sprigged muslin. “Mutton dressed as lamb, as my papa was used to say. If I were buying any material, I would buy a good merino for a winter suit. Not that I am hinting!”
Her pale fingers moved over to the winter materials, landing on a bolt of gray merino (at a guinea a yard). After much discussion, Miss Wantage was prevailed upon to take four yards as a gift. “And the extra half yard for errors,” she added. “One never knows, a sleeve might be cut wrong, and then where are you, with the source of the material miles away in Beachy Head?”
They moved on to the buttons (common), lace (that lot never came out of Belgium!), and needles. The worst to be said of them was that the eyes were too small. Finally they reached the embroidery threads, only to discover that Miss Wantage had “accidentally” left the vulgar bright ones at home, which did not prevent her from snapping up the pastel shades. A full hour later they left the shop to find the sky had darkened during their sojourn amid the sewing materials.
Miss Wantage shook her head. “I hope Beau has the sense to come in out of the rain, but I doubt it.”
It had begun sprinkling by the time they reached home, giving great pleasure to Miss Wantage, who had insisted on the closed carriage. Beau’s yacht was seen a mile out at sea, but as the wind was not strong, Cressida could not be convinced to either fear for his life or send a rescue ship out after him. At six Beau came bouncing into the saloon, his face ruddy and his hair looking like a haystack.
“By Jove, this is something like! Nick let me work the rudder. I brought us into harbor with a little help from Nick and the crew.”
“Who is Nick?” Miss Wantage inquired, for she mistrusted this name of ill omen.
“My captain, Nick Bolton. An excellent fellow. He sailed under Nelson, until he had his arm shot off. Nelson, I
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