devil’s own handiwork. Oh, the old dragon would love this! “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day” indeed!
Of course, Mrs. Arbuthnot must never see the book.
Martine could leave it here in her bedroom, among her old volumes on the shelf, for Bess couldn’t read and wasn’t interested in learning. But the combs had to be hidden. Even if Martine swore they were hers from before, Mrs. Arbuthnot would instantly recognize them as something foreign and heathen, therefore improper. With sore regrets, Martine buried the beautiful ornaments under the velvet lining of her jewelry box. She went back to sewing on her dress, a smile on her lips.
She had to have Bess’s help pinning the hem that afternoon.
“Oh, you do look a treat, Mrs. Barrett,” her housekeeper cooed. “Will you be going to Friday’s assembly up in Wolford then? They’re having a special do for Valentine’s Day, don’t you know. You’re sure to take some handsome gentleman’s fancy, I swear.”
“No, we won’t,” Mrs. Arbuthnot answered for Martine with a thump of her cane. “It’s not fitting. Anyone with a few pence can attend the assemblies. A lady could find herself dancing with turnip pickers and plowmen. That’s whose eye she’d catch in that indecent gown anyway. No, we shall not attend.” She glared at Martine, daring her to challenge the decision.
Martine loved to dance, but no, the festivities in Wolford were not part of her Valentine’s Day plans. She was more concerned with the style of her gown. Indecent? The dress was velvet, not some filmy, near transparent gauze, and it had long sleeves and a high neckline. There were no flounces or scallops at the hem, no embellishment at all beyond a darker pink ribbon at the high waist.
Even Bess was taken aback. “Why, I seen Squire’s wife wear a lot less fabric, with a lot more to put in it, iffen you catch my drift. Even her daughters as is just out of the schoolroom wear their thin muslins cut down to there, with less to show off than Mrs. Barrett. Nothing improper as I can see.”
Mrs. Arbuthnot snorted. “It’s pink! Pink is for debutantes—or harlots.”
That night Martine put a folded paper outside the front door and hoped the snow would hold off another day, or that Digby would come soon to fetch it. Her efforts at watercolors were never quite successful, but today, in her haste—well, a dampening could not improve the picture. She’d wanted to leave him something, to give something back to the one who was giving her so much, in tokens and in joy. Even if her finances permitted, though, and Chelmstead’s shops provided, she wouldn’t know what to purchase for him, to show she shared his hopes and dreams. So she’d painted a landscape of a white house on a hill, with six, no, ten chimneys, surrounded by fields and cows. At least she’d meant them as cows, but they ended up looking more like trees, so she’d put apples in them. Yes, an orchard would be lovely. The sky was blue, with no clouds; the grass was new-green, except for one corner where the colors ran together, so she made a pond. And flowers everywhere, dabs of bright colors, at any rate. She’d put a tiny couple in the doorway, watching even tinier children who were chasing a dog, a ball, and a water drop. They all wore pink.
Wednesday
He’d left her a music box. The music was unfamiliar, but two porcelain doves turned on the base when she wound the key. You make my heart sing, the note read. Oh, how I wanted to hold you close to me when I saw the painting, but I have wanted to hold you, touch you, kiss you, ever since we parted. I can wait the two more days, my dear heart.
Was that your light I saw late into the night? I watched from outside, wondering if you were lying abed, reading the poems, thinking of your humble, hopeful suitor. We should have been together in your white house, reading aloud by the fireside, sharing a cushioned sofa. But I fear my imaginings wandered, and I confess we
Of course, Mrs. Arbuthnot must never see the book.
Martine could leave it here in her bedroom, among her old volumes on the shelf, for Bess couldn’t read and wasn’t interested in learning. But the combs had to be hidden. Even if Martine swore they were hers from before, Mrs. Arbuthnot would instantly recognize them as something foreign and heathen, therefore improper. With sore regrets, Martine buried the beautiful ornaments under the velvet lining of her jewelry box. She went back to sewing on her dress, a smile on her lips.
She had to have Bess’s help pinning the hem that afternoon.
“Oh, you do look a treat, Mrs. Barrett,” her housekeeper cooed. “Will you be going to Friday’s assembly up in Wolford then? They’re having a special do for Valentine’s Day, don’t you know. You’re sure to take some handsome gentleman’s fancy, I swear.”
“No, we won’t,” Mrs. Arbuthnot answered for Martine with a thump of her cane. “It’s not fitting. Anyone with a few pence can attend the assemblies. A lady could find herself dancing with turnip pickers and plowmen. That’s whose eye she’d catch in that indecent gown anyway. No, we shall not attend.” She glared at Martine, daring her to challenge the decision.
Martine loved to dance, but no, the festivities in Wolford were not part of her Valentine’s Day plans. She was more concerned with the style of her gown. Indecent? The dress was velvet, not some filmy, near transparent gauze, and it had long sleeves and a high neckline. There were no flounces or scallops at the hem, no embellishment at all beyond a darker pink ribbon at the high waist.
Even Bess was taken aback. “Why, I seen Squire’s wife wear a lot less fabric, with a lot more to put in it, iffen you catch my drift. Even her daughters as is just out of the schoolroom wear their thin muslins cut down to there, with less to show off than Mrs. Barrett. Nothing improper as I can see.”
Mrs. Arbuthnot snorted. “It’s pink! Pink is for debutantes—or harlots.”
That night Martine put a folded paper outside the front door and hoped the snow would hold off another day, or that Digby would come soon to fetch it. Her efforts at watercolors were never quite successful, but today, in her haste—well, a dampening could not improve the picture. She’d wanted to leave him something, to give something back to the one who was giving her so much, in tokens and in joy. Even if her finances permitted, though, and Chelmstead’s shops provided, she wouldn’t know what to purchase for him, to show she shared his hopes and dreams. So she’d painted a landscape of a white house on a hill, with six, no, ten chimneys, surrounded by fields and cows. At least she’d meant them as cows, but they ended up looking more like trees, so she’d put apples in them. Yes, an orchard would be lovely. The sky was blue, with no clouds; the grass was new-green, except for one corner where the colors ran together, so she made a pond. And flowers everywhere, dabs of bright colors, at any rate. She’d put a tiny couple in the doorway, watching even tinier children who were chasing a dog, a ball, and a water drop. They all wore pink.
Wednesday
He’d left her a music box. The music was unfamiliar, but two porcelain doves turned on the base when she wound the key. You make my heart sing, the note read. Oh, how I wanted to hold you close to me when I saw the painting, but I have wanted to hold you, touch you, kiss you, ever since we parted. I can wait the two more days, my dear heart.
Was that your light I saw late into the night? I watched from outside, wondering if you were lying abed, reading the poems, thinking of your humble, hopeful suitor. We should have been together in your white house, reading aloud by the fireside, sharing a cushioned sofa. But I fear my imaginings wandered, and I confess we
Similar Books
