Escapade by Joan Smith Page A

they wandered from the breakfast room one by one, they made no plans for the day. Miss Sheridan went to her room to have her hair done up in papers for the Méduse; Miss Prentiss dashed off a poem on the Frog-Jumping race, and Miss Prattle wrote up a column for the Observer before going to the library to browse.
    It was there that she encountered Clare's mother, deep in conversation with Mr. Shane. She was a tall, handsome woman, who would have been called homely if she were not a duchess. Her face and nose were long, and her dark hair was turned to white in an irregular way, in a strip down the middle of her head. It was difficult not to stare at it. Although the Dowager Duchess was the titular hostess of the party, she took her duties lightly. She presided at table for the meals and was in evidence during the evening rituals, whatever form they took. In between, she could usually be found either with her long nose in a book, or in the garden, where she struggled valiantly to grow roses in the chalk soil of Dorset. The garden being inaccessible today, she was looking for a good story to pass the morning. She loved reading, but had never stood accused of even a twilight tinge of blue. She read novels, and no very edifying ones either. History, religion, philosophy and science were but words to her, and volumes on the shelves to be avoided.
    It was her aim to get through life with as little bother as possible, and as much pleasure. Her joys were the simple ones mentioned. She cared nothing for crowns and coronets and went only rarely to London, preferring to have her company come to her. She loved Patrick and would be easier in her mind if she could see him married to some nice girl before she died, but she had no intention of passing away soon, and so she did not push him. She always looked with interest over the young ladies he invited to Clare and was curious to hear his comments on them. She thought the lot he had brought this time a sorry one, and wondered he had invited anyone at all when he had so much business to attend to with his charity work. Well, he would tell her all about it in his own good time. They would get together and have a good coze, as they always did. She looked at the girl before her, trying to recall the name. Lady Sara's niece; she knew that. Fairmont, that was it.
    “Ah, Miss Fairmont,” she exclaimed. “What a dull party my son has got up, when his guests must amuse themselves in the library."
    “Not in the least, ma'am. We are having a good time, but in such weather as this our activities are confined."
    “It looks as if we are in for a rainy day,” she replied, glancing through the mullioned windows. “Those clouds don't intend letting up in five minutes. Are you come for a novel?"
    “Why no, ma'am, though I usually devour them as though they were bonbons.” The gleam of interest in Miss Fairmont's eye was met by a responding one from the Duchess.
    “You'll find them all here,” she was assured. “Frances Burney, Mrs. Radcliffe, Maria Edgeworth. It's a chore to find a nice story written by a woman. They know what we like to read."
    “No doubt then you are familiar with the works of Miss Austen."
    “I can't say I've heard of her. A new one, is she?"
    “She has published three in the last few years—all charming."
    “You must give me the titles, and I'll have Patrick pick them up when he goes back to town."
    “Why, I can do better than that. I have the best one of them all with me— Pride and Prejudice . I'll get it for you."
    Ella thought she would send the book to her ladyship's room by a maid, but the Duchess trailed right along with her and sat down for a chat while Ella jotted down the titles. This gave the older lady a chance to assess Patrick's new acquaintance. Not in his usual style—no beauty—but a taking little thing.
    “You are the girl who thought up the frog race—an excellent idea. Most of the young ladies nowadays want to spend their time sitting in the