she is of good family and fallen on hard times.”
“Now that’s the puzzle, my lady, for to tell the truth, Lady Beverley often does not pay her and yet she always seems to be in funds.”
“Strange. I shall leave you now, Barry, and we will talk again. I hear the carriage arriving for the children and I am anxious to see this new owner should he be there.”
When Isabella rounded the corner of the house, she stopped short. A tall man was alighting from a curricle. He looked at her curiously and then bowed and smiled. Why, he is almost as handsome as my husband, marvelled Isabella, who never thought any man in the world could match Lord Fitzpatrick.
“Lady Fitzpatrick,” he said with a bow.
“You must be Mr. Blackwood.” Isabella curtsied. “You are come for your children. But you must meet my husband and Mrs. Kennedy before you leave.”
They walked into the house together. The company was gathered in the little-used drawing-room.
Charles was introduced all round.
Isabella covertly watched Rachel. It was as if every fibre of her younger sister’s body was aware of this Mr. Blackwood. And yet he treated her with the same easy manner as he treated Lizzie and Belinda.
Despite his age, thought Isabella, he should be very aware of such a beautiful girl as Rachel. No man could look at her and remain indifferent.
And then the maid, Betty, came in and announced, “Miss Santerton.”
Isabella’s eyes swung to the doorway and she blinked at the vision that stood there. She did not notice the flash of irritation in Charles’s eyes. All Isabella could think was, poor Rachel. This is too much competition.
Minerva was wearing a wide straw hat decorated with a whole garden of flowers. Her muslin gown was so fine it was nearly transparent and floated around her excellent body as she moved. The under-dress was very fitting and was of pale-pink silk, which gave the impression that she had nothing on underneath. Her eyes caressed Charles in an intimate way.
She greeted Isabella and her husband effusively but looked down on the dumpy figure of Mrs. Kennedy and offered her two fingers to shake. Mrs. Kennedy flashed the beauty a look of contempt and sat down, ignoring those two fingers.
Charles had taken a liking to the broad-spoken, warm-hearted little Irishwoman who was Mrs. Kennedy and felt suddenly ashamed of Minerva. Here were the despised Beverleys, supposed to be grasping and ambitious, and yet they seemed kind and gentle to him. He had warmed towards Minerva since—what he considered—her gracious acceptance of Mark’s apology, but now he began to wish she and her brother would leave. George was a tiresome bore who drank too much at dinner and then said the same thing over and over again.
Minerva was clever enough to realize her social gaffe had annoyed Charles and so she sat down nextto Mrs. Kennedy and asked, “Did you have an arduous journey?”
“Sure, me dears,” said Mrs. Kennedy, getting to her feet and waddling towards the door. “I think we had best be getting off. Do come and see us as soon as possible.”
“Tomorrow,” cried Lizzie.
“Faith, tomorrow, tonight, any time you like, my chuck.”
Minerva smiled. “My brother and I are resident at Mannerling, Mrs. Kennedy. We would be pleased to call on you.”
Before Isabella could reply, Mrs. Kennedy said roundly, “That will not be convenient. We are all still mighty fatigued after our journey and wish to see only the family. Good day to you.”
“Dreadful woman!” complained Minerva to Charles on the road back to Mannerling.
“Mrs. Kennedy? I found her excellent. She took you in dislike, as any lady of her standing would, at being offered only two fingers to shake. You brought that snub on yourself.”
“But how was I to know? Such a fat little creature and that quiz of a bonnet! I thought she was the maid.”
“Fitzpatrick said very clearly that she was his aunt.”
They continued the journey in silence, a silence which
“Now that’s the puzzle, my lady, for to tell the truth, Lady Beverley often does not pay her and yet she always seems to be in funds.”
“Strange. I shall leave you now, Barry, and we will talk again. I hear the carriage arriving for the children and I am anxious to see this new owner should he be there.”
When Isabella rounded the corner of the house, she stopped short. A tall man was alighting from a curricle. He looked at her curiously and then bowed and smiled. Why, he is almost as handsome as my husband, marvelled Isabella, who never thought any man in the world could match Lord Fitzpatrick.
“Lady Fitzpatrick,” he said with a bow.
“You must be Mr. Blackwood.” Isabella curtsied. “You are come for your children. But you must meet my husband and Mrs. Kennedy before you leave.”
They walked into the house together. The company was gathered in the little-used drawing-room.
Charles was introduced all round.
Isabella covertly watched Rachel. It was as if every fibre of her younger sister’s body was aware of this Mr. Blackwood. And yet he treated her with the same easy manner as he treated Lizzie and Belinda.
Despite his age, thought Isabella, he should be very aware of such a beautiful girl as Rachel. No man could look at her and remain indifferent.
And then the maid, Betty, came in and announced, “Miss Santerton.”
Isabella’s eyes swung to the doorway and she blinked at the vision that stood there. She did not notice the flash of irritation in Charles’s eyes. All Isabella could think was, poor Rachel. This is too much competition.
Minerva was wearing a wide straw hat decorated with a whole garden of flowers. Her muslin gown was so fine it was nearly transparent and floated around her excellent body as she moved. The under-dress was very fitting and was of pale-pink silk, which gave the impression that she had nothing on underneath. Her eyes caressed Charles in an intimate way.
She greeted Isabella and her husband effusively but looked down on the dumpy figure of Mrs. Kennedy and offered her two fingers to shake. Mrs. Kennedy flashed the beauty a look of contempt and sat down, ignoring those two fingers.
Charles had taken a liking to the broad-spoken, warm-hearted little Irishwoman who was Mrs. Kennedy and felt suddenly ashamed of Minerva. Here were the despised Beverleys, supposed to be grasping and ambitious, and yet they seemed kind and gentle to him. He had warmed towards Minerva since—what he considered—her gracious acceptance of Mark’s apology, but now he began to wish she and her brother would leave. George was a tiresome bore who drank too much at dinner and then said the same thing over and over again.
Minerva was clever enough to realize her social gaffe had annoyed Charles and so she sat down nextto Mrs. Kennedy and asked, “Did you have an arduous journey?”
“Sure, me dears,” said Mrs. Kennedy, getting to her feet and waddling towards the door. “I think we had best be getting off. Do come and see us as soon as possible.”
“Tomorrow,” cried Lizzie.
“Faith, tomorrow, tonight, any time you like, my chuck.”
Minerva smiled. “My brother and I are resident at Mannerling, Mrs. Kennedy. We would be pleased to call on you.”
Before Isabella could reply, Mrs. Kennedy said roundly, “That will not be convenient. We are all still mighty fatigued after our journey and wish to see only the family. Good day to you.”
“Dreadful woman!” complained Minerva to Charles on the road back to Mannerling.
“Mrs. Kennedy? I found her excellent. She took you in dislike, as any lady of her standing would, at being offered only two fingers to shake. You brought that snub on yourself.”
“But how was I to know? Such a fat little creature and that quiz of a bonnet! I thought she was the maid.”
“Fitzpatrick said very clearly that she was his aunt.”
They continued the journey in silence, a silence which
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