Anne Barbour Read Online Free

of her bed chamber behind her, she had begun on the fastenings of her breeches.
    “Oh! Hannah!” she gasped in greeting to the comfortably plump woman who appeared from another chamber. “Where the devil is Winifred?”
    “Language, Miss Jane!” replied the woman austerely. “Miss Winifred went to the village this morning with Mrs. Mycombe and Miss Emily. She said she’d be back before luncheon.”
    Breathing more unladylike epithets, Jane shrugged from the shirt and breeches and, delving into a nearby wardrobe, emerged some moments later with an odd contraption that resembled a cross between a tailor’s dummy and a full set of horse tack. With the assistance of Hannah, her maid of some fifteen years, she slid into the apparatus and commenced arranging and buckling until by the time she whirled with lifted brows for the older woman’s inspection, she had been transformed from a lithe, slender young woman to a flat-chested, thick-waisted frump. Reaching once more into the wardrobe, she produced a gown of plain, gray muslin, which she hastily slipped over her shoulders.
    “There,” she said a little breathlessly. “Am I put together?”
    “I suppose,” said the maid in a tone of vast disapproval, “you could say that. You are a complete dowd. Except, you forgot the cap.” With an exaggerated flourish, she plucked the article in question from a hook on the wardrobe door. It was much the same size and shape as a generously fashioned sofa cushion, and when Jane pulled it ruthlessly over her head, her feathery blond curls disappeared, as well as most of her face. In profile, all that could be seen was the tip of a small, sharp, red nose. From the front, it looked as though she were peering out from under a bed ruffle.
    Hannah sniffed in exasperation. “Lord, Miss Jane, just look at you. With your eyebrows plucked to nothing and your lashes bleached out and a nose like a raspberry, you look like a skinned rabbit. I cannot believe you mean to greet his lordship in this fashion. Whatever will the man think?”
    “He will think,” retorted Jane, tucking a pale tendril into the confines of the cap, “that Miss Winifred Timburton is thoroughly and properly chaperoned by her thoroughly proper spinster cousin, Miss Jane Burch.” She bobbed an impudent curtsy and put out a hand for the serviceable shoes proffered by Hannah.
    “And why,” continued the maid, grumbling, “you found it necessary to drop everything and leave your papa’s house to travel all the way from Suffolk at Miss Winifred’s summons, I’ll never understand. It’s not as though the little minx—begging your pardon—could not have dredged up a real companion, and it’s not as though you’re beholden to her. If you ask me—”
    “You’re making me feel guilty, Hannah. I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart, you know. After Millicent scarpered with her baronet, Winifred couldn’t stay here alone—although it took Reverend Mycombe and his wife weeks to persuade her otherwise. She didn’t want some prunes-and-prisms old maid living with her—even if she knows one, which she probably doesn’t. Anyway, when she told me of her scheme, it suited me right down to the ground.”
    “That’s the part I don’t understand. You should be out and about in the world, finding yourself a husband, not doddering around in this backwater disguised as an elderly, maiden relative.”
    “I’ve told you,” responded Jane patiently, “I need Winifred. At least, I need her patronage in London after she marries. For Patience and Jessica, you know.”
    Hannah made no reply, merely fixing a long-suffering gaze at a point out the window.
    “Oh, Hannah, please try to understand. Sometimes I think you are my only friend in the world and I need you on my side.” She glanced at the maid, noting with satisfaction the softening of her rigid features. “I had my opportunity, you know,” she continued in a low voice. “Both of my Seasons were