Ask Me No Questions Read Online Free

attention had returned to the widow. "At least," she murmured, "she has her little boy, and her woman looks kind."
    "Her maid, if such she is, may be kind," allowed Falcon, "but the brat is ready to explode. Only see how he tries not to skip. What is he? Ten, perhaps?"
    Falcon's parents had been blessed with only two children. Morris, who came from a large and boisterous family, jeered, "Ten! Good God! Much you know of children!"
    "One must give thanks for small mercies. How old, then?"
    "I would guess five. Six perhaps. What d'you say, ma'am?"
    Gwendolyn's limp was becoming a little more noticeable, and she said apologetically, "That I would like to sit down, an you do not object. But to answer your question, I agree with you, August, that the child's energy cannot for much longer be suppressed; and with you, Jamie, that he is likely five, or thereabouts." Ushered to a vacant bench, she sat down gratefully and remarked that were she the little boy's mama, mourning or not, she would send him off to see the cows.
    The object of their interest had also taken a seat. She said in a soft cultured voice, "Poor Thorpe. Were your brother here you could play, my love."
    "Jacob was silly to catch a cold." The small boy gave a hop and, his blue eyes alight, added, "I never get colds might I go and see who that man is the one they're all bowing to might I please Aunty Ruth?"
    "Mercy on us," exclaimed the woman who accompanied them. "Three sentences with not a single breath 'twixt 'em! And 'tis rude to point! For shame, Master Thorpe!"
    The widow's gaze had turned to the wide grassy area the boy indicated, where stood a splendid gentleman surrounded by a small and fashionable group. His habit was rich, orders flashed on his breast, and, although they were a merry company, those about him treated him with deference, while passers-by bowed respectfully.
    "Why, I believe 'tis Prince Frederick," said the widow.
    "And see, Grace, over there, by the trees, is that not the King?"
    Grace Milford had been five and twenty when she'd been hired to serve as abigail to fourteen-year-old Miss Ruth Armitage. Three years later, Miss Armitage had become Mrs. Thomas Allington, and Grace had accompanied her into her new life. Now thirty-five, she was a combination of governess, companion, confidante, maid, and housekeeper. She had never lost the rosy cheeks and buxom figure of the countrywoman, but the hazel eyes she turned upon the royal group were shrewd. "Aye, that's the Prince of Wales," she said. "And the King only yards distant, but pretending not to see him! A fine pair! Will I take the boy over, Mrs. A.?"
    The widow hesitated.
    "Please, let me go and see him!" Master Thorpe jumped up and down vigorously. "Please, Aunty! An' then the cows?"
    Mrs. Allington smiled at him. "Very well. But—not too near the royal parties, Grace."
    She watched fondly as they left her, the woman walking sedately, the child leaping and hopping along. They were soon lost amongst the crowd and the widow's gaze wandered. She loved the park, but this would be her last visit here, for the house on Mount Street was no longer her own, and she must go down to Lingways and see that things there were set to rights. After that— She forced away any thought of "after that" and concentrated on the beauties of dancing sunlit leaves and air spiced with the scents of blossoms and newly scythed grass. Soft talk and lilting laughter drifted to her and her gaze turned to the other occupants of the park. How gay they were; how happy and free from care. And how cut off she felt. Banished from them and the way of life she had always known and that had slipped away so gradually yet so inexorably, like a satin rope that had frayed even as she clung to it until the last fine threads were now sliding through her fingers. Within a few days it would vanish altogether and be as lost to her as were her dear father, her beloved brother, her gentle husband. And whatever was to become of—
    At this