Elisabeth Fairchild Read Online Free Page B

boxes.
    “No one eats much until after the cascade at nine,” Richard explained.
    They passed a kiosk where chickens roasted on spits, and an enormous ham sliced paper-thin gleamed pinkly. The smells stirred Patience’s stomach to a most unladylike growl.
    Richard tilted his head to look at her, amused. “We can, of course, make an exception. Would you care for something?”
    She laughed and shook her head. “You were not supposed to hear that.”
    “Hear what?” he inquired with mock innocence.
    She gave her tummy a pat. “The hoyden. Now and again she tries to speak.”
    “You will not say no to a Shrewsbury cake, a glass of wine or champagne?” He pulled a worn leather purse that bore his initials from his pocket. It had once been dyed bright red, his initials picked out in yellow, and yet so many times had it been shoved in and out of his pockets that almost all of the dye was worn away from the raised grape-leaf pattern that circled the initials. He jingled the purse merrily.
    So enthusiastic his offer. She could not tell him she hungered for sight of Pip far more than for Shrewsbury cake. It would be impolite to refuse, however, and Richard had taught her nothing so much as the importance of manners.
    She chuckled and reached for her reticule. “Sounds lovely.”
    He led her to the kiosk, where a chalkboard listed available wines, port, and arrack, and bottles were stacked in great wooden cases. He refused the coins she held out to him, and would not listen to her protests that Father had given her money for just such occasions, but counted out the necessary amount with care from his sad leather purse, then tucked it away again in his pocket.
    “You cosset me,” she said as they carried away their glasses, sipping and nibbling as they strolled. “It is very good of you, Richard.”
    “It is nothing.” He brushed away her praise, and asked after her family, as he always did, though it had been but two days since he had seen them in person, and she would much rather speak of other topics, other persons—like Pip, whom Richard saw frequently, and yet he never seemed anxious to speak of him.
    “Mother suffers occasional megrims,” she said. “I do not think she cares much for London. Too noisy, too smelly, she claims. Too much to see and do. She is ever so appreciative that you make time to show me about.” She watched him as she said it, searching for some sign that what her mother had said about Richard’s financial situation might be just as true. “Care for half of the cake?” She broke off a large bite and held the rest out to him. He had not bought a piece for himself, which she thought odd, for Richard had always loved cake.
    “You do not want it?”
    She nodded. “I am too excited to eat. Unlike Mama, I love London, and I am delighted there is so much to do and see.”
    He polished off the confection in short order, and asked as he brushed away crumbs, “Did you finish the painting?”
    The painting? He wished to speak of her paltry painting, when she would paint her eyes with sight of Pip?
    “No,” she had to admit. “I am not at all happy with the water in the Serpentine.”
    “Very difficult, water,” he sympathized. “For it is never just water.”
    “Exactly. One must take into account all that it reflects. But beyond that, I do not think I am gifted when it comes to artistic endeavors.”
    “You have only to apply yourself, and you can do anything, Patience.”
    Anything but insist we go see Pip now, no more waiting, no more chitchat.
    “You sound like Father,” she complained. “But I am right. You must trust me. I am very good with numbers and geography and stitching and cards, but the true arts of a lady—music, poetry, and painting—I cannot seem to conquer.”
Any more than I can close the distance between Pip and myself.
    “Must you?”
    Trust Richard to question the obvious. “Mama seems to think I shall never win a husband without such talents,” she said with