Evelyn Richardson Read Online Free Page A

dressed with greater care than usual the next morning, which is to say that she spent time selecting her gown. It was a plain round dress of black bombazine trimmed in black crape whose sole ornamentation, a white crape frill that stood up around her throat, only emphasized the sober respectability of her attire. She pulled her hair into a braid and coiled it on top of her head, but no matter how ruthlessly she pulled it back, she could do nothing to keep a few dark curls from escaping.
    She frowned at her reflection in the looking glass—too youthful by half. If only she had a pair of spectacles to counteract the softening effect of the curls clustering at her temples. There was simply no help for it; she would just have to adopt a suitably severe expression and hope for the best. Primming her lips she tried to school her features into a look more appropriate to a headmistress but succeeded only in appearing what she was, a lively young woman trying to look older and more serious than her years.
    Shaking her head at her reflection, she gathered up her bonnet and gloves and taking a last sip of chocolate from the cup her maid had brought her, headed down to the waiting carriage. However little else had been stipulated in her husband’s will, it had been left so abundantly clear that the dower house included a carriage and pair that even the effrontery of the new Lord Granville did not extend to denying her that luxury. She had taken full advantage of that provision to order the most beautifully sprung, well-appointed carriage she could from Bath’s finest coachmaker and had provided it with a team that was the envy of every whip in the surrounding countryside.
    Surveying the magnificent equipage now she permitted herself just the tiniest smirk of satisfaction as she allowed John Coachman to help her into the carriage.
    In the days following her husband’s death, Lady Catherine had felt so utterly powerless in the face of Lord Granville’s ambitions that she had savored every little victory she had been able to achieve, every scrap of freedom and independence that she had been able to hang onto in the face of his determination to cow her into subservient insignificance and respectability.
    “The academy, my lady?” John helped her up the step and closed the door behind her.
    “Yes, John, but first I should like to stop at the home farm.”
    “Very good, my lady.” The coachman grinned as he climbed onto the box. His mistress could no more pass the home farm without stopping to see the baby than she could spend a day without taking a vigorous walk in the countryside, whatever the weather. And why shouldn’t she take pleasure where she could in spite of his lordship’s determination that her life should be as dull and confined as he could possibly make it?
    A few minutes later the carriage pulled into the neat-looking farmyard and a liver-colored hound ran out to greet them, barking energetically. John had not even reined in the horses before the mistress of the establishment came bustling out of the kitchen. “Good morning, my lady. Come to see the baby, have you? Betty is just finishing up with the milking, but our Tom is feeling fine as five pence this morning, cooing and smiling with all his wee might. I never did see such a contented baby as our lad here.” She led Catherine into a kitchen filled with the enticing smells of baking bread and bramble preserves and stooped over the cradle near the fire from which came happy gurgling sounds, interrupted now and again with an occasional chirp.
    “My, we are looking chipper today, are we not?” Catherine stroked the soft cheek and held out a finger to be clutched by one of the chubby waving hands. “I do believe he has grown since I saw him last.”
    Mrs. Griggs smiled fondly at the cradle’s occupant. “That he has, my lady. It’s a right good appetite our boy has.”
    “And Betty?”
    “Merry as a grig and that grateful to you for taking her in when her