Louisa Rawlings Read Online Free

And then he’d gone off like a thief in another man’s house and kissed her mother. Was that why her father had bought the house in Saratoga?
    Still, it might be interesting to see Arthur again. There was a certain rakish charm to the man. He didn’t try to charm her often, but when he did, he could always make her laugh. Joking about her name, her awkwardness as she shot up in her teens, all gawky arms and legs.
    “Willough,” he’d say, laughing. “Willough. Are you sure they didn’t mean Will ow ? If you grow any taller, you must never wear a bonnet with leaves on it, or the birds will be tempted to nest.”
    “Oh, Mr. Gray,” she’d say, blushing.
    “And when you cry—which I fervently hope you do not—will they call you Weeping Willough?”
    She’d giggled. “Don’t be silly. They called me Willough for Daddy’s Grandfather Willoughby. I was supposed to be a son, not a daughter.”
    Willough sighed as the carriage pulled up to the curb in front of the elegant town house that faced Gramercy Park. She hadn’t thought about it much in those days, her name. But this last year, watching her father grow older, seeing the loneliness of his life, she felt a pang that was equal parts pity and guilt. Poor Daddy. A wife who cared for another. A daughter who should have been a son.
    Give me a chance, Daddy, she thought. I’ll make you proud of me.
    After alighting from the carriage, she mounted the stairs and passed through the hastily opened door to the cool vestibule. “Thank you, Brigid,” she said to the parlor maid who had opened the door for her. “I’ll go to my room until tea is served. I’ve some letters to write.”
    “Oh, Miss Willough…” Brigid said in her soft Irish brogue, “’tis Mrs. Bradford. She’s feelin’ very peevish today. Said she wanted to have tea straightaway as soon as someone came in. She can’t wait. She’s that impatient for her cup o’ tea.”
    “Why can’t she drink her tea alone?” muttered Willough.
    “Miss?”
    “Never mind. Is Mr. Drewry expected for tea?”
    “Your brother went out after lunch to the Academy of Design. He said he’ll be back. But you know what will happen if he gets to paintin’…”
    Willough sighed in resignation. “Very well. Tell Cook to put up the kettle.” She pulled off her gloves and laid them on a marble console along with her parasol and purse. She pulled out the hatpins that anchored the small, forward-pitched arrangement of horsehair and feathers and ruched ribbons that her father had bought for her in Paris last year. It was a very fetching hat, and still the height of fashion here in New York.
    She studied her reflection in the mirror. She was not displeased with what she saw: a serious face, strong and angular, with a straight nose and wide-set eyes. Her lips were thin—or perhaps it was just the way she held her mouth, firm and prim. Her skin was very pale and creamy, a striking contrast to the ebony curls swept back from her temples. She turned her profile to the mirror and patted the neat roll at the nape of her neck. The back hair had been twisted in a thick coil, then doubled back on itself in a vertical figure eight and pinned snugly to her head. She rather liked the new style—it made her look purposeful. More so than a cascade of ringlets.
    I look like a woman capable of running a business, she thought with satisfaction. And I know I can. I’m not like other women. Not dependent and dishonest, like my mother, who has to wheedle every penny out of Daddy and pretend to the world that they’re not estranged.
    She frowned, searching her face in the glass. She was a little less pleased with her eyes. Blue-violet. Soft. Velvety. They made her seem weak and helpless. She would have much preferred to have eyes like her brother Drewry—ice-blue, and as cold as he wanted them to be when he was angry.
    Her figure was another matter; she viewed it with a certain ambivalence. She was tall, and still as willowy as she