Louisa Rawlings Read Online Free Page A

had been when Arthur had made fun of her, but her bosom had developed at an alarming rate since those days. From the point of view of fashion, she knew her figure was perfect, with the voluptuous curves necessary to wear the severe-cut bodice they called en princesse , after Princess Alexandra of England.
    On the other hand, it was the kind of figure that made her look almost too feminine, attracting unwelcome stares from men. And hardly designed to persuade her father that she could be as useful to him as a son, the proper heir to his vast enterprises.
    Steeling herself, Willough crossed the vestibule toward the parlor, where her mother waited. Isobel Bradford was reclining on an overstuffed chaise; she looked up as her daughter entered. Willough had to admit she was beautiful, in a frail way, though she was beginning to show her years in her thickening waist, slight puffiness around the chin, gray streaks in her glossy black hair. She was wearing a tea gown, a frilly garment of ruffles, tiers, and swags, extravagantly trimmed with lace. And loose enough, Willough knew, so she could discard her corsets.
    Isobel smiled sourly at her daughter and sighed. A martyr’s sigh. “You might have given a thought to me, Willough, while you were gadding about on your errands. But never mind.”
    “I’ve sent for tea already, Mother. Have you had your tonic?” It was a foolish question. Willough could see from the brightness of her mother’s eyes, the way her hands fluttered and fussed at the small lace cap perched on her hair, that the daily dose had not been forgotten.
    “It did nothing but give me a headache! I know I shall never sleep without a bit of laudanum tonight. Not that your father would care,” she said bitterly. “When you’re in Saratoga with him, you might mention that I could use a larger bank draft next month. Mrs. Astor has recommended a wonderful doctor, but his fees are extremely high.”
    “What’s the matter with Dr. Page?”
    Isobel Bradford sniffed in disdain. “They say when Mrs. Lenox suffered her sick headaches last month, Dr. Page could do nothing for her.”
    “Mrs. Lenox drinks too much,” said Willough dryly. “But of course Mrs. Astor’s recommendation goes without question!” Or Mrs. Belmont, or Mrs. Goelet, thought Willough with disgust. Anyone whose name was better than theirs.
    Her mother looked shocked. “The Astors are among the finest families in the city!”
    “I daresay.”
    “Don’t you take that tone with me, Willough! I shan’t forget I’m a Carruth, though you might!”
    Willough felt her insides churning, as they always did when her mother began her genealogy lecture. “Let’s have it again, Mother,” Willough said tightly. “The Carruth name goes back over two centuries, while the Bradford name…”
    “The Bradford name didn’t exist thirty years ago.”
    Willough crossed to the window and pulled back the lace curtains. She felt suffocated, wishing herself out-of-doors with the children who played in the street, laughing and romping in the park across the way. “Whatever possessed Daddy to change his name for you?”
    Whatever possessed him to marry you? she thought in anguish. An insufferable snob.
    Her mother laughed. “I was a Carruth! I could never have married a man whose name was MacCurdy! Mrs. Brian MacCurdy ! It’s absurd.”
    “But you didn’t mind the MacCurdy money.”
    “If I had thought for a minute it was to be doled out in niggardly fashion, the way it is to me—and to you and Drewry too!—I should certainly have thought twice about marrying him!” It seemed to Willough that her mother’s very tone revealed the endless hours she had spent collecting and nursing her grievances. “Ah, at last. Tea!” Isobel said as the door opened and Brigid struggled in, carrying a large tray. “Not near me, Brigid,” she snapped. “Can’t you see I’m not well today? Over on that table, where Miss Willough can pour.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” The