Louisa Rawlings Read Online Free Page B

maid turned clumsily with her burden and just managed to set it down in front of Willough’s chair. The sudden jolt of the tray on the table set the teacups rattling, earning for Brigid a scowl from Isobel. She curtsied hastily and fled the room.
    Isobel struggled to pull herself upright on the chaise as Willough poured the tea and handed her a cup. “These girls will be the death of me,” she said, casting her eyes to heaven. “They come off the boat with no manners, not a lick of training…”
    “Really, Mother. She’s very pleasant. And she knows her place.”
    “Yes, that’s true.” Isobel sipped daintily at her tea. “Heaven knows, it could have been worse. She could have been a Hebrew.”
    Willough’s stomach was now actively protesting. She took a small swallow of tea, wondering how she could even manage to keep it down.
    “Have a teacake, Willough.”
    “No, thank you.”
    “A small sandwich, then.”
    “I’m not hungry, Mother.”
    “If you didn’t lace your corsets so tightly, perhaps you could manage to eat a bit more.”
    “They’re not too tight, Mother. My waist has always been small.”
    “But eighteen inches, dear…” Isobel’s voice was heavy with criticism. “Vanity, Willough. Vanity. Your grandmother Carruth used to say, The upright life is free from Vanity .”
    “Grandmother Carruth must have done nothing but spout aphorisms from morning until night,” muttered Willough.
    “Don’t be impertinent! God knows, you’re your father’s child. Your manners have always been a trial to me. You’re entirely too independent and brazen in your ways. And do sit up straight!”
    Willough flinched inwardly as the waves of her mother’s disapproval and dislike washed over her in a bilious tide. She put down her cup and pressed her lips tightly together.
    She thought, What’s the matter with me? I’m a grown woman. Why should my mother still have the power to hurt me with her cruel attacks?
    “Are my two favorite girls at it again?”
    “Drewry! Dearest boy!” Isobel held out her arms to her son, watching from the doorway. “You’re in time for tea. I feel better already.”
    Drewry Bradford laughed, an easy, comfortable laugh, and sauntered into the room. Look at him, thought Willough. She felt a surge of love for her brother, then a twinge of envy. He moved with the assurance of a man who was used to being pampered, admired, loved.
    He tossed his hat onto a sofa, bent over to kiss his mother, then plopped his lean form into a deep chair, draping one long leg over the arm. Isobel beamed.
    Why don’t you tell him to sit up? thought Willough, then frowned at her own mean thoughts.
    Drewry smiled at his sister. “Pour me a cup, Willough, honey. Mum, you’d feel a lot better if you could manage to toss out that tonic!” He nodded his thanks as Willough handed him his tea. “I see you so seldom anymore, little sister, that it would be nice to find a smile on your face. Life can’t be that difficult.” He winked good-naturedly at her.
    Willough managed a small smile, then bent her head, concentrating on the patterned carpet, reluctant to look Drewry full in the eyes. She had never managed to return the open affection that he gave to her. It was not that she didn’t love him; it was just that he had always been neutral when war had raged between her mother and her. She felt so alone, so abandoned in this house since her father had moved out, and she needed total loyalty from Drewry. His careful neutrality had created a gulf she could not cross. “Brigid said you were at the Academy of Design this afternoon,” she said. Small talk. Safe and impersonal.
    Drewry laughed. “Yes. That homage to Venice on Twenty-Third Street! What a monstrous building.”
    “I like it,” said Isobel. “It reminds me of the trip the two of us took to Italy. Do you remember, Drew?”
    He wolfed down a teacake in two bites and smiled at her, his blue eyes twinkling. “Indeed I do, Mum. I remember