Love in Three-Quarter Time Read Online Free Page B

manage a French accent as bad as his.”
    â€œBut you can do Yorkshire,” Felicity said. “We’ve all been imitating Grammy for years.”
    â€œPerfect.” Patience patted the tops of her thighs. “She can go incognito as a seventy-year-old shepherdess. That would impress them for certain.”
    â€œI hate to say it.” Mother raised a brow. Her own speech still held a touch of Yorkshire accent, although more refined than Grammy’s. “But I do recall Mrs. Beaumont missing England terribly. She loved all things British and said my speech reminded her of home. Perhaps you
should
turn on the accent a wee bit if you meet her. I’ll be sure to mention in the letter that you spent part of your childhood in England.”
    â€œPart of my childhood?” Constance stared at her mother in wonder. “Are you referring to the summer we went to fetch Grammy?”
    Patience waved away the objection. “No need to nitpick. Everyone expects a dance instructor to come from Europe. Dressmakers. Artists. Dancers. For all Americans fought for our independence, we’re still slaves to European fashion. It might not hurt to give the accent a try. Everyone does so. Practice for us.”
    Constance grimaced at her.
    â€œNay, of course not.” Mother tipped her head. “It was a preposterous suggestion. Nevertheless, I’ll work on that letter first thing in the morning.”
    â€œTrader Jack is heading down Three Notch’d Road tomorrow on his way to Jarman’s Gap,” Patience said. “He’ll go right past Charlottesville. We could send it with him. It would be quicker and more dependable than the standard post.”
    â€œExcellent idea. I do believe White Willow Hall is directly off the main road. We’ll send two letters to be safe—one with him and one with the usual post.” Mother yawned. “Goodness, I’m tired tonight.”
    â€œSpeaking of which, go to bed, Mother.” Constance stood and sidled around the tea table to reach her. She removed the lilac fabric from her mother’s hands. “You look exhausted. And you too, Felicity. Patience and I can finish up.”
    Mother snatched back her sewing. “You two worked all day as well—Patience at the store and you with your dance and the house.”
    â€œI don’t work so hard, and Patience looks fine.” Constance pried the fabric away again and walked it to the mantle out of her mother’s reach. “Ten hours of lessons a week hardly amount to strenuous labor.”
    Mother covered her yawn. “Give that sewing back to me, and we’ll all work until Grammy serves the tea. Then Felicity and I shall head to bed. Patience, play us a song.”
    Constance complied as Patience leapt from the couch. The poor girl hated sewing and was ever pricking her fingers—fingers that should spend their days playing the fortepiano, not packing purchases and collecting coins at the mercantile. She launched into a Mozart sonata with her expressive styling.
    â€œImagine,” Mother said with a hint of wistfulness, “if this succeeds and you begin to find clients, we can open that wee school just as I always dreamed. Perhaps Mrs. Beaumont will recommend you to her friends in Richmond. This time next year, I could be teaching needlework rather than slaving over it night and day.”
    â€œDo you think I’m old enough to teach painting, Mother?” Felicity looked up eagerly. Nothing put a glimmer in her eye like talk of art. Of late she’d been fixated on the Romantic Movement. For tonight she contented herself embroidering butterflies.
    â€œTo the younger ones at the very least,” Mother said. “Why, the city of Richmond should be honored to have the accomplished Cavendish females instructing their young ladies. They simply don’t know it.”
    Constance sank back into the settee, the lump that earlier blocked her throat now