My Mrs. Brown Read Online Free
Author: William Norwich
did not wear makeup and used lipstick rarely, and certainly not today, when she did not wish to look anything akin to a tart, not that she ever had or ever could.
She considered that she might try a bit of the floral-scented toilet water Mrs. Fox had given her for Christmas three, actually four years ago. She decided against it. But she would be so embarrassed if her clothes smelt of any cooking sheâd done, or any household cleaning products she used, the smells she feared lingered in her house and her clothing. Her solution was to spray just a tiny amount of the rosy scent on a corner of a white handkerchief, shake it, fold it, and bury it in the pocket of her trousers.
Ready now, she opened her front door. Her unpainted face for the world to see; she was met by the briny scent of the river nearby. It was a glorious wintry day in Ashville. So clear, so bright that you thought it improved your eyesight.
Cocooned inside her black three-quarter-length quilted parka, Mrs. Brown began the walk to Mrs. Grotonâs house, leaving her cluttered neighborhood, where the houses were built right next to each other, then north along Main Street past the shops, town hall, and library, and across the Thompson Green, November gray and leafless but holding the promise of so much color come spring.
Here was the statue of Christopher Columbus the people of Ashville were so proud of. Mrs. Brown always liked to stop and read the poem inscribed on it.
âBrave Admiral, say but one good word:
What shall we do when hope is gone?â
The words leapt like a leaping sword:
âSail on! Sail on! Sail on! And on!â
â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢
He gained a world; he gave that world
Its grandest lesson: âOn! Sail on!â
Mrs. Brown walked. Crossing Broad Street, she arrived at another green, Franklin Green, named for Benjamin Franklin, surrounded by the finest eighteenth- and nineteenth-century houses in Ashville, including, especially, Mrs. Grotonâs, the largest, and the prettiest of them all.
Mrs. Brown, who would have hated to arrive late, was instead half an hour early. She wasnât quite sure what to do next.
She sat on a bench next to a Revolutionary War cannon. From this perch Mrs. Brown regarded Mrs. Grotonâs house with great satisfaction, civic pride. After six decades of admiring it, within a matter of minutes sheâd be inside.
Although she did not have the benefit of knowing the architectural terms to describe the house, here is what you saw when you looked across Franklin Green: a white clapboard Victorian Italianate villa built in the 1860s, with lavish details, spiraled twisted columns and capitals of the Composite order (a combination of the Ionic and the Corinthian), arched double front doors, molded shelves above the shuttered first-floor windows, and pointed pediments crowning the second-floor windows. It was five bays wide, very spacious, with a wing to the left of the façade that contained a ballroom and butlerâs pantry, which had been added when Mrs. Grotonâs great-great-grandmother married a Cabot from Boston. The society wedding was one for the history books.
At 9:25, five minutes before she was expected, at 9:30 A.M. , Mrs. Brown walked across Franklin Green and, holding her breath, unlatched the gate of the ornate wrought-iron fence, went in, and climbed the three steps onto the entrance porch.
She rang the brass doorbell at the right of the arched double front doors. Mrs. Brown could hear the bell ringing inside the house. It seemed an eternity, but in fact was really just a matter of seconds, and the door opened.
Standing on the other side was a young woman the likes of which Mrs. Brown had never seen, at least not in person. Yes, in the fashion magazines she might look at when business was slow at the
She considered that she might try a bit of the floral-scented toilet water Mrs. Fox had given her for Christmas three, actually four years ago. She decided against it. But she would be so embarrassed if her clothes smelt of any cooking sheâd done, or any household cleaning products she used, the smells she feared lingered in her house and her clothing. Her solution was to spray just a tiny amount of the rosy scent on a corner of a white handkerchief, shake it, fold it, and bury it in the pocket of her trousers.
Ready now, she opened her front door. Her unpainted face for the world to see; she was met by the briny scent of the river nearby. It was a glorious wintry day in Ashville. So clear, so bright that you thought it improved your eyesight.
Cocooned inside her black three-quarter-length quilted parka, Mrs. Brown began the walk to Mrs. Grotonâs house, leaving her cluttered neighborhood, where the houses were built right next to each other, then north along Main Street past the shops, town hall, and library, and across the Thompson Green, November gray and leafless but holding the promise of so much color come spring.
Here was the statue of Christopher Columbus the people of Ashville were so proud of. Mrs. Brown always liked to stop and read the poem inscribed on it.
âBrave Admiral, say but one good word:
What shall we do when hope is gone?â
The words leapt like a leaping sword:
âSail on! Sail on! Sail on! And on!â
â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â â¢
He gained a world; he gave that world
Its grandest lesson: âOn! Sail on!â
Mrs. Brown walked. Crossing Broad Street, she arrived at another green, Franklin Green, named for Benjamin Franklin, surrounded by the finest eighteenth- and nineteenth-century houses in Ashville, including, especially, Mrs. Grotonâs, the largest, and the prettiest of them all.
Mrs. Brown, who would have hated to arrive late, was instead half an hour early. She wasnât quite sure what to do next.
She sat on a bench next to a Revolutionary War cannon. From this perch Mrs. Brown regarded Mrs. Grotonâs house with great satisfaction, civic pride. After six decades of admiring it, within a matter of minutes sheâd be inside.
Although she did not have the benefit of knowing the architectural terms to describe the house, here is what you saw when you looked across Franklin Green: a white clapboard Victorian Italianate villa built in the 1860s, with lavish details, spiraled twisted columns and capitals of the Composite order (a combination of the Ionic and the Corinthian), arched double front doors, molded shelves above the shuttered first-floor windows, and pointed pediments crowning the second-floor windows. It was five bays wide, very spacious, with a wing to the left of the façade that contained a ballroom and butlerâs pantry, which had been added when Mrs. Grotonâs great-great-grandmother married a Cabot from Boston. The society wedding was one for the history books.
At 9:25, five minutes before she was expected, at 9:30 A.M. , Mrs. Brown walked across Franklin Green and, holding her breath, unlatched the gate of the ornate wrought-iron fence, went in, and climbed the three steps onto the entrance porch.
She rang the brass doorbell at the right of the arched double front doors. Mrs. Brown could hear the bell ringing inside the house. It seemed an eternity, but in fact was really just a matter of seconds, and the door opened.
Standing on the other side was a young woman the likes of which Mrs. Brown had never seen, at least not in person. Yes, in the fashion magazines she might look at when business was slow at the
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