Spare Brides Read Online Free Page B

though it belonged more to Cecily than it did to Beatrice or Sarah. Indeed, it
did
. And one day it would be their nephew’s. What then? Would they still be welcome? It was a question neither Sarah nor Beatrice liked to dwell on. To prolong their welcome as far as possible, the sisters tried to contribute to the household expenses when they could; neither had employed a maid since 1914, and they paid the butcher’s bill at Christmas and Easter. Sarah, as a war widow and mother of two, had been allotted a slightly more generous allowance; this, combined with Arthur’s pension, meant that she had £525 per year to live on.
    ‘Perhaps we should have realised that she would want to buy gifts,’ Sarah whispered to her sister once Lydia was out of earshot. ‘I bet Lydia has bought some too. Only she’s more tactful than Ava. Hers will be stored somewhere around and only produced to reciprocate. We could have dipped into my savings.’
    ‘Dipped into your son’s Eton fund to buy frivolities for our indulged friends? I don’t think so.’ In public, Beatrice was usually placid and respectful of the concept of rarely saying what she thought. For her to be quite so unguarded, she must be smarting under the slap of embarrassment and frustration.
    ‘Beatrice, remember we are rather better off than most.’
    Beatrice scowled at her sister. There were few things as annoying as being faced with an irrefutable truth if it contradicted your argument or mood. ‘Maybe, but
still
.’ The emphasis she placed on the word said it all. Sarah understood. There were only so many hand-embroidered tray cloths one could present without people realising one was strapped. Economising during the war had been seen as patriotic, but now it had returned to being considered simply mean. ‘And it was the way she presented the packages. With such a flourish of grace. Limbs tapering in all directions like ribbons on a maypole. It is so annoying! One always feels so chubby and gauche in her company.’
    ‘Darling, you’re neither,’ Sarah said soothingly and untruthfully. Beatrice had not been blessed with good looks or good luck. In another decade her wiry hair, thick nose and heavy ankles might have been forgiven; some chap might have focused on her pretty smile or been convinced that her broad hips were promising, but now men could be so picky. Perfection and extreme youth beat promising childbearing hips every time.
    ‘How is it possible that Ava is two years older than I am?’ groaned Beatrice.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Look at her, she oozes youth and vitality.’
    ‘She does rather. She suits the new fashions.’
    Ava did not need compressors to reduce her breasts as Beatrice did. Her narrow hips and barely-there buttocks suggested the boyish athleticism that was all the rage. Beatrice had so many reasons to be jealous.
    ‘Do you think my hem is perhaps still a little long? Ava was wearing her skirt practically on the knee.’
    ‘I think yours suits you where it is.’
    Beatrice understood her sister’s attempt at tact, and sighed. Ava had slim ankles, shapely calves and neat knees; the sort of legs people wanted to see on display. ‘Yes, Ava really is in a different world.’
    ‘It is a rather fabulous place to inhabit, don’t you think?’ added Lydia, returning with three carefully balanced coupes of champagne, full to the brim.
    Beatrice took a glass and an enormous slug. ‘It’s just hard to think she did so well out of the war when we did so …’ She didn’t bother to finish the sentence.
Badly
didn’t cover it.
    Lydia stared into her drink; she would not contribute anything more to the discussion. Sarah knew that Lydia firmly believed she’d done rather too well out of the war too. She had no brothers to lose, her father was too old to be called up, and Lawrence – well, Lawrence hadn’t seen active service. He’d served, of course, behind a desk. The entire duration of the Great War, behind a desk. Every man aged