The Clay Dreaming Read Online Free Page B

poise. The dress advertised total indifference towards the fashions of the day. She wore a mantle, for pity’s sake! And she was too tall.
    It was all they could do not to audibly tut.
    Although a greeting worked about Sarah’s lips, no sensible sound came out. She conceded neither bob nor curtsey, and thought for a moment that she might simply turn and leave.
    ‘Come, my dear. Sit.’ Too late – Mrs Hilary South Norton had delivered the dread command. ‘Ladies,’ she said, ‘this is Sarah Ann Larkin, a relation to the Twyttens of Royston Hall…not that you would know it…’
    Mute resentment broke into a flurry of welcoming smiles. The clutch parted to indicate a perch in their midst, if not room exactly. Even as she settled, Sarah sensed pitying glances exchanged behind her back. She began to shrink, until catching herself in the act.
    The company of women was outside of her adult experience. She might as well have been nesting among flamingoes.
    ‘ANNIE, YOU REMEMBER OLD LAMBERT LARKIN?’ Hilary South Norton shouted across the room at alarming volume. ‘THE VICAR OF RYARSH?’ A palsied old crone, collapsed in a far wing chair, gave no indication of having heard. She gave no indication of being awake or even alive. Hilary South Norton persevered. ‘THIS IS HIS ONLY DAUGHTER, SARAH! SARAH ANN HILDA!’
    ‘Huldah’, not ‘Hilda’; and there was something unsavoury about having one’s middle names bellowed across a room. Sarah blushed, to the neck.
    Mrs South Norton turned to her with a look of grave import. ‘How is your father?’ she said.
    ‘Too ill to travel,’ replied Sarah, matter-of-fact.
    ‘So I see. Poor dear. I do hope he is well looked after in London.’ Hilary South Norton performed an abrupt aside. ‘They still have the Cholera, you know.’
    The remark was rewarded with a chorus of gasps, and one ‘How awful!’. For all Sarah knew, there might yet be cholera in London, but it suggested their house itself plague-ridden! The battleaxe took her by the hand, to continue raining blows about her poor, undefended head. ‘You must keep us apprised.’
    Her commiserating tone made Sarah nauseous.
    Mrs South Norton heaved a loud stage sigh. ‘Such sad news from the Manor,’ she said. ‘The Captain was a fine man. Tea?’
    Just two days prior Captain John Savage, latterly Justice of the Peace for the county of Kent, and Lord of the Manor, had dropped down dead.
    At least he’d the good sense to do it on Ascension Day, thought Sarah. Wisely, she bit her tongue. For much of his early priesthood her father had served the locality. On his behalf, and in the family name, she was there to pay respects to a man she had never met.
    ‘No,’ said Sarah, recalling the offer of tea. ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Yes, indeed,’ continued Hilary South Norton, ‘events of recent days have caused us great concern. And how are you coping, my dear?’
    Not being able to scream or hit out, the preacher’s daughter couldn’t rightly say. She did not care for the way Mrs South Norton conflated the subjects of her conversazione, nor the implication arising. Social convention dictated that she respond graciously. Her audience grew impatient. Sarah considered a moment: aside from a subtle fury, she felt nothing. She had anyway missed her cue.
    A knot momentarily disfigured Hilary South Norton’s porcelain brow, and then it became clear: Sarah’s silence had returned the offence twofold. Swift as the drop of a veil, dismissal shadowed her stone façade, and the fearsome basilisk turned away. The other ladies twittered nervously, at no point uttering anything worth the breath.
     
    Escape from their clutches took Sarah the worst of an hour, but escape she did, to walk through the heat haze of the flower garden, alone. The air outside smelled no less sour. All the same, she relished a moment’s peace and solitude. Those two things lately seemed very much to go together. Sarah never felt so lonesome as when in