Read Cynthia Bailey Pratt for Free Online Page B
Authors: Gentlemans Folly
the letter her gentle mother wrote to the unknown man which had been returned with his reply, stinging as cold rain in the face. There would be nothing, neither money nor affection, for a brat whose relation to his son could not be proved, no matter how many “marriage certificates” were produced. Julia Burnwell never wrote again. First anger, then death, made re-approachment impossible.
Jocelyn passed the asparagus to Mr. Luckem. “I suppose,” he said, coming reluctantly into the present century, “we’ll have to advertise again.”
Granville laughed at him. ‘Really, Father, I’m sure all the housekeepers in England have heard of us. We won’t find another for love or money.”
“What’s wrong with us?” Arnold wanted to know as he flipped a bun into his pocket for one of the creatures in his room. Only Jocelyn saw, and though she pursed her lips and shook her head, she said nothing.
“Oh, you wouldn’t understand.” Granville’s gaze passed over his family, taking in all the evidence of their lack of interest in the important matters of life.
The chairs in which they sat matched neither each other nor the long rectangular table, spread with a much-stained cloth. The pictures on the wall were all drawings of Anglo-Saxon objects. His cousin, were Granville’s life part of the novels he was fond of reading, should have been a perfect beauty with classical features. Instead, she was thin and snub-nosed with ridiculous hair, the curls tightened by the heat of the kitchen. Arnold never had been told to be “seen and not heard.” And his parents were hardly the remote, cultivated persons of consequence who deserved such a son as himself.
Granville longed for the day when he would go to Oxford, to mix with the notable and noble, and to have all the advantages lost upon his elder brother, Tom. They seemed all the more precious as he realized how close he’d come to losing them today. While fixing his cravat, he’d decided that resolving any further adventures of Arnold’s would be someone else’s responsibility.
The tutor, Mr. Fletcher, read silently at the end of the table throughout the meal, a habit none of the Luckems would have considered worth mentioning to him. He did help to clear the table, using only one hand, the other employed in holding his book before his well-shaped nose. Mr. Fletcher seemed to operate like a bat, avoiding objects without seeing them.
After his task he disappeared to spend the time before bed with more reading. Jocelyn had reason to think he might spend a few moments dreaming about one living person, her friend, Helena Fain. If he did think romantically about Miss Fain, it didn’t affect his work. He was an excellent tutor and was Granville’s only hope for entering university next year.
After supper, Jocelyn pressed Arnold into washing the dishes by a glance of implied blackmail. Granville refused to ruin his hands with the coarse soap and only took up the dishtowel after his younger brother promised harm to his best coat if he didn’t agree to dry.
Later, they helped to pack their parents’ collection carefully in straw. The cousins were well used to handling the fragile objects and to swaddling them well against bumps and crashes. Arnold actually owned the lightest touch of any of them, save Jocelyn.
Mr. Luckem oversaw the packing of the artifacts into the three small barrels Mr. Quigg had picked up in Libermore. One smelled strongly of pickles, and Mr. Luckem even made a joke, saying how he hoped the smell would “preserve” his treasures. Only the larger pieces, such as pots and the bits that were determined to be of military use, were packed in this fashion. The most delicate were carefully wrapped in Mr. and Mrs. Luckem’s own clothing.
Jocelyn helped with this task, while the boys loaded the carriage under Mr. Quigg’s supervision. Picking up a rare and beautiful enameled clasp, Jocelyn felt it would crumble to dust in her hand, no matter how gently
Jocelyn passed the asparagus to Mr. Luckem. “I suppose,” he said, coming reluctantly into the present century, “we’ll have to advertise again.”
Granville laughed at him. ‘Really, Father, I’m sure all the housekeepers in England have heard of us. We won’t find another for love or money.”
“What’s wrong with us?” Arnold wanted to know as he flipped a bun into his pocket for one of the creatures in his room. Only Jocelyn saw, and though she pursed her lips and shook her head, she said nothing.
“Oh, you wouldn’t understand.” Granville’s gaze passed over his family, taking in all the evidence of their lack of interest in the important matters of life.
The chairs in which they sat matched neither each other nor the long rectangular table, spread with a much-stained cloth. The pictures on the wall were all drawings of Anglo-Saxon objects. His cousin, were Granville’s life part of the novels he was fond of reading, should have been a perfect beauty with classical features. Instead, she was thin and snub-nosed with ridiculous hair, the curls tightened by the heat of the kitchen. Arnold never had been told to be “seen and not heard.” And his parents were hardly the remote, cultivated persons of consequence who deserved such a son as himself.
Granville longed for the day when he would go to Oxford, to mix with the notable and noble, and to have all the advantages lost upon his elder brother, Tom. They seemed all the more precious as he realized how close he’d come to losing them today. While fixing his cravat, he’d decided that resolving any further adventures of Arnold’s would be someone else’s responsibility.
The tutor, Mr. Fletcher, read silently at the end of the table throughout the meal, a habit none of the Luckems would have considered worth mentioning to him. He did help to clear the table, using only one hand, the other employed in holding his book before his well-shaped nose. Mr. Fletcher seemed to operate like a bat, avoiding objects without seeing them.
After his task he disappeared to spend the time before bed with more reading. Jocelyn had reason to think he might spend a few moments dreaming about one living person, her friend, Helena Fain. If he did think romantically about Miss Fain, it didn’t affect his work. He was an excellent tutor and was Granville’s only hope for entering university next year.
After supper, Jocelyn pressed Arnold into washing the dishes by a glance of implied blackmail. Granville refused to ruin his hands with the coarse soap and only took up the dishtowel after his younger brother promised harm to his best coat if he didn’t agree to dry.
Later, they helped to pack their parents’ collection carefully in straw. The cousins were well used to handling the fragile objects and to swaddling them well against bumps and crashes. Arnold actually owned the lightest touch of any of them, save Jocelyn.
Mr. Luckem oversaw the packing of the artifacts into the three small barrels Mr. Quigg had picked up in Libermore. One smelled strongly of pickles, and Mr. Luckem even made a joke, saying how he hoped the smell would “preserve” his treasures. Only the larger pieces, such as pots and the bits that were determined to be of military use, were packed in this fashion. The most delicate were carefully wrapped in Mr. and Mrs. Luckem’s own clothing.
Jocelyn helped with this task, while the boys loaded the carriage under Mr. Quigg’s supervision. Picking up a rare and beautiful enameled clasp, Jocelyn felt it would crumble to dust in her hand, no matter how gently