Read The Weeping Ash for Free Online

Fanny, who was obliged, therefore, to eat the meal in considerable discomfort, with the shawl continually slipping from her shoulders.
    The meal was not a convivial one. Thomas sometimes addressed a remark to his daughters, or a question as to the disposition of his effects. More often it was some withering reproof. When little Patty dropped her soup spoon he snapped:
    â€œHave not either of you girls succeeded in teaching her proper manners yet ?”
    Fanny gathered that little Patty was not often accorded the privilege of eating with her papa.
    â€œShe does well enough as a general thing,” Bet answered shortly. “I daresay she is shy in company.”
    â€œShe will have to get used to the company , as you call it,” Thomas remarked, casting an unflattering glance at his new wife. “Let it be your task, Frances, to improve her table manners.”
    The awkward meal was soon over, ending in a blackberry and apple tart which contained a sour mush of blue-gray fruit and innumerable seeds. After this, Kate, the red-faced cook, brought in and set before her master a dish of deviled bones. Thomas said curtly:
    â€œAh, that looks tastier. You’ll have to do better than this tomorrow, Kate, or I’ll be advertising for a new cook-maid.”
    Kate muttered that one could not get used to a new stove all in a flash.
    â€œYou have a new mistress, too, don’t forget. I shall look to see a great improvement in the next few weeks—or there will be changes made!”
    Kate darted a resentful glance at the new mistress in question, and Fanny felt, with a sinking heart, that her position in this household was being impaired before she had even established it, without her being able to do anything to set herself right.
    Thomas addressed himself to his wife and daughters indiscriminately, as he poured himself a small glass of port.
    â€œRun away now—all of you. I have business to attend to and shall retire to my garden room. I may drink tea with you all later. Send the child to bed.”
    Patty began a protest but was hushed by Bet, who escorted her up the stairs. Martha, with a discontented expression, followed Fanny back to the parlor. There the fire had burned up in the hearth, and its light was reflected eerily, ten times over, in the curved panes of the bow window. Outside, a wind was beginning to rise, which sighed in the boughs of invisible trees, and thumped and whistled in the chimney, as if a live creature were imprisoned there.
    Fanny shivered in her thin, pretty dress, pulling the shawl close about her and moving near the fire. With a heavy heart she remembered how cozily, last night, she had bundled into the big sagging bed with Charlotte and Kitty; there had been teasing and laughter and fun; even Kitty, for once, had seemed sorry that her younger sister and willing servitor was going far away.
    However at least Martha, on her own, seemed less inclined to be hostile than when supported by the presence of her sisters.
    â€œPray, Fanny, have you ever been to Winchester?” she demanded. “Or Salisbury? They say there’s some monstrous fine shops there.”
    Fanny was obliged to confess that she had never set foot in those towns, but she soon discovered that Martha’s principal wish was to describe her own single visit to Brighton, two years since, under the escort of an aunt, her mother’s sister. The splendors of this town, its circulating libraries, pastry shops, Pavilion, the hairstyles and toilets of the ladies, and the ogling effrontery of the beaux, occupied her happily for many minutes. Bet, returning during these eulogies, cast up her eyes in exasperation; evidently the glories of Brighton had a wearisome familiarity for her.
    â€œWell, you wasn’t there, Bet,” Martha said defensively. “Aunt Phillips didn’t see fit to take you; I was just telling Fanny.”
    â€œHas Papa given you leave to call her that?”
    â€œNo, but