Sick of Shadows - M. C. Beaton [18]
“Well, in that case . . .”
“I’ll go now,” said Rose.
Daisy collected the children from school. She had already made a slingshot for Alfred out of a small forked branch and one of her garters and had bought sweets for the rest at the local village shop. “You’re not to eat them, mind,” she cautioned, “until after you’ve had your dinner.”
She was still furious with Rose for being so high and mighty. Daisy was enjoying all this freedom of being away from the rigid class system of London’s top ten thousand.
When they all crowded into the living-room, an amazing sight met their eyes. On the horsehair sofa were spread out gowns in fine muslins, silks and satins.
“Ah, Daisy,” said Rose, “I was just saying to Sally that we could make over some of my gowns to provide the girls with new dresses for the fair.”
The girls screamed with delight. “Silence,” roared their father. “Say thank you to Miss Rose and sit down at the table.”
“Do we have to wear our pinafores over them?” asked Geraldine.
“Of course,” said her mother. “Girls of your age without pinafores? Won’t do.”
Bert said grace. The meal was faggots in a rich sauce, followed by rhubarb tart.
“We’re going to be right fat by the time we leave here,” said Daisy and everyone laughed.
Rose ate steadily, enjoying the food. The rich food she was used to had never spurred her appetite the way Sally’s simple cooking did.
When Daisy went off to take the children back to school, Sally said, “I’ve a sewing-machine in the parlour.”
The parlour was kept for high days and holidays. The sewing-machine was set up at a table by the window. The fireplace was stuffed with newspaper and the room was cold. A newer version of the horsehair sofa in the living-room dominated the parlour, along with two horsehair armchairs covered in slippery black leather. On the mantelpiece was a clock stuck forever at ten past twelve and on an occasional table sat a stuffed owl in a glass case. Against the wall opposite the window was an upright piano.
Sally saw her looking at it. “It’s never played. Bert saved old Mrs. Carey’s life once and she left him that in her will.”
“I’m sure Daisy and myself can give your children lessons if you would like,” said Rose.
Under her hard-looking exterior, Sally was actually shy and had been very nervous of housing this aristocrat and her companion. For the first time since they arrived, she began to feel at ease. “That would be lovely. I’ve got patterns there for all the girls. They had dresses made from them last year, but they’ve all grown a bit since then.”
“I’ll measure them all when they get home from school.”
“Your beautiful gowns,” said Sally awkwardly. “Won’t you need ’em for yourself when you go back to Lunnon?”
“I can have more made,” said Rose, giving Sally a glimpse of what is what like never to have to worry about money.
Mathew Jarvis was sending a very generous sum of money each week for Rose’s and Daisy’s upkeep. The thrifty Bert put it all in a savings account for his children’s futures, keeping some back so that Sally could provide ample meals.
That evening, while Rose measured the girls and discussed which material they would like best, Daisy sat down at the piano and began to sing.
After finishing his beat, Bert was walking home with Dr. Linley, who lived farther along the road. The doctor stopped and said, “Listen!”
From the policeman’s cottage came the sound of two voices. Rose had joined Daisy at the piano.
“You are my honeysuckle, I am the bee,
I’d like to sip the honey sweet
From those red lips, you see.
I love you dearly, dearly, and I
Want you to love me—
You are my honey, honeysuckle,
I am the bee.”
“It’s those girls, those distant relatives of ours,” said Bert. “Seem to be settling in.”
“Shh!” said the doctor.
Rose had started to sing “Just a Song at Twilight.” Other villagers came to join them. The evening air was soft with a hint of summer to come.
Then a smart landau came along and stopped. “What’s going on?” cried an authoritative