The Wallflower's Mistletoe Wedding. Amanda McCabeЧитать онлайн книгу.
walk in the garden, only to be greeted with shouts of ‘What do you think I am, an old invalid? I shall walk! Give me your arm immediately, Rose. You cannot be rid of me so easily, you know, you silly girl.’
Rose did not want to be rid of Aunt Sylvia. She paid a wage that kept Rose’s mother in her cottage, now that Lily and Mr Hewlitt had two children to take care of in their small vicarage and Mama’s small income seemed even smaller than ever. Her mother deserved to stay in her own home and Rose had to work to make it so. But Rose did wish Aunt Sylvia would make up her mind for once.
‘I thought you always enjoyed the old French songs, Aunt,’ she said. ‘Because they reminded you of your time at Versailles.’
In her youth, Aunt Sylvia had once waited upon Queen Marie Antoinette, before she married the wealthy Mr Pemberton and returned to England. She spoke of it all the time and definitely never let anyone forget it, with her grey hair piled high and panniers strangely paired with newer, higher waists and puffed sleeves.
‘Why would I want to hear songs that remind me of such a terrible loss?’ Aunt Sylvia said, thumping her walking stick on the floor. One of the dogs barked. ‘You young people, you know nothing of such things. Nothing of how fortunate you all are.’
Rose suddenly remembered Captain St George and their dance at the midsummer party so long ago, the haunted look in his dark eyes as he mentioned battle and seemed to remember Waterloo. She had thought of him too often in the years since, especially in the long, quiet nights as she lay awake waiting for Aunt Sylvia to call her. Had he married the beautiful Miss Layton, had he come back from battle and found peace at last? She couldn’t help but hope so.
She glanced out the window, out the slim rectangle of thick glass revealed between the heavy brocade curtains Aunt Sylvia kept closed all the time. It had started snowing, a light, lacy, delicate pattern of white against the night sky. It reminded her that it was nearly December, nearly the Christmas season, and she wondered what her mother, what Lily and her little family, were doing now.
Lily and her babies were surely decorating their small sitting room with greenery, baking plum cakes to carry to Mr Hewlitt’s parishioners. Perhaps her mother was embroidering new little gowns to wrap up for her grandchildren’s gifts.
She felt the familiar pang of sadness of missing them and she had to remind herself why she had to work in the first place.
‘Perhaps I could play you a Christmas carol or two, Aunt Sylvia?’ she said. ‘It is nearly that season.’
‘Christmas!’ Aunt Sylvia cried. ‘Don’t even talk to me about the wretched thing. Play some Mozart. You know how I always like that.’
Except for when she called Mozart an overrated performing monkey of a boy. Rose smothered a laugh, and launched into the ‘Allegro’ from Marriage of Figaro. Just as she always could, she soon lost herself in the music, and the harsh world of Aunt Sylvia’s house, her loneliness for her family, vanished. She floated in her own realm, above everything else.
One day, she thought with a happy smile, perhaps she would have her own home with her own pianoforte. Could play whatever she chose, while her family listened...
The piece ended and Rose felt as if she was pushed out of that magical, floating world into the stuffy drawing room. Suddenly all she could hear were the snores of her aunt, mixed with the softer snuffles of the dogs and the crackle of the flames as a log collapsed into ashes in the grate. She remembered how her childhood home had once collapsed, how such things were always dreams.
She peeked over her shoulder to find Aunt Sylvia had indeed fallen asleep, her head lolling back on her cushioned chair. Hardly daring to breathe, for fear she would awaken everyone and prolong the evening, Rose carefully lowered the lid of the pianoforte over the keys and slid off the stool. She cautiously tiptoed over to make sure Aunt Sylvia’s shawls were still warmly tucked around her, and then crept out of the drawing room. She found Miss Powell, her aunt’s long-suffering maid, waiting outside.
Rose gave her a nod, which Miss Powell tersely returned, and at last Rose could make her way up the stairs to her own chamber. It was not a large room at all, barely big enough for a narrow bed, a washstand and her trunk, and it looked down on the frost-covered kitchen gardens, but it was at least her own. In the cottage at home, she had shared with Lily until they could build on an extra room and her sister’s feet at night were always freezing.
And then she missed her sister and mother all over again.
‘Don’t be such a goose,’ she told herself sternly. Surely it was only the Christmas season making her feel so melancholy now, so homesick. She had too much to do to worry about Mama and Lily now. Aunt Sylvia would want her up early as usual, writing letters and walking the dogs.
As she dug around in her clothes trunk for her night chemise, hoping her sheets wouldn’t be too chilled by the time she crawled between them, there was a knock at the door. Surprised anyone would be about at that hour—Aunt Sylvia dined early and only Miss Powell stayed up to help her retire—she hurried to answer it.
One of the young housemaids stood there, yawning into her apron. ‘Beg your pardon, miss, but these came for you by the afternoon post, but I forgot to give them to you. We do get that busy with the tea things...’
Rose shuddered to remember the row with Aunt Sylvia and the undercooked almond cakes that afternoon. ‘That is quite all right, thank you.’ She took the letters eagerly as the maid hurried away.
One from Lily, she saw, recognising her sister’s hurried scrawl. And one with a grander seal, pressed into fashionable green wax. Barton Park, the return address read.
A letter from Barton! Rose felt the warm touch of excitement, and not a little tinge of curiosity. She hadn’t heard from Barton Park in quite some time. She knew Jane had been busy with having little heirs to the earldom, and Emma had recently married David Marton, one of their neighbours.
Rose quickly changed into her nightdress, carefully laying aside her sensible grey-silk gown, and climbed into bed to read the precious missives. She opened the one from Barton first. It was written in elegant dark green ink on thick, creamy stationery.
My dear Miss Parker—or may I call you Cousin Rose?
I am so sorry we have not met since Cousin Lily’s wedding. We do miss your family so much and speak often of how your letters make us laugh. Your tales of being with Aunt Sylvia—dear lady, but, well, she is Aunt Sylvia after all—are better than a comic novel and cheer us to no end. You are a brave lady indeed.
We also speak often of that lovely midsummer ball when Lily and her vicar became engaged. It seems so very long since Barton has enjoyed such an evening.
Hayden has duties in the House of Lords which often take him to London, and as you know we now have four dear children—William, Eleanor, Emma and baby Edward.
Emma and David are also expecting a happy occasion soon and Emma still has her little bookshop in the village. She does insist on scrambling up and down the library ladders, frightening her husband no end, but she declares she has never felt better in her life!
I do envy her. My own times bring nothing but sleepiness. I often nod off by the fire quite like Aunt Sylvia!
Rose smiled at the image of Jane, nodding off by the fire as her children dashed about. She pushed away the hint of envy such an image gave her and continued reading.
In short, dear Cousin Rose, I have a great favour to ask. Emma and I have decided to revive our old Barton parties, this time for the Christmas holidays. It has indeed been a long time since we had such festivities here and the children would so enjoy it.
Their governess, though, wishes to return to her family for a few weeks and I am quite overwhelmed. If Aunt Sylvia could spare you, and if you think you could bear us and our noise, would a position here suit you for a time?
I remember how you loved music and my own little Eleanor shows great talent at the pianoforte and harp already. Aunt Sylvia is, of course, invited as well, if she can ever leave her own hearth. Fingers crossed