Amanda Scott Read Online Free PDF Page A

Moreover, whoever had duped the marchioness would get no more, for he would certainly have forbidden her to send so much as another penny.
    Sybilla had no time to consider the matter at greater length just then, for she had not been alone longer than a few minutes before one of the maidservants came in search of her to inform her that her father was displeased.
    “Goodness, Elsie, what is the trouble now?” she asked, getting up at once.
    Elsie held out a slip of paper. “Here, m’lady. I found it on the side table near the top-floor landing. Near as I can make out, it says he don’t like potted beef and Cook isn’t to serve it anymore in this house. Only Cook says as how she’s got jars of the stuff and won’t throw it out, not if the master shouts from the rooftops, ever so. ’Tis wasteful and not what she’s used to, Cook says. And Mrs. Hammersmyth is out, and I didn’t know what else to do. Not but what she would take Sir Mortimer’s side, and right to do so, I’m thinking, but Cook won’t heed her, whatever she says, ’cause she knows Mrs. Hammersmyth can’t do a thing without your leave or the master’s.”
    “ ’Tis the anchovies Papa doesn’t like,” Sybilla said. “I’ll speak to Cook. She can continue to serve the potted beef for our supper and for the servants. Papa will never know. And if she makes him up a nice savory dish of veal scallops, she will soon find herself in favor again.”
    “Does the master never come downstairs, m’lady? I been here only the two months, but I’ve never even seen him. Only the little notes on the table.”
    Sybilla said with calm dignity, “Sir Mortimer speaks to his own man, Borland, of course, but he is shy with womenfolk, Elsie. He’d as lief never speak to a female if he can avoid doing so.”
    “But your mother, m’lady, he must have spoke with her.”
    “Well, of course he did. There are four of us children, after all. But when Mama passed on, Papa retired to his books and his writing, and we’ve scarcely laid eyes on him since.”
    “You mean you never see him neither?”
    “Rarely,” Sybilla admitted. “Oh, I’ve braved his wrath more than once, to be sure. No one else was willing to tell him of my betrothal, for example, and I would not let them write to him about so important an occurrence. My aunt Eliza was my mother’s sister, you know, and it was her advice that I should ignore his protests and tell him personally. I did so, and my ears rang with his reproaches for hours afterward. And even when Aunt Eliza died, he did not leave his rooms to attend her funeral.”
    “But what about your brother, Mr. Charles, m’lady? He bein’ the heir, ’n’ all—surely, he talks to him.”
    Sybilla sighed. Though it was not customary to have such conversations with one’s servants, her father’s behavior had made it necessary that she make exceptions if she did not wish certain rumors activated regarding his mental health. “Mr. Charles,” she said, “sees Papa once a year. He writes for an appointment, stays twenty minutes, and then leaves again, usually redder of face and diminished in spirit.”
    Elsie went away shaking her head, and Sybilla closed the pianoforte and went to speak to Sir Mortimer’s cook. These little contretemps cropped up every day, and she had become most adept at handling them. Better than anyone else. How anyone—naming no names—could think the house in Royal Crescent could run without her, goodness only knew.

II
    T HE FOLLOWING MORNING SYBILLA was in the little ground-floor office she used to tend to household matters, engaged with Mrs. Hammersmyth, her father’s plump, amiable housekeeper, when her footman entered to announce the arrival of a visitor.
    “Mr. Beak, m’lady.”
    “Mr. Beak?” Sybilla raised her eyebrows. “I do not know a Mr. Beak, Robert.”
    “From Haviland’s Bank, he says, m’lady.”
    The housekeeper clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Sir Mortimer deals with Mr. Haviland