Cardington Crescent Read Online Free PDF Page A

absolutely none of your affair!” he said abruptly. “And I find your remarks inexpressibly vulgar.” He pushed his chair back, rose, and walked from the room.
    “Well, well.” Eustace folded his newspaper and poured himself another cup of coffee. “Congratulations, my dear.”
    “Better late than never,” Mrs. March conceded. “Although I doubt you will have many more, now.”
    Sybilla still looked flushed, and now thoroughly uncomfortable. For the only time since her arrival, Emily felt sorry for her.
    But the emotion was short-lived. The next few days passed in the customary fashion of Society during the Season. In the mornings they rode in the park, at which Emily had taught herself to be both graceful and skilled. But she had not the outrageous flair of Sybilla, and since George was a natural horseman it seemed almost inevitable that they should more often than not end up side by side, at some distance from the others.
    William never came, preferring to work at his painting, which was his profession as well as his vocation. He was gifted to the degree that his works were admired by academicians and collected by connoisseurs. Only Eustace affected to find it displeasing that his only son preferred to retire alone to the studio arranged for him in the conservatory and make use of the morning light, rather than parade on horseback for the fashionable world to admire.
    When they did not ride, they drove in the carriage, went shopping, paid calls upon their more intimate friends, or visited art galleries and exhibitions.
    Luncheon was usually at about two o’clock, often at someone else’s house in a small party. In the afternoon they attended concerts or drove to Richmond or Hurlingham, or else made the necessary, more formal calls upon those ladies they knew only slightly, perching awkwardly around withdrawing rooms, backs stiff, and making idiotic chatter about people, gowns, and the weather. The men excused themselves from this last activity and retired to one or another of their clubs.
    At four there was afternoon tea, sometimes at home, sometimes out at a garden party. Once there was a game of croquet, at which George partnered Sybilla and lost hopelessly amid peals of laughter and a sense of delight that infinitely outweighed Emily’s, who won. The taste of victory was ashes in her mouth. Not even Eustace, who partnered her, seemed to notice her. All eyes were on Sybilla, dressed in cherry pink, her cheeks flushed, her eyes radiant, and laughing so easily at her own ineptitude everyone wished to laugh with her.
    Again Emily drove home in bitter silence before going leaden-footed up the stairs to change for dinner and the theater.
    By Sunday she could bear it no longer. They had all been to church in the morning; Eustace insisted upon it. He was the patriarch of a godly family, and must be seen to be so. Dutifully, because they were guests in his house, they went—even Jack Radley, to whom it was far from a natural inclination. He would much rather have spent his summer Sundays in a good gallop in the park, with the sun sparkling through the trees and wind in his face, scattering birds, dogs, and onlookers alike—as indeed so would George, normally. But today George seemed positively happy to sit on the hard pew next to Emily, his eyes always wandering to Sybilla.
    Luncheon was spent discussing the sermon, which had been earnest and tedious, dissecting it for “deeper meaning.” By the time they came to the fruit Eustace had pronounced that its real subject was the virtue of fortitude, and of bearing all affliction with a stiff upper lip. Only William was either sufficiently interested or sufficiently angry to bother to contradict him and assert that, on the contrary, it was about compassion.
    “Nonsense!” Eustace said briskly. “You were always too soft, William. Always for taking the easy way out! Too many sisters, that’s your trouble. Should have been a girl yourself. Courage!” He banged the