Cousin Cecilia Read Online Free PDF Page A

the picture uncertainly. “But it’s so plain on top, with no lace at the neck.”
    “The better to show off your figure, my dear,” Cecilia said frankly. “No one hides her light under a bushel, nor under a clutch of lace and flowers either, if she is clever. These cleaner lines are the highest kick of fashion in London.”
    Martha worried her lips and frowned. “The color is so dark. I usually wear pink or yellow...”
    “I’m sure you looked charming in those colors when you were younger, but you are a woman now. If you wish Mr. Dallan to take note of the fact, you must look the part, for it seems Mr. Dallan can hardly see what is before his eyes, let alone being hidden from them by countrified fashion.”
    Mrs. Meacham received a questioning glance from her elder daughter. The mother had put her faith in Cecilia and was in a rollicking good mood at what she had witnessed thus far. “In for a penny, in for a pound. Do as she says.”
    “And you, Alice,” Cecilia continued, “shall wear a white gown with pink ribbons and a few pink rosebuds. I know, you are going to tell me you cannot wear pink with your red hair, but your hair is not red. It is strawberry blond, and pink looks very good on a young girl. And do, for goodness’ sake, Martha, take your finger out of your mouth,” she said sharply to the elder, for the finger had again found its way into that orifice. Martha withdrew the offending finger and looked apologetic.
    The morning passed quickly. The gentlemen did not deign to make an appearance, Tuesday or not. The afternoon was to be spent in selecting material for the new gowns. Martha’s curls were not set as tightly as they wished, but the papers were removed anyway, for she would not miss out on the shopping, and she was happy with the result. While adding a much needed air of fashion, they also revealed the pretty contours of her cheeks and jaws.
    “My head feels so light,” she said, and laughed in pleasure, as she examined herself in the mirror.
    Mrs. Meacham accompanied them on the shopping trip. They spent a pleasant hour in Morrisey’s shop, the largest store in the village. It sold draperies and trimmings, gloves and shoes, and was a haberdashery besides. The ladies spent a long time mulling over the fabrics and trims, and meeting friends. Mrs. Meacham got caught up in the excitement and was coerced into buying an ell of ecru crepe for herself. “I no more need it than I need a cold in the head,” she asserted, but she smiled as the material was measured out.
    It was while they were shopping that a tall, dark gentleman strolled into the store and stood, waiting impatiently to be served. With the important matter of competition for the girls’ suitors in mind, Cecilia examined him surreptitiously from the corner of her eye. He must be married, was her immediate conclusion, or Mrs. Meacham would have mentioned him.
    Everything about the man was of the first stare, from his stylish barbering to his blue jacket of superfine, to his fawn trousers and polished Hessians. Cecilia moved along to a box of buttons at that end of the counter that would permit her to see his face. He was a little older than she had first thought, but not too old to provide some competition.
    Fine lines traced a path across the forehead of a weathered face. Dark eyes, a strong aquiline nose, a squared jaw and chin, gave an impression of masculine strength. It was the infinitely bored expression that suggested arrogance. One would think to look at him that he had been waiting a fortnight to be served, instead of two minutes. Cecilia failed to notice the dotted Belcher at his throat.
    “I have come to pick up the York tan gloves I was fitted for, Mr. Taylor,” he called impatiently over the ladies’ heads, in a voice of authority. There was that in his voice that said, Heed me. I am a man and too busy to wait while these ladies chatter amongst themselves.
    That he ordered his gloves custom-made told Cecilia he was