Cynthia Bailey Pratt Read Online Free PDF
Author: Gentlemans Folly
house, it still felt as if one might meet a cowled brother around any corner, the long galleries and high ceilings of the common rooms and huge kitchen much as they were when the house was still a religious one. The bedrooms were once two or three cells, the walls now knocked out to make large single rooms.
Jocelyn liked her room, with its tall, narrow windows that looked out toward the hills. The walls were white plaster, hung with rubbings from ancient carved axes, and the rosewood furniture had feminine curves. Though cluttered with needlework on the table, piles of books in the corner, and objects no monk would have recognized littering the dressing table, something recalled the room’s previous use to mind.
Jocelyn shut her door behind her and immediately started stripping off the male clothing, kicking it, for now, into an untidy heap. Her arm hurt as she pulled off the shirt, and she paused. Black circles stood out like footprints on the snowy skin. The angry officer’s strong grasp came back to her in memory. That moment now seemed so long ago, she was startled to find fresh bruises.
As swiftly as she could, she washed off the dirt of her busy day from wherever it showed, and hustled into clean shift, petticoat, stockings, garters, and book muslin gown. Only then did she feel as if she could draw a full breath. She tied a scarf the faint blue of the spring sky through her short dark brown hair. It would do no good to comb or brush it. Nothing made any difference to the thick springy curls covering her head.
Jocelyn picked up the coat and spent a few minutes removing the bloodstain from the sleeve with the cold water in the bedroom jug. When the mark faded enough to be indistinguishable from any of the coat’s other, varied stains, Jocelyn gathered everything together. Clutching the bundle to her chest, she peeked around the jamb of her door. When she saw no one, she walked quickly to Tom’s room. She hung the coat on a hook and lay the other things in the bottom of his wardrobe for now.
Having only worn boy’s clothes once before when teased into accepting a bet from Granville, she could judge how much she had grown up by the extent of her embarrassment today as compared with that of four years ago. She vowed that she would never be wheedled into such nonsensical behavior again. Her entire body shook when she considered how close she’d come to ignominy and disgrace.
To her shame, she realized she felt worse over dressing as a boy than she did about striking down a constable in the performance of his duty. That had felt splendid, now that she took an opportunity to reflect upon it. Opening a window to air the room, Jocelyn took a deep breath before going down to bid good evening to her aunt and uncle.
In the library every surface including some of the floor was occupied by objects of almost unimaginable use. Jocelyn’s uncle sat behind his U-shaped writing desk, staring out the windows, the end of his old-fashioned quill pen curling around his balding head like an angel’s wing. Unnoticed, Jocelyn kissed his cheek.
His wife raised her faded blue eyes from her work. Jocelyn’s uncle and aunt avidly collected Saxon artifacts, specializing in those items made just after the Romans departed from the British Isles. Arasta Luckem pushed the fine fair hair off her face, grubby from the soft lead she used to record the surfaces of ancient objects. Thus begrimed, she bore a startling resemblance to her youngest son.
She had been a pale, pretty girl when she married Gaius Luckem twenty-five years ago, but many of those years had been spent on open hilltops searching for evidence of ancient life. Her face, like that of her husband, was browned by the sun and roughened by the wind, with many small lines around her eyes from squinting at the things they found.
Mrs. Luckem said, “Phew, my dear, I cannot believe how far behind we are. I knew we’ve been terribly slack of late; I hadn’t realized the extent of
Jocelyn liked her room, with its tall, narrow windows that looked out toward the hills. The walls were white plaster, hung with rubbings from ancient carved axes, and the rosewood furniture had feminine curves. Though cluttered with needlework on the table, piles of books in the corner, and objects no monk would have recognized littering the dressing table, something recalled the room’s previous use to mind.
Jocelyn shut her door behind her and immediately started stripping off the male clothing, kicking it, for now, into an untidy heap. Her arm hurt as she pulled off the shirt, and she paused. Black circles stood out like footprints on the snowy skin. The angry officer’s strong grasp came back to her in memory. That moment now seemed so long ago, she was startled to find fresh bruises.
As swiftly as she could, she washed off the dirt of her busy day from wherever it showed, and hustled into clean shift, petticoat, stockings, garters, and book muslin gown. Only then did she feel as if she could draw a full breath. She tied a scarf the faint blue of the spring sky through her short dark brown hair. It would do no good to comb or brush it. Nothing made any difference to the thick springy curls covering her head.
Jocelyn picked up the coat and spent a few minutes removing the bloodstain from the sleeve with the cold water in the bedroom jug. When the mark faded enough to be indistinguishable from any of the coat’s other, varied stains, Jocelyn gathered everything together. Clutching the bundle to her chest, she peeked around the jamb of her door. When she saw no one, she walked quickly to Tom’s room. She hung the coat on a hook and lay the other things in the bottom of his wardrobe for now.
Having only worn boy’s clothes once before when teased into accepting a bet from Granville, she could judge how much she had grown up by the extent of her embarrassment today as compared with that of four years ago. She vowed that she would never be wheedled into such nonsensical behavior again. Her entire body shook when she considered how close she’d come to ignominy and disgrace.
To her shame, she realized she felt worse over dressing as a boy than she did about striking down a constable in the performance of his duty. That had felt splendid, now that she took an opportunity to reflect upon it. Opening a window to air the room, Jocelyn took a deep breath before going down to bid good evening to her aunt and uncle.
In the library every surface including some of the floor was occupied by objects of almost unimaginable use. Jocelyn’s uncle sat behind his U-shaped writing desk, staring out the windows, the end of his old-fashioned quill pen curling around his balding head like an angel’s wing. Unnoticed, Jocelyn kissed his cheek.
His wife raised her faded blue eyes from her work. Jocelyn’s uncle and aunt avidly collected Saxon artifacts, specializing in those items made just after the Romans departed from the British Isles. Arasta Luckem pushed the fine fair hair off her face, grubby from the soft lead she used to record the surfaces of ancient objects. Thus begrimed, she bore a startling resemblance to her youngest son.
She had been a pale, pretty girl when she married Gaius Luckem twenty-five years ago, but many of those years had been spent on open hilltops searching for evidence of ancient life. Her face, like that of her husband, was browned by the sun and roughened by the wind, with many small lines around her eyes from squinting at the things they found.
Mrs. Luckem said, “Phew, my dear, I cannot believe how far behind we are. I knew we’ve been terribly slack of late; I hadn’t realized the extent of