Jennie About to Be Read Online Free PDF

she commanded. She nodded to Mavis, the door was opened, and they went out into the spring afternoon.
    The barouche waited; the coachman in maroon livery was as impassive as Mavis, but with a nuance of contempt. The two black horses were satiny in the sun. One did not greet the Higham horses by kissing their noses and asking how they did; one did not visit them in the mews with gifts of apples and sugar lumps. A few hundred miles away Nelson, still in his thick winter coat, would be browsing in the orchard. Right now , Jennie thought with a griping pain in her stomach, my real life is going on back there . What am I doing here?
    â€œWell, Jennie?” her aunt said tartly. She was already seated, and Charlotte sat opposite her, back to the horses. She smiled at Jennie; the rosy silk lining of her bonnet reflected on her narrow face, and she was hoping there might be soldiers riding in the park.
    In a shabby crescent they stopped for Lady Clarke, wearing brown kerseymere and crepe and a velvet turban with a veil. Their discreetness was shattered by her obvious rouge and such a powerful scent that even Aunt Higham’s nostrils flared involuntarily. Between that and riding backward I shall be sick , Jennie thought hopefully. I shall have to be taken at once back to Brunswick Square before I disgrace myself . She imagined a geyser of undigested dinner shooting into Lady Clarke’s lap.
    The picture was so entertaining that it diverted the incipient nausea. After such an incident Aunt Higham might consider it a blessing, rather than an insult, that the bird had flown.
    The first really warm and sunny day had brought crowds out to stroll or drive under the new leaves, but it was still damp enough to keep the dust down. Charlotte’s head turned constantly; she was a kitten watching a swarm of bright butterflies. She was entranced by the occupants of the other equipages; the young men in their glossy curricles and phaetons behind matched pairs were all Phoebus to her, each driving his own chariot of the sun. Their lady friends dazzled in rainbows of pelisses, mantles, cloaks, Lavinia hats, jockey bonnets.
    As for the riders of horses, Charlotte’s eyes enameled them all with beauty; Jennie was sure that the girl saw not one portly or ungainly figure among them. They were all gods or heroes, and every horse kin to Bucephalus. The women in a splendid variety of riding habits and hats, feathered or buckled, or trailing vivid scarves, rode with stately yet graceful confidence, simultaneously managing reins, crops, and conversation.
    Lady Clarke’s brown velvet turban nodded in all directions, her quizzing glasses were at the ready, her other gloved hand kept raising and waggling the fingers; she might have been royalty. Aunt Higham was more restrained, but her broad face wore a tight smile of either pleasure or determination—it was hard to tell—and her bows were frequent.
    A big bay dashed by them, and Charlotte seized Jennie’s arm. “That was the Prince of Wales, I’m sure!”
    Lady Clarke gazed severely through her quizzing glasses after the rider and honked, “Nonsense, child! The Prince is very stout.”
    Mortified, Charlotte whispered, “He looked like a prince.”
    â€œHe may be a duke or an earl.” Jennie comforted her.
    A young man alone in a phaeton behind two grays came abreast of them and lifted his high-crowned hat. “Good afternoon, Lady Clarke! Madam! Young ladies!” A radiant smile for the girls, and the phaeton sped on. Both girls instantly twisted around to watch and were tapped smartly on the knees by Aunt Higham.
    â€œBehave yourselves!”
    Are we out to see or to be seen? Jennie asked silently, but she knew the answer. To be seen. Marketable goods.
    â€œBut who is he, Mama?” Charlotte said.
    â€œNo one either of you should know,” said her mother. “A coxcomb, nothing more. He played ducks and drakes with his inheritance