Kitty Little Read Online Free PDF

being kind and he did understand about Clara. Her smile this time was more natural, filled with relief. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered back. ‘You’re a brick.’
    ‘Check mate,’ he said, gathering up her king, and they both laughed.
     
    Esme sat in the sewing circle making vicious little stabs into the towelling fabric. She had opted to make bibs for babies which, she reasoned, even she couldn’t mess up since there were no armholes to worry over, no darts or pleats which always defeated her. But stitching on the bias binding was driving her mad with boredom. It had taken weeks to finish three pink and now she was on her second blue. Did the poor babies care if they were given the wrong one? she wondered.
    She could hear a skylark singing somewhere, the pure clarity of its song soaring heavenwards as the tiny brown bird hovered invisibly high above the church meadow.
    ‘When you’ve finished your half dozen bibs, Esme, you can start on something more adventurous like smocking.’
    ‘Thank you, Mrs Walsh.’ Was that to be the summit of adventure and achievement in her life? To be allowed to put smocking on a child’s frock?
    Her father praised her warmly when she got home. ‘I know needlework is not your forte, but think of those who will benefit from your efforts. Mrs Walsh distributes every scrap to those in the parish who do not have either the time or ability to sew, or the money to purchase clothes for their children. It is a generous act of mercy. Bless you.’
    ‘I suspect they could get along much better without me. The thread keeps getting tangled or breaking, or slipping out of my needle and it takes an age to re-thread every time.’
    The Reverend Bield smiled. ‘I’m sure your skills will improve. Practise makes perfect. Your mother was a splendid seamstress.’
    ‘I am not my mother.’
    ‘You’re so like her, you must forgive me if at times I compare you with her. I miss her so very badly.’
    ‘I know, Father. I’m sorry.’
    He came to stand behind her where she sat at the table, cupping her cheeks between his hands as he tilted her head back so that he could kiss her brow. ‘Well done my child. No, not a child any longer. In fact you are growing up far too quickly.’
    ‘Nineteen soon. My birthday, remember?’ There was excitement in her voice, in her eyes as she looked up at him. Esme had asked for a book, one by Charles Dickens, on a sudden urge to improve the quality of her reading matter.
    ‘Of course,’ he murmured, half to himself. ‘Almost a woman. Just like my darling Mary.’
    Esme was wondering if her request would be granted when she became aware of a small pressure upon her breast. She realised with a frisson of shock that his hands had slid down, one grasping her shoulder, the other covering one breast, the fingertips flickering lightly over the nipple. She held her breath, waiting for him to realise and remove it. Instead, the pressure intensified and hardened, moving with a sensual purpose that made her feel trapped, unclean. Shocked, she jerked upright, pushing him away, cheeks aflame.
    ‘What is it, my dear? Don’t be troubled. It’s perfectly natural for me to wish to caress you. It was no more than genuine tenderness.’
    Esme felt instantly guilty at her reaction, and very slightly foolish. Was she turning into an hysterical spinster? Probably he’d grown confused again, thinking she was her mother.
    He turned away, as calm and unruffled as if nothing untoward had taken place. ‘I shall retire to my study until supper is ready. After we’ve eaten, I may read Swiss Family Robinson to you, by way of reward. How would that be, my child?’
    Now she was his daughter again, one to be rewarded with the rare treat of a book. So everything must be all right, mustn’t it?
    The overwhelming responsibility of her father’s love suddenly swamped her and she felt despair gnaw at her heart. Esme wanted to shout that she didn’t need a reward for being a good girl,