Mulligan's Yard Read Online Free PDF

time with the girls. When had she taken them for walks, for dentistry,
for a theatre outing? When had she last kissed them, hugged them?
    ‘So selfish,’ she muttered. ‘So close to him, so far from them.’ At the end of the day, what was there? Just children, then grandchildren. There was Amy, backbone of
steel, heart of gold. Then Eliza, excellent musician and painter, designer of clothes, seamstress, poet. Margot, vigorous and silly, winner of sporting trophies, remarkable horsewoman, fluent in
French, funny, a performer who, as a child, could sing, dance, keep an audience happy for hours.
    Louisa walked to the bed and laid herself flat on the eiderdown. They had lost a father, and a father was supposed to be so important to a girl. The male parent had a hand in helping choose a
husband. The qualities in a father were often echoed by the son-in-law. May God grant that the three Burton-Masseys would seek husbands who reflected Alex’s real characteristics, the ones he
had displayed before the war.
    For five years, Louisa had simply allowed life to happen. The girls would marry reasonably well, she had believed, so everything would turn out satisfactorily. Money was tight. Much of her dowry
had been invested in improvements at the Grange, and she was left now with just a few thousand, the capital sum of which she dared not touch. The quarterly income, handled by Amy, was paltry.
    Even so, Louisa Burton-Massey knew that she could not change herself overnight, was possibly incapable of changing at all. At forty-five, she was not old, but her wool was dyed sufficiently fast
to preclude the application of new, brighter colours. So, it could well be Amy’s task to better the family’s financial status. Amy, again.
    Sleep beckoned. It was scarcely noon, yet Louisa was tired to the bone. Alex had spoken to Amy, only to Amy. That beautiful voice, deep, yet soft and tender, had poured itself into his
daughter’s ears. Yet Amy had retained her sanity, had held herself in check, so solid, so sure. Louisa must try now to turn herself into another Amy. It should have been the other way round,
she thought sleepily. What sort of a role model had she been . . . ? Thoughts slowed, became disjointed.
    Chanel. Vogue. A nice little number edged with squirrel fur. Eliza. Louisa was suddenly bolt upright on the edge of her bed. What had Amy said earlier this morning? It was quite
respectable to earn money these days. Hadn’t Helen Smythe’s daughter gone into catering? It wasn’t common-or-garden food – no sausage rolls and sandwiches for Camilla
Smythe. No, Camilla’s exclusive range was for moneyed folk whose domestic staff had gone off into factories and so forth. If Camilla Smythe, daughter of one of the wealthiest chaps in
Blackburn, could cook for the gentry, then why not . . . ?
    Louisa was off the bed and down the stairs before taking breath. She entered the drawing room, scarcely noticing that Amy still wore riding clothes, that Eliza was at the piano, that Margot was
missing, as usual. Louisa snatched up her magazine and left the room.
    When their mother had returned to the upper floor, Eliza swivelled on the stool and spoke to her older sister. ‘What happened then?’ she asked.
    ‘Mother happened.’
    ‘Ah.’
    This morning’s diatribe seemed to have fallen on deaf ears, mused Amy. Mother was plainly intending to live in the past, her attention cornered by trends in fashion, her mind centred on
what might have been had Father lived, had the Kaiser died, had Germany slept. Oh, well, let her read her silly magazines. Amy had tried her best.
    Upstairs, Louisa sketched furiously, outlining the shapes of skirts and coats, changing details, drawing a handbag, a hat, a scarf whose width varied to fit with a collar. She had always been a
designer at heart, and Eliza had inherited the ability. An excitement simmered gently inside a woman who was too much of a lady to allow joy to show. She stopped for a moment,