Putting on Airs Read Online Free PDF Page B

to assist in creating an even worse reputation of the Archers with her family, so she at last consented to dance with her cousin.  The whole time, he was silent and staring at her with cold scolding.  She refused to meet his eyes at all through the course of the dance.
          Afterwards, she again brought out her fan and remarked that the room felt warm and stuffy, but the servant said the wind was too harsh to open any windows.  Fan beating, she left the ballroom and stepped out the back door, sitting on a swing hanging from the nearest tree.  The sky was dark and smoky, as though every star was replaced with a cloud.  The wind blew her hair out of style, but it felt very relieving to her—relieving until she stumbled off the swing and got sick in the grass.  She forced herself to her feet and staggered to the door.  She had made it just inside when she collapsed onto the floor in a faint.

CHAPTER NINE
    Prying her eyes open, Imogene found herself lying in bed in her own room.  Rain beat against her window, and she could hear faint musical melodies drifting through the air to her from the ballroom.  All was dark except for one candle lit on the table by her bed.  She peered over and saw a medical bag on the floor, suggesting that the doctor had been by and would soon return.
          "How are you feeling, ma'am?"
          Imogene gasped; she had not seen the servant in the room.  She was about to answer when something caught in her throat.  The servant fetched the chamber pot without hesitation and brought it beneath Imogene's mouth just in time.
          "I have called the doctor, and he is speaking to Mr. Cartwright now, ma'am.  He is the only one I have told.  Do you want for me to tell your mother?"
     
          "Not until I am fast asleep," Imogene whispered.
          "Very good, ma'am.  I anticipated as much."
          Imogene managed a smile in gratitude to her thoughtful servant, who left the room with a curtsey and a promise that she would not be gone long.  Imogene sighed, pressing the cold, damp cloth on her forehead.  She greatly appreciated the tranquility and solitude of her room—as opposed to the boisterous clamor of the ballroom—but longed for a means of escape other than illness.
          Wrapping herself in a blanket, she slowly rose from bed to sit by the window and watch the rain, her head resting on the windowsill.  The gentle pattering of the raindrops mingled with the soft song of the harp from the ballroom.  She soon fell asleep again, propped up against the window.
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    Imogene was ill and confined to her bed for a week, during which she was either sleeping or sitting near the window.  The next week, she was finally allowed out of doors (as long as she was sitting on a bench—not hiking around—and as long as Mrs. Barton was there with the parasol).  The whole point of going outside was to enjoy the fresh air and the birds, but no matter how rapturously the lark sang, Mrs. Barton spoiled it as she continued her teaching lectures.  The only way to silence her was for Imogene to bring the Bible with her each time she went outside.  Mrs. Barton would then remain silent for her to read and reflect.  She had offered to read aloud were her mistress too weak to hold up the book, but Imogene satisfied her by saying that she wanted to read at her own pace.
     
          Sitting outside in just such a manner with Mrs. Barton, the parasol, and the Bible, Imogene received a guest—Mr. Archer.  He bowed and cast his shadow over the open pages of the Bible, and the sudden darkness made Imogene look up to notice him.
          "Good-day, sir," she stammered, surprised at his presence.
          "Good day, Ms. Cartwright," he returned.  "I hope you are in better health today."
          "I am, thank you.  I hope you and Clarice are in good health."
          "We are, thank you.  Clarice is inside speaking with your sister, but she will be out