as if this
intelligence must have some meaning to the gathering watchers.
„Yes, Your Ladyship; we received your letter,“ the man said.
Sarah saw a faint shadow of distaste cross the woman’s features, as if she
disliked the form of address – which had, if anything, been too formal rather than
too familiar. Sarah’s eyes widened at the size and number of the trunks disgorged by
the traveling carriage, but with all their variety they still seemed to lack a maid or
personal servant to tend them.
„Then perhaps you would be so good as to oblige me with the information I
requested of you, and provide me with the direction of Miss Charlotte Masham of
this city. Of course, it is possible that she has married, and is no longer known by
that name,“ Mrs. Kennet added with grudging reasonableness.
The innkeeper drew breath for a lengthy disquisition when Sarah, quite surprising
even herself, stepped forward.
„I am afraid you have come too late if you wish to speak to my mother, ma’am,
but I am Charlotte Masham’s daughter. I am Sarah Cunningham.“
Mrs. Kennet turned a brilliant silvery gaze upon her, and Sarah felt her own face
go still and watchful. She met the inspection unflinchingly.
„You do have some look of the Mashams about you girl – and if you are indeed
Charlotte Masham’s daughter, then I have a letter for you.“
Soon Sarah had been installed in the Bell and Candle’s best – ’and only – coffee
parlor, awaiting her hostess, who had retired to repair the ravages of travel. Sarah
had no doubt that every word spoken on the curbstone before the post-house had
already made its way to Cousin Masham’s ears, nor that she herself would be called
upon to render up a fuller accounting when she returned home.
Best to have something to account for, in that case. Sarah frowned faintly. She
could not remember any English correspondents among her mother’s infrequent
letters, and Charlotte Masham was the third generation of her family to have been
born in America, so it was hard to believe that any familial ties to the Old World
remained. Sarah sipped at the boiling black coffee before her, and bit into one of the
warm sugary doughnuts from the plate piled high at her elbow. The Innkeeper had
been extremely eager to please. Whoever Madame Alecto Kennet might be, she
certainly had the knack of getting things done in her own way.
As if summoned by thought of her, Mrs. Kennet chose that moment to reappear.
Bonnet and cap had been exchanged for a finer cap of nearly transparent lace
which neatly confined, while doing nothing to conceal, the cinnamon-sugar hair.
Pearl-and-garnet earbobs dangled from the lady’s ears, and a cameo brooch set with
matching stones glowed upon a black velvet ribbon at her throat. The dull green
traveling pelisse was gone, and in its place Mrs. Kennet wore a deep blue dress of
twilled gros de Maples with long narrow sleeves trimmed and edged in blonde lace.
The square neck of the dress was made up high and trimmed in blonde lace as well,
and the long straight skirt was relieved by two courses of black velvet vandyking
appliqued six inches above the hem. A cashmire shawl of deep jewel colors and
fantastical design hung carelessly over one arm, and tiny fanciful slippers of
blue-dyed Turkish leadier, which would not have survived an hour’s use on the
cobbled streets outside, completed a costume of quite stupefying elegance.
Mrs. Kennet drew a quizzing-glass from her sleeve and regarded Sarah, and
suddenly Sarah was bitterly aware of the picture she herself must present: the sturdy
muslin cap concealing her light brown hair, the plain calico fichu pinned close at the
throat of an unadorned blue woolen round gown that had already seen its best days.
Her white cotton apron and plain red wool shawl only served to complete the picture
of Colonial dowdiness, and Sarah tucked her feet
intelligence must have some meaning to the gathering watchers.
„Yes, Your Ladyship; we received your letter,“ the man said.
Sarah saw a faint shadow of distaste cross the woman’s features, as if she
disliked the form of address – which had, if anything, been too formal rather than
too familiar. Sarah’s eyes widened at the size and number of the trunks disgorged by
the traveling carriage, but with all their variety they still seemed to lack a maid or
personal servant to tend them.
„Then perhaps you would be so good as to oblige me with the information I
requested of you, and provide me with the direction of Miss Charlotte Masham of
this city. Of course, it is possible that she has married, and is no longer known by
that name,“ Mrs. Kennet added with grudging reasonableness.
The innkeeper drew breath for a lengthy disquisition when Sarah, quite surprising
even herself, stepped forward.
„I am afraid you have come too late if you wish to speak to my mother, ma’am,
but I am Charlotte Masham’s daughter. I am Sarah Cunningham.“
Mrs. Kennet turned a brilliant silvery gaze upon her, and Sarah felt her own face
go still and watchful. She met the inspection unflinchingly.
„You do have some look of the Mashams about you girl – and if you are indeed
Charlotte Masham’s daughter, then I have a letter for you.“
Soon Sarah had been installed in the Bell and Candle’s best – ’and only – coffee
parlor, awaiting her hostess, who had retired to repair the ravages of travel. Sarah
had no doubt that every word spoken on the curbstone before the post-house had
already made its way to Cousin Masham’s ears, nor that she herself would be called
upon to render up a fuller accounting when she returned home.
Best to have something to account for, in that case. Sarah frowned faintly. She
could not remember any English correspondents among her mother’s infrequent
letters, and Charlotte Masham was the third generation of her family to have been
born in America, so it was hard to believe that any familial ties to the Old World
remained. Sarah sipped at the boiling black coffee before her, and bit into one of the
warm sugary doughnuts from the plate piled high at her elbow. The Innkeeper had
been extremely eager to please. Whoever Madame Alecto Kennet might be, she
certainly had the knack of getting things done in her own way.
As if summoned by thought of her, Mrs. Kennet chose that moment to reappear.
Bonnet and cap had been exchanged for a finer cap of nearly transparent lace
which neatly confined, while doing nothing to conceal, the cinnamon-sugar hair.
Pearl-and-garnet earbobs dangled from the lady’s ears, and a cameo brooch set with
matching stones glowed upon a black velvet ribbon at her throat. The dull green
traveling pelisse was gone, and in its place Mrs. Kennet wore a deep blue dress of
twilled gros de Maples with long narrow sleeves trimmed and edged in blonde lace.
The square neck of the dress was made up high and trimmed in blonde lace as well,
and the long straight skirt was relieved by two courses of black velvet vandyking
appliqued six inches above the hem. A cashmire shawl of deep jewel colors and
fantastical design hung carelessly over one arm, and tiny fanciful slippers of
blue-dyed Turkish leadier, which would not have survived an hour’s use on the
cobbled streets outside, completed a costume of quite stupefying elegance.
Mrs. Kennet drew a quizzing-glass from her sleeve and regarded Sarah, and
suddenly Sarah was bitterly aware of the picture she herself must present: the sturdy
muslin cap concealing her light brown hair, the plain calico fichu pinned close at the
throat of an unadorned blue woolen round gown that had already seen its best days.
Her white cotton apron and plain red wool shawl only served to complete the picture
of Colonial dowdiness, and Sarah tucked her feet
Similar Books
Suck It Up
Emma Hillman
Eye Spy
Tessa Buckley
Seduction in Mind
Susan Johnson
Shadow Hawk
Jill Shalvis
The Dutch
Richard E. Schultz
The Wellstone
Wil McCarthy
The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3)
Jennifer Blackstream
Claws for Alarm
T.C. LoTempio
The Templars and the Shroud of Christ
Barbara Frale
Twelve Red Herrings
Jeffrey Archer