With Love from Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #2) Read Online Free PDF

household—”
    “There is? Who is it, Aunt Charlotte?” There was a quick note of interest in the child’s voice. It might be a boy; she might like a boy; she’d never had an opportunity to find out. With all her heart and soul Kerry hoped it wouldn’t be a girl, like Cordelia, the landlady’s daughter. What a frightening possibility! The very thought of Cordelia sent shudders up Kerry’s spine. Cordelia had been overbearing, haughty, and spiteful. Play had always turned ugly when Cordelia didn’t get her way; and as for reading together, Kerry’s favorite pastime, Cordelia spurned that as wasted time. Kerry’s pleasure in it was cause for jealousy and cruel thrusts, and Cordelia ended up calling her “lumpy toad!” or some other ugly conglomeration of strange and terrible words (for an almost illiterate child, Cordelia hadan amazing stock of insulting words at her command). Kerry had no idea what was meant, usually, but the tone alone was enough get her hackles up and her blood boiling, and she wanted, fiercely, to slap the offender. But Cordelia, with a flounce and a sniff, ran away, scornfully flinging the final indignity over her shoulder: “church mouse!” Kerry rather liked mice, but she supposed that being a poor one would be a hateful thing.
    Now, looking down at the young face obviously fearing her answer, Charlotte found herself strangely moved again, and she answered more gently than she would have otherwise. “Frances is the daughter of Mr. Maxwell’s sister.”
    Mr. Maxwell! Here was another cause for worry. Somehow Kerry hadn’t imagined that there would be anyone else to consider—just Aunt Charlotte. Now there was a Mr. Maxwell and an unknown girl.
    It was all too much. Even the ebullient spirit of Keren-happuch Ferne was overcome. With a sigh she folded up for the day, quite naturally laying her whirling head on the silk moire lap, blending a small tear of self-pity with the tea stain and closing her eyes in sleep.
    But not before she felt the gloved hand of her Aunt Charlotte brush the tumbled hair back from her forehead in a gesture as old as motherhood. But it was as new, to Kerry, as the ride in a Maythorn & Son carriage, exhibited at Biggleswade and having the first of its thirteen coats of paint rubbed out with pumice.

M axwell Manor, reached in full dark, was but a large blur to the sleepy Kerry when Gideon lifted her out of the carriage. Her tousled head on his shoulder, eyes only half-open, she had the distinct feeling of coming out of a dark hole into a welcoming retreat. As long as she lived, she was to have that safe feeling whenever she approached the home of her aunt. Somehow cares and fears were left outside, and comfort and a very different kind of care opened their arms and offered a warm embrace.
    Late as it was, the Queen Anne double doors with their handsome glazed glass were flung open. Light beckoned softly from the lamp held high in the hand of another uniformed man, older and more stooped than Gideon. The lamplight on his balding head shone a cheery hello and guided the weary travelers across a wide veranda to the sumptuousness beyond.
    In spite of the overdone decorating, which was the current rage, Charlotte Maxwell had managed to create a home. As the century waned, clutter was adored, and anything simple or without ornament was identified with pauperism. Parlors boasted stuffed birds, statues, dried flower and human hair wreaths, cupids, japanned trays, swagged window hangings, enameled clocks, heavily carved picture frames hung on golden tasseled cords, ornately framed, stiff and stilted family photographs, and much more; simply to cross a room was hazardous. But one was impressed, all the same, by the tasteless congestion.
    The Maxwell home, due to innate good taste and wealth reaching back many generations, was not as unabashedly ostentatious as those of the newly rich, or even of those who had attained middle-class status; goods were cheap and available to