Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
I hum, just as a newspaper lands at my feet. I kneel and pick it up, smiling at the first few words of the headline. My sister’s words.
Imagine if …
‘Yes, imagine if,’ I murmur, folding it up and slipping it under my arm.
I rest my hat upon my head, collect my cane from where it is resting against the door, and take the steps down to the cobbles, starting a wander around the square, breathing in the new day, swinging my cane casually. I circle the square anticlockwise, relishing the sounds of the morning bustle, horse’s hooves on the cobbles, wheels or carriages bumping across them too, people calling out their polite greetings to everyone they pass. I have never appreciated the benefits of early mornings, for my nights are too late, being spent in a gentleman’s club, indulging in too much liquor and even more female flesh. The mornings are quite delightful, it must be said.
‘Good morn to you, Melrose,’ Mr Simpson, Belmore’s resident ship builder says, tipping his hat, prompting me to tip mine too. ‘I look forward to the celebrations later.’
‘As do I, Simpson,’ I reply, carrying on my way. ‘Good morn to you, Casper.’ I lift my stick in hello to our family lawyer – a kind man with kind eyes and a kinder smile.
‘Good news about the sales,’ he says. ‘Long may it continue.’
‘We’ll be expanding to ten pages in no time at all,’ I assure him. ‘Let me know if you require any more advertising space, Casper.’
He waves his cane, looking up at the clear blue sky. ‘What a wonderful day for a wedding.’
‘Indeed,’ I say quietly, passing by the Hamsleys, whose daughter, Esther, one of the only women on this square who hasn’t caught my eye, is on her fifth season. Fifth! I am not surprised, she is rather frosty. I have never once seen the girl smile.
‘My lady.’ I nod politely to Annabella Tillsbury, Baroness of Shrewsbury. Her eyes fix to mine. Her smile is demure. She is an understated, beautiful, soft lady, whom Mama has become rather friendly with, and it is for that reason alone, and a crying shame, I must admit, that I have avoided her advances, as I have Lady Blythe, Marchioness of Kent, our local famous author who has a silver tongue and a wicked sense of humour.
I smile fondly at the thought of Mama, who is currently breezing around the house in her morning coat singing orders to our staff, while Emma, her maid, scampers along behind her trying to fix her hair, and Clara, my gorgeous baby sister, whinges and whines about having to wear frills. It’s a stark turnaround from when we arrived in London. Back then, Clara was most impressed, dazzled by the fancy frocks and sumptuous surroundings. Until she realised that those fancy frocks are quite restrictive, and I don’t mean literally. She can no longer dirty herself in mud, pick apples in the orchard, take some home for Mama to bake and throw the bad ones at the boys in our village while yelling blue language. It was rough enough accepting Eliza has come of age and will now marry. Clara? She is just sixteen. Sixteen and overflowing with attitude. Of course, I love it. Of course, it is not suitable for our life these days. So imagine my displeasure when I discover from Eliza that our little, wayward sister is in love with a stable boy. A stable boy! It is not so much that he is a stable boy, although, naturally, that is a problem. She is my baby sister, and I should like to keep her as such for as long as possible. In addition, such a scandal will very likely ruin the family name, and we’ve all worked too hard to allow that. Therefore, the stable boy has had a polite warning to stay away from Clara. Poor thing looked terrified as I casually stroked a hoof knife and nippers. Good. Although, admittedly, I did feel a trifle guilty. I have hardly led by good example when it comes to suitable company to be keeping. Perhaps that changes now.
Perhaps.
I spot Lady Rose, the Countess of Somerset, who resides at number nine Belmore Square, a pointed, haggard old woman, crossing the cobbles up ahead, the feathers on her bonnet looking like they came from a decaying pheasant. The hat must be as old as she is. ‘Melrose,’ she sneers, her nose high. Christ, she looks quite frightening.
‘My lady,’ I say, tipping my hat and bowing as she breezes past. ‘Will we be seeing you for champagne later?’ I ask, forcing her to stop. I smile on the inside, for I know Mama has not invited her.
‘I only attend the weddings of aristocracy.’
And we are not that, as she so often likes to remind us. Lady Rose does not like very many people around here, and the feeling is mutual. Mama always looks like she is sucking on a lemon whenever she encounters the old Countess.