Flowers From The Storm by Laura Kinsale Read Free Book Online Page B

of her parlor, in her own little house. Her papa lifted his head, smiling.
    “Home already, Maddy girl?”
    “Oh, Papa!” she said.
    His smile faded. He sat up. “What is it?”
    “I hardly know—I don’t—” She gave a little dry moan, holding onto the doorknob. “He’s dead, Papa!
    He was killed in a duel this morning!”
    Her father sat very still, his hands poised over his wooden symbols. After a long, silent moment, he said,
    “Dead.”
    The word had a hollow sound. Maddy sank to her knees beside him, leaning her head in his lap. “It is—such a shock.”
    His fingers rested on her hair. She hadn’t put on her bonnet today; she wore her hair in the same braids she’d worn last night. He stroked lightly up and down the nape of her neck. He touched her cheek and caught the single tear that had escaped.
    Maddy lifted her head. “I don’t know why I’m—why I should be weeping! I didn’t even like him!”
    “Didst thou not, Maddy girl?” he asked softly. “I did.”
    He went on stroking her hair. She rested her cheek against his leg, staring off into the corner of the room.
    “I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “I just cannot seem to believe it.”

 

     
     

Chapter Four
    Blythedale Hall looked to Maddy like a handsomely decorated cake, with soft salmon-colored brick set off by straight pilasters and arched curves of pale stone frosting. Cousin Edward’s new retreat included a large piece of Buckinghamshire countryside, with a rose garden heavy in Tenth Month blossoms, a herd of fallow deer roaming the open park, and black swans gliding serenely on the lake, all legacies of the impoverished baronet who had sold it and now carefully maintained for the calming and beneficiary effects upon Cousin Edward’s patients.
    Papa’s cousin Dr. Edward Timms supervised Blythedale in the most modern and humane manner. Each of his charges had his own personal attendant; a wholesome restraint was imposed only in the most intractable cases and removed as quickly as practicable. He was dedicated to his work, describing the therapies and management in enthusiastic detail in between cutting up bacon for himself and inviting Papa to take another kipper or more coffee.
    Maddy could hear a woman crying—a most disturbing and audible sound—but Cousin Edward seemed not to notice it, and after a while it faded away. She sipped at her coffee, trying to arm herself for the tour ahead: her first view of the place and people, and a description of her position.
    Cousin Edward had assured her that the duties were of a supervisory nature, rather than heavy work.
    There would be an experienced attendant to serve Papa while she was occupied, and altogether it had seemed impossible to refuse Cousin Edward’s invitation to come and assume his wife’s managerial functions while she was confined with her third child, on the expectation that if all went satisfactorily, the post might become Maddy’s permanently. The offer appeared especially propitious after the disappointment of the letter regarding the mathematical chair, from one Henry Brougham, regretting that the funds pledged by the Duke of Jervaulx had been withdrawn and the chair endowed by another source, a gentleman who wished to remain anonymous but who preferred a different candidate to Mr.
    Timms.
    And verily, Buckinghamshire and Blythedale seemed perfect in the autumn morning, with sunlight warming the newly painted marigold-yellow walls of the dining room, sparkling off the silver and fine porcelain plate that had been surrendered by the penniless baronet along with the paintings and furniture.
    The house smelled of fresh wax and new hangings. Nothing dismal had been allowed to remain, Cousin Edward pointed out.
    Everything was peaceful and pleasant, if far too sumptuous for Maddy’s notion of Quakerly virtue. But the surroundings were fitted up to the well-bred tastes of Cousin Edward’s patients. There was only that distant sound of weeping to mar the