Sedition by Katharine Grant Read Free Book Online Page A

Frogmorton had spotted the bailiffs from her bedroom window. There was velvet wallpaper above the panels, plain cushions, striped curtains, and a fireplace that kept most of its heat to itself. Mrs. Frogmorton never sat in this room when she was alone, preferring the little antechamber attached to her bedroom. There was a small stove in there that, once she had closed the door, she often tucked beneath her skirts.
    Agnes Drigg was troubled by the fire. It told her she had made a mistake ordering the Stratton Street drapes taken down. The drapes should have stayed up because in Manchester Square it was still winter and Manchester Square was never wrong. Mrs. Drigg knew better than to look to Elizabeth Brass for reassurance since Mrs. Brass had no notion of drapes or anything else. Stuck in a poky house in Covent Garden for the convenience of Mr. Brass’s membership of Bedford’s gaming club, Mrs. Brass, like her daughter, found daily life a series of unanswerable questions, whether it be breakfast eggs or moving, which she longed to do, if only to stop the ladies of the night earning their money in her porch, some of it from her husband. The last question Mrs. Brass clearly recollected answering was Mr. Brass’s proposal of marriage. She realized soon after that her own judgment must never be trusted again.
    All the mothers were conscious of a pang. “This will signal an ending of sorts,” Mrs. Frogmorton had said while the girls were still upstairs, ushered up by Harriet to admire a music box she kept next to her bed. “Our girls will fly away.”
    “Surely we’ll be welcome at their new hearths,” Mrs. Drigg tried to comfort.
    “Of course, Agnes, but we’ll be encumbrances. Mothers are. At least, mine certainly was.” Mrs. Frogmorton could already see doors closed, secrets kept, grandchildren steered away.
    “At least Alathea will be, well, you know,” said Mrs. Drigg.
    They nodded in deep understanding. None of the three had known Mrs. Sawneyford. As a consequence, her looks and character were a regular subject of speculation, particularly as Alathea grew older and more bewildering. Mrs. Frogmorton and Mrs. Drigg thought the girl should want a mother. Alathea did not want a mother. That was perfectly clear. They thought she should want to be embraced. She did not. They thought she should want to confide. Not a word. Yet ignoring her would be unchristian. So she grew with their daughters, tolerated but never liked, included but never truly welcomed.
    “We’ll treat Alathea as if she were our own,” said Mrs. Frogmorton with some effort.
    “We’ll try,” said Mrs. Drigg, also with some effort. A mutual nod accompanied a mutual sigh.
    Summoned downstairs, Harriet, Everina, and Marianne sat primly on the settle, their skirts jostling, Harriet once again wearing the bloodied shoes that her maid had made an attempt to clean. Alathea draped herself over a high-backed chair. On Marianne, spotted calico would have looked dull; on Alathea it created an intriguing map of curves. Georgiana, on another high-backed chair, had arranged her bones in a tent of figured silk through which her neck stuck like a flagpole. She had agonized over the choice of gown and now realized she had dressed for an entertainment, not for an introduction to a music master. Her miscalculation consumed her.
    Mrs. Frogmorton, conscious of her hostess’s advantage, moved about the room like one of her husband’s larger freighters. “You will be taught separately in the following order: Harriet, Georgiana, Everina, Marianne, and finally Alathea. Sunday is—”
    “Surely I should be taught first,” Marianne interrupted.
    “Why?”
    “I’m the oldest.”
    “What difference does that make?”
    “I just think—”
    “For goodness’ sake, Marianne, we’re not deciding an inheritance.”
    “I didn’t say we—”
    Mrs. Drigg fell into a twitter. “But actually, Grace, isn’t that a good idea? Marianne and Everina will need to come