The Hourglass by Bárbara Metzger Read Free Book Online Page A

whenever the feathered forager dropped coins, buttons, or beads at her feet or on her bed.
    “That’s Olive,” she said, trying to teach it. “Can you say Olive? And no, I cannot keep you. You are the earl’s companion.” She did feed the crow bits of fruit and cheese, occasionally dipping a corner of bread in wine, which he seemed to like even better.
    “I love, I love,” he cooed while she gently stroked his shiny black head.
    “That’s right—your name is Olive.”
    The night before the wedding, Ardeth escorted Genie to a dinner at the foreign embassy. She was dressed to the nines—in black—with lace and her only jewelry, a strand of pearls. She knew she was in better looks than ever, but not half as stunning as the man at her side. He made sure to introduce her to the dignitaries and their wives as his bride-to-be. One look from him, his hand possessively placed over hers on his arm, stilled any comments or criticisms, even when he muttered, “Shite” when someone spilled wine near her skirt, which stayed dry somehow. She was shown a deference she’d never experienced, not as younger sibling to an acknowledged beauty, nor as Elgin Macklin’s second-choice bride, or his supposed tagalong camp-following sister. It was heady stuff, this being a countess. The effort required for her to act like a great lady, knowing they were all weighing her every word and action, was also terrifying, as if marrying Lord Ardeth weren’t scary enough. She watched the sun rise on her wedding day, too.
    *
    For her first wedding, Genie had worn a girlish white gown. Her sister, Lorraine, had declared herself old enough to wear bright colors, so her worn muslin had come to Genie. She had carried a drooping bouquet of wildflowers she’d picked herself, a few of their petals dropping as she walked to the village church behind her angry parents. Her father was so disgusted with his younger daughter that he refused to harness his horses for the short distance. According to Squire Hopewell, stealing her sister’s beau, kissing Elgin outside the assembly room, and disgracing his family name were bad enough without Imogene trying to lie and blame dear Lorraine.
    The ceremony had been conducted during regular Sunday services at her village church, and the bride was the only one who cried, although the groom looked dismal enough for tears. Elgin’s eyes were bloodshot anyway, most likely from the three weeks of drinking he’d done before shackling himself to his sweetheart’s plain, skinny, redheaded sister. His neckcloth had been askew and his clothes stank of stale wine. Lorraine, who should have been weeping at the loss of her longtime love, was too busy flirting with his older brother, Roger, back from London for the nuptials.
    Only the immediate families had returned to the Hopewells’ home for the wedding breakfast, Elgin’s mother sniffing in disapproval of both the Hopewells’ cottage and their conniving to trap Roger, who’d been destined for a duke’s daughter at the least. Now, because the elder Hopewell chit had been denied her promised parti , Roger was forced to wed a nobody. The fathers were closeted to discuss marriage settlements. Imogene, Elgin, and their sorry scandal would be sent out of sight, off to war. The heir and dear Lorraine would take up residence in London after a fancy wedding.
    Squire Hopewell had left the book room smiling. His poppet would be a baroness someday. Roger, the future baron, left the wedding breakfast with a serving maid.
    What a difference between that miserable event and Genie’s second marriage. Now she wore a stylish black silk gown, but with a white lace mantilla on her head. She carried pure white roses, and she and her maid, Marie, had arrived in an elegant carriage that was decked in more roses. The ceremony was held at the British ambassador’s palatial residence, strewn with flowers, a violinist playing softly in the corner. A reception would follow at the hotel. The