The Ladies of Missalonghi by Colleen McCullough Read Free Book Online Page A

Herbert’s the most, for he staffed it exclusively with young men, sons or grandsons naturally; even if one were purchasing stays or under-drawers, one had to suffer the attentions of a sniggering cad who found his task exquisitely funny and his customer the embarrassed butt of his jokes. However, this sort of treatment was not meted out to everyone, only to those whose means were sufficiently pinched to make shopping in Katoomba or – God forbid! – Sydney an impossibility; it was also chiefly reserved for Hurlingford women who had no men to exact retribution. Old maids and indigent widows of the clan were uniformly regarded as fair game.
    As she stood watching James Hurlingford bring down the bolts she indicated, Missy wondered what he would have done had her own brown satin been a request for scarlet lace. Not that the clothing emporium stocked such a fabric; the only reds it offered were cheap and vulgar artificial silks kept for the denizens of Caroline Lamb Place. So along with the lilac crêpe and the powder-blue silk, Missy bought a length of very beautiful delustred satin in the shade known as snuff. Had the material been any other colour she would have loved it, but since it was brown, it may as well have been jute sacking. Every dress Missy had ever owned had been brown; it was such a serviceable colour. Never showed the dirt, never went in or out of fashion, never faded, never looked cheap or common or trollopy.
    “New dresses for the wedding?” asked James archly.
    “Yes,” said Missy, wondering why it was that James always succeeded in making her feel so uncomfortable; perhaps it was his exaggeratedly womanish manner?
    “Let’s see, now,” burbled James, “how about a weeny game of guessies? The crêpe is for Auntie Drusie, and the silk is for Aunti Octie, and the satin – the brown satin – must therefore be for little brown Cousin Missy!”
    Her brain must still have been filled with the image of that impossible scarlet lace dress, for quite suddenly Missy saw nothing but scarlet, and out of the recesses of her memory she dredged the only insulting phrase she knew.
    “Oh, go bite your bum, James!” she snapped.
    He would not have been so shocked had his wooden dress dummy come to life and kissed him, and he measured and he cut with a hitherto unknown alacrity, thereby unintentionally giving each lady an extra yard of fabric, and he couldn’t get Missy out of the shop fast enough. The pity was that he knew he couldn’t confide his dreadful experience to any of his brothers or nephews, because they would probably echo Missy’s words, the bastards.
    The library was only two doors down, so when Missy went in she was still flying the flags of her anger in her cheeks, and she banged the door after her.
    Una looked up, startled, and began to laugh. “Darling, you look absolutely splendid! In a paddy, are we?”
    Missy took a couple of deep breaths to calm down. “Oh, just my cousin James Hurlingford. I told him to go bite his bum.”
    “Good for you! Time someone told him.” Una giggled. “Though I imagine he’d much rather someone else bit it for him – preferably someone masculine.”
    This sailed straight over Missy’s head, but Una’s burst of merriment did the trick, and Missy found herself able to laugh too. “Dear oh dear, it wasn’t very ladylike of me, was it?” she asked, sounding more surprised than horrified. “I don’t know what came over me!”
    The radiant face turned up to her looked suddenly sly, not the slyness of dishonesty but the slyness of someone fey, away with the fairies. “Straws and camels,” intoned Una in a singsong voice, “eyes of needles and days of dogs, revolving worms and well reaped whirlwinds. There’s a lot in you, Missy Wright, that you don’t even know is there.” She sat back and hummed like a gleeful naughty child. “But it’s started now, and it can’t be stopped.”
    Out came the story of the scarlet lace dress, the terrible longing