Until the Colours Fade by Tim Jeal Read Free Book Online

noticed that the morning dress she was wearing – a dark blue jacket bodice, edged with bands of lace converging at her slim waist – was not one he had seen before, and this gave him an idea.
    ‘Before you brand me a profligate,’ he said, ‘answer me this: what do you do with your fichus and fripperies?’
    ‘Wear them.’
    ‘How many times?’
    ‘As often as I please.’
    ‘Afterwards. That’s what I meant. What then?’
    She smiled easily.
    ‘I give them to Cooper or Dowson. Should I burn them?’
    Goodchild glanced upwards at the delicate plaster medallions on the ceiling.
    ‘Your generosity is overwhelming. I’m sure your waiting-maid is the toast of the servants’ hall in a sixty guinea evening dress.’
    ‘She wears such things only when she is free to visit friends in Flixton or Rigton Bridge.’
    ‘There must be girls all over the county who would pay us for the privilege of Cooper’s place.’
    Helen pursed her lips and made an impatient movement with her hands.
    ‘And does Rogers not wear your cast-offs, Harry?’
    ‘No valet of mine gets an item of clothing from me until it is well-worn.’
    Helen bent down and handed her husband his whip.
    ‘I am keeping you from your sport.’ She paused and looked at him intently. ‘You know well enough what you must do to make me obliging.’
    ‘What pray?’
    ‘Withdraw your threat to sell Audley House.’
    ‘How can I?’ he snorted. ‘You know we cannot afford a London establishment.’
    ‘I care nothing for the establishment. Reduce the stables to a single carriage and pair, discharge as many servants as you please, close half the rooms, but keep the house.’ She fixed her eyes on his and moved closer. ‘I will not be left here while you are with the regiment or anywhere that pleases you.’
    ‘Not be left here?’ he cried. ‘Is this a hovel?’
    ‘You know my meaning.’ She treated him to a simpering society smile. ‘Who will call this afternoon, think you? Lady Markham to admire my ferns and pelargoniums? And will she talk about the plot of the latest three volume novel from Mudie’s? Mrs Halpin, I daresay, will bring her new piece of needlework, and, God help me, her dumpy daughter – the one who sings French songs. Remember? Afterwards will I take my drive in the barouche, reclining like some jaded dowager? Or drive myself in the park-phaeton? Such luxury of choice.’ She clasped her hands together and whispered: ‘For mercy’s sake, Harry. These people are nothing to me. You have your life, let me keep mine in Belgravia . Do not sell the house.’
    He studied the figured veneers on the bureau-cabinet against the far wall and shook his head, still unable to face her.
    ‘I have no choice; none,’ he said brusquely, before turning and making for the nearest door, wishing fervently that he could have had the good sense to have controlled his immediate anger on seeing the bill. By now he might have been at the meet and this scene would not have occurred. He hurried through the dining room, into the billiard room and from there into the hall.
    A groom was waiting on the gravel carriage sweep with the horse he would ride to the meet. His favourite hunter had beensent on ahead two hours earlier to be fresh for the hunt. He was a few yards from the glass door, when he heard a man’s voice:
    ‘Lord Goodchild?’
    He spun round, irritated to be detained, and saw a young man in a brown frock coat with long curling hair getting up from an uncomfortable ‘Grecian’ stool in the apse facing the door.
    ‘Who are you, sir?’
    ‘My name is Strickland, my lord. I’m here to see you, Mr Braithwaite most kindly….’
    ‘Why are you waiting here?’
    ‘I have your secretary’s letter saying …’
    ‘No, no, I meant you should have been shown to an ante-room. Well, no matter.’
    Lord Goodchild shook his head at the discourtesy of his servants and opened the door. The young man stepped forward and began firmly:
    ‘The letter says most