who has exactly four designs in her repertoire. Gamble stood like a bridegroom by her side, smiling, solicitous to find the page for her in her book.
There, in church, was where the man’s full plan hit me in the face. Jack Gamble planned to marry Emily. Tom Carrick, for once, was right. That was why she was being weaned away from Edward and such low company as Nora and myself. That was why the onion-eating chaperone had been installed, to protect Emily and John from any hint of scandal. The gifts of monkeys and gowns were all to allay her hatred and fear of him, to pave the way for her accepting him as a husband. I was a little surprised at his choice. I had thought Black Jack Gamble would select a more dashing female, but there—what lady of good reputation would have him? He was planning to set up as a reformed character—who would have thought to see him in church, for instance?—and was using his little cousin to lend him respectability.
The revelation took my breath away. I had thought he only wanted to break off her infatuation with Edward for social and financial reasons. When the congregation stood up for the hymn I was slow to join them, and when they sat down I remained standing in a daze, till Nora gave my skirt a tug. At that point I looked around to see I stood above the throng, with half the crowd tittering at my foolishness and the other half politely pretending not to notice that Lady Emily, despite her fine feathers, was amongst the titterers, till she received a black-mittened poke in the ribs.
My aversion to Gamble was reaching a pitch that was positively un-Christian. It soared a little higher when the person selected for honour by the Nabob after the service was none other than Captain Wingdale.
When I described this gentleman as a retired sea captain, you perhaps got a wrong idea of him. He is not retired due to his age but due to having cornered enough prize money that he no longer requires the salary paid by the Royal Navy. I cannot think more than a handful of men in the whole kingdom actually enjoy to spend their lives at sea on a bouncing deck, with a tightly restricted company.
Wingdale was in his early forties, still in the prime of life. He was dark haired, ruddy of complexion, with deep lines around his eyes, which I imagine to have been formed from looking into the sun to read the weather. He was broad-shouldered, of military bearing, but with, of course, no uniform.
The “Captain” is an honourary title now. He wears jackets of excellent material and an exaggerated cut, the shoulders padded, the waist too tightly taken in for comfort I am convinced. I suspect a corset might account for that wasp waist that a lady could envy. One has always the impression when looking at him that he is pulling in his stomach and expanding his chest as hard as he can. Such a big, barrel chest is not natural, except in baboons or gorillas.
There is nothing amiss in his cunning. He is as shrewd as can stare, and not totally without social graces either, though he is betrayed at times into ungenteel utterances that hint at a past less refined than the present. Oh, and there is no Mrs. Wingdale , which makes him more than tolerable to all families with an aging daughter to be disposed of.
Nora and I were accosted by Tom Carrick. We strolled to within eavesdropping distance of the Nabob and the Captain. Also within nodding distance of the Tartar and Emily, though their heads were kept carefully averted. No nods were exchanged.
“I suppose you will be attending the tea party for Rush-Bearing come next Saturday,” Tom said, in his hearty, loud voice.
“Is it that time already?” I asked. Rush-Bearing occurs early in August. It is a festivity that is fast dying out, but at Grasmere it is still done. In the olden days it had a practical purpose—strewing fresh rushes on the church floor—and was done by adults. It has dwindled (since the church now has a stone floor) to a symbolic affair, with
There, in church, was where the man’s full plan hit me in the face. Jack Gamble planned to marry Emily. Tom Carrick, for once, was right. That was why she was being weaned away from Edward and such low company as Nora and myself. That was why the onion-eating chaperone had been installed, to protect Emily and John from any hint of scandal. The gifts of monkeys and gowns were all to allay her hatred and fear of him, to pave the way for her accepting him as a husband. I was a little surprised at his choice. I had thought Black Jack Gamble would select a more dashing female, but there—what lady of good reputation would have him? He was planning to set up as a reformed character—who would have thought to see him in church, for instance?—and was using his little cousin to lend him respectability.
The revelation took my breath away. I had thought he only wanted to break off her infatuation with Edward for social and financial reasons. When the congregation stood up for the hymn I was slow to join them, and when they sat down I remained standing in a daze, till Nora gave my skirt a tug. At that point I looked around to see I stood above the throng, with half the crowd tittering at my foolishness and the other half politely pretending not to notice that Lady Emily, despite her fine feathers, was amongst the titterers, till she received a black-mittened poke in the ribs.
My aversion to Gamble was reaching a pitch that was positively un-Christian. It soared a little higher when the person selected for honour by the Nabob after the service was none other than Captain Wingdale.
When I described this gentleman as a retired sea captain, you perhaps got a wrong idea of him. He is not retired due to his age but due to having cornered enough prize money that he no longer requires the salary paid by the Royal Navy. I cannot think more than a handful of men in the whole kingdom actually enjoy to spend their lives at sea on a bouncing deck, with a tightly restricted company.
Wingdale was in his early forties, still in the prime of life. He was dark haired, ruddy of complexion, with deep lines around his eyes, which I imagine to have been formed from looking into the sun to read the weather. He was broad-shouldered, of military bearing, but with, of course, no uniform.
The “Captain” is an honourary title now. He wears jackets of excellent material and an exaggerated cut, the shoulders padded, the waist too tightly taken in for comfort I am convinced. I suspect a corset might account for that wasp waist that a lady could envy. One has always the impression when looking at him that he is pulling in his stomach and expanding his chest as hard as he can. Such a big, barrel chest is not natural, except in baboons or gorillas.
There is nothing amiss in his cunning. He is as shrewd as can stare, and not totally without social graces either, though he is betrayed at times into ungenteel utterances that hint at a past less refined than the present. Oh, and there is no Mrs. Wingdale , which makes him more than tolerable to all families with an aging daughter to be disposed of.
Nora and I were accosted by Tom Carrick. We strolled to within eavesdropping distance of the Nabob and the Captain. Also within nodding distance of the Tartar and Emily, though their heads were kept carefully averted. No nods were exchanged.
“I suppose you will be attending the tea party for Rush-Bearing come next Saturday,” Tom said, in his hearty, loud voice.
“Is it that time already?” I asked. Rush-Bearing occurs early in August. It is a festivity that is fast dying out, but at Grasmere it is still done. In the olden days it had a practical purpose—strewing fresh rushes on the church floor—and was done by adults. It has dwindled (since the church now has a stone floor) to a symbolic affair, with
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