where did you get it
Emma?”
“It was lying on father’s desk.
Lord Ramsay left it yesterday. After all, he’s a member of the Royal Society.”
“You stole it from your poor
father?”
“No I didn’t steal it. I asked
father for it.”
“He said yes?”
“He said something. I took it that
he meant yes.”
“You’re a disgrace Emma. It will
disgrace the entire family when you end up on the gallows. And what about Mrs.
Radcliffe’s gothic novels? Where did you find out about Ann Radcliffe’s novels?
Please tell me you don’t have one of her novels. Emma!”
“No, I don’t have one of Mrs.
Radcliffe’s novels.”
Amy studied her sister as Pansy
pulled the trap into the drive of their house. Then she pointed an accusing
finger at Emma.
“But you’ve read one of her novels,
haven’t you? Don’t dissemble. I can read your mind.”
“No you can’t. I know that for
sure,” said Emma menacingly. “Because if you could read my mind you would go
stark-raving-mad. They would cart you off to Bedlam and throw you into a cell
where you would scream and bang your head against the padded walls until you
sank into insensibility.”
Sometimes Emma was a little
dramatic.
That night Amy couldn’t sleep. She
watched the line of moonlight that shone through the slit in the curtains
slowly make its way along her wall crossing the frame of her door and creeping
towards where she lay. Its companion was the old clock in the hall downstairs
that sounded out the quarter hour, the half hour, and then announced each hour.
The sound traveled upstairs, along the hall, and through her closed door. It
reached her softly but still reminded her of how long she’d lain awake.
What was Ben up to? Why was he
digging what looked like a grave? Did it have to do with that dark coach that
flew by her and Emma two nights ago? She desperately tried to make sense of
everything. Ben in peasant clothes digging in the ground. Ben who refused to
see her. He probably didn’t want her to see him in his peasant’s clothes. But
why? You don’t dig in the garden in all your finery. Why wouldn’t he want her to
see him in rustic clothes?
Then a thought came into her head.
A most disturbing thought. Emma said she had seen a sketchbook with a drawing
of a horse. Amy had recently encountered a young man in rustic clothes, holding
a sketch book while Turpin, who no one could deny was a horse, rudely and
unceremoniously deposited her in the River Arne.
Amy bounced out of her bed and out
of her room in almost one leap. She stomped down the hall. Emma’s door was
unlocked. Emma was sleeping peacefully in her bed while a wide swath of
moonlight flooded in through a wide gap in her curtains and bathed the sleeping
girl’s face and hair in its silver glow. She looked so peaceful and angelic.
Amy shook her awake.
“Was the drawing you saw through
the window at Hillfield House a picture of Turpin?”
“Huh,” said a groggy Emma. “It was
a horse. Turpin is a horse. I don’t know.”
Any didn’t have to ask. She already
knew the answer. She stomped out of Emma’s room, shutting the door behind her
with a bang.
“I’m going to have to start locking
my door,” Emma softly moaned as she slid back into the arms of sleep.
Back in her room, Amy threw herself
violently on her bed. If she had been awake before, she was really wide awake
now.
“Ohhhh!” She pounded her fists on
her bed.
Ben was the one that had seen her
thrown by Turpin. Ben was the one that had mocked her in her time of calamity.
And Ben had been mocking her all along, the scoundrel. He’d smirked while
dancing with her at Brewminster Hall. He was making fun of her when they rode
down to the River Arne yesterday.
“You will regret your treatment of
me,” she muttered under her breath. “I will repay you Sir-Benjamin-Anstruther.
I will not rest easy until you come crawling to me on your hands and knees
pleading for mercy. Revenge is my only goal from now
Emma?”
“It was lying on father’s desk.
Lord Ramsay left it yesterday. After all, he’s a member of the Royal Society.”
“You stole it from your poor
father?”
“No I didn’t steal it. I asked
father for it.”
“He said yes?”
“He said something. I took it that
he meant yes.”
“You’re a disgrace Emma. It will
disgrace the entire family when you end up on the gallows. And what about Mrs.
Radcliffe’s gothic novels? Where did you find out about Ann Radcliffe’s novels?
Please tell me you don’t have one of her novels. Emma!”
“No, I don’t have one of Mrs.
Radcliffe’s novels.”
Amy studied her sister as Pansy
pulled the trap into the drive of their house. Then she pointed an accusing
finger at Emma.
“But you’ve read one of her novels,
haven’t you? Don’t dissemble. I can read your mind.”
“No you can’t. I know that for
sure,” said Emma menacingly. “Because if you could read my mind you would go
stark-raving-mad. They would cart you off to Bedlam and throw you into a cell
where you would scream and bang your head against the padded walls until you
sank into insensibility.”
Sometimes Emma was a little
dramatic.
That night Amy couldn’t sleep. She
watched the line of moonlight that shone through the slit in the curtains
slowly make its way along her wall crossing the frame of her door and creeping
towards where she lay. Its companion was the old clock in the hall downstairs
that sounded out the quarter hour, the half hour, and then announced each hour.
The sound traveled upstairs, along the hall, and through her closed door. It
reached her softly but still reminded her of how long she’d lain awake.
What was Ben up to? Why was he
digging what looked like a grave? Did it have to do with that dark coach that
flew by her and Emma two nights ago? She desperately tried to make sense of
everything. Ben in peasant clothes digging in the ground. Ben who refused to
see her. He probably didn’t want her to see him in his peasant’s clothes. But
why? You don’t dig in the garden in all your finery. Why wouldn’t he want her to
see him in rustic clothes?
Then a thought came into her head.
A most disturbing thought. Emma said she had seen a sketchbook with a drawing
of a horse. Amy had recently encountered a young man in rustic clothes, holding
a sketch book while Turpin, who no one could deny was a horse, rudely and
unceremoniously deposited her in the River Arne.
Amy bounced out of her bed and out
of her room in almost one leap. She stomped down the hall. Emma’s door was
unlocked. Emma was sleeping peacefully in her bed while a wide swath of
moonlight flooded in through a wide gap in her curtains and bathed the sleeping
girl’s face and hair in its silver glow. She looked so peaceful and angelic.
Amy shook her awake.
“Was the drawing you saw through
the window at Hillfield House a picture of Turpin?”
“Huh,” said a groggy Emma. “It was
a horse. Turpin is a horse. I don’t know.”
Any didn’t have to ask. She already
knew the answer. She stomped out of Emma’s room, shutting the door behind her
with a bang.
“I’m going to have to start locking
my door,” Emma softly moaned as she slid back into the arms of sleep.
Back in her room, Amy threw herself
violently on her bed. If she had been awake before, she was really wide awake
now.
“Ohhhh!” She pounded her fists on
her bed.
Ben was the one that had seen her
thrown by Turpin. Ben was the one that had mocked her in her time of calamity.
And Ben had been mocking her all along, the scoundrel. He’d smirked while
dancing with her at Brewminster Hall. He was making fun of her when they rode
down to the River Arne yesterday.
“You will regret your treatment of
me,” she muttered under her breath. “I will repay you Sir-Benjamin-Anstruther.
I will not rest easy until you come crawling to me on your hands and knees
pleading for mercy. Revenge is my only goal from now
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