Free The Blue Bottle Club by Penelope Stokes Page A

for except to sleep? There's a nice bath, and a workable kitchen—" "Mother, there's not even a proper dining room!"
    "And just who, pray tell, do we expect to be entertaining?"
    The question drew Tish up short. She looked at her mother and saw on her face an expression of benign amusement. "You're actually enjoying this!" she snapped, dismayed at the accusing tone in her voice but unable to stop herself. "What—do you think I need to be taught a lesson in humility?"
    "It might not hurt," her mother replied softly But her tone was gentle, without rancor, and Tish felt a wave of shame wash over her. "Let's be realistic, daughter. We have very little left, and we were fortunate enough to find a place that's warm, dry, and comfortable."
    Against her will, Tish found her mind wandering to images she had seen in the newspapers—people who, displaced by the looming Depression, lived in tarpaper shacks next to the garbage dumps of large cities. Homeless, jobless people with haunted expressions and tattered clothes. Mothers on the streets, with dirty children in tow Perhaps she and her mother didn't have it so bad, after all.
    "You're aware of what's happening around us," Mother said as if she'd read Tish's mind. "Many, many people are worse off than we are. People who were like us, once, with good jobs and nice homes and a bright future."
    "If you're trying to get me to be thankful for all of this, Mother, you're wasting your breath," Tish muttered. But the images had taken their toll. She was thankful. Thankful, at least, that they weren't completely destitute. They had a place to live. And she, of course, had a future. A future with Philip Dorn.
    Daddy had been right, in the long run. The market had begun a gradual recovery. And Stuart Dorn hadn't panicked, the way Daddy had. The Dorns still had their fine house, their place in society. They stood to regain most of what they had lost in the initial crash. There would be no partnership for Philip in Daddy's firm, of course—there was no firm left. But Philip would find another position, they would be married, and things eventually would get back to normal.
    The worst of the damage had hit not the wealthy, who would recover their losses, but the middle class—people whose jobs had suddenly terminated in the panic as factories and businesses shut down and banks went under. They were the ones standing in interminable bread lines, wandering the city streets. They were the ones whose pitiful life savings had vanished in the bank closings, whose homes had gone into foreclosure, whose lives were devastated.
    Letitia Cameron still had hope. Still had a future to look forward to.
    It was true that Philip hadn't been around very much. He had been busy, undoubtedly, trying to get his own future prospects in order. But she and Mother, too, had been occupied with the grim business of divesting themselves of the house and other possessions. Now that they were moved, once everything was settled, she would begin seeing Philip again on a regular basis.
    And in seven months she would turn eighteen. They would be married immediately. Surely she could hold out until then.
    "This is, I think, our best option," Mother was saying when Letitias attention returned to her. "We have to be practical."
    Tish stared at her. "What did you say?"
    "I said, we have to be practical."
    "No, before that. About options."
    "Letitia, please pay attention. This is important."
    "I'm sorry, Mother. Now, what options?"
    "Several women we know—Alice Dorn, for one, and a few of her friends, have approached me about doing some work for them. Preparing food for dinner parties—rather like what I used to do for your father's business gatherings. They would pay me well, and—"
    Tish shook her head, unable to believe what she was hearing. "You'd be a—a servant —for other people's parties? A cook!"
    "It wouldn't exactly be like that," Mother hedged. "I would prepare food and serve it, yes.