Free The Ladies of Missalonghi by Colleen McCullough Page B

must be more severe in future, not less.”
    Drusilla sighed. “When we were young women, Octavia, we wore shoes. Father was a very warm man, we lacked for nothing. We rode in carriages, we had plenty of pin-money. And ever since those days, no matter how hard life has been, at least you and I are able to look back and remember the pleasure of pretty shoes, pretty dresses, coming-out parties, gaiety . Where Missy has never worn a pair of pretty shoes, or a pretty dress. I’m not castigating myself for that, for it isn’t my fault, but when I thought she might be going to die – well, I decided I was going to give her whatever she wanted, so long as I could afford it. Shoes I cannot afford, especially if there are going to be heavy doctor’s bills. But if she wants to walk in the bush, or read romances – she may.”
    “Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish! You must go on as you have in the past. Missy needs strong direction.”
    And from that viewpoint Drusilla could not budge her.
    Unaware of her mother’s soul-searching, Missy decided she had better not read one of the new novels after dinner; she elected to tat instead.
    “Aunt Octavia,” she said, fingers flying, “how much lace do you plan to set into your new dress? Is this going to be enough, do you think? I can easily make you a lot more, but I’ll need to know now.”
    Octavia held out her knobby hand and Missy deposited the bunched-up lace in it, leaving her aunt to spread out each piece on her lap.
    “Oh, Missy, it is beautiful!” breathed Octavia, awed. “Drusilla, do look!”
    Drusilla plucked a scrap out of her sister’s lap and held it up to the weak light. “Yes, it is beautiful. You’re improving all the time, Missy, I must say.”
    “Ah,” said Missy gravely, “that is because I have finally learned to unknit the sleeve of ravelled care.”
    Both older ladies looked utterly blank for a moment, then Octavia cast a significant glance at Drusilla and ever so slightly shook her head. But Drusilla ignored her.
    “Quite so,” she said majestically.
    Cutting a dash at Alicia’s wedding won out; Octavia put Missy’s brainstorm aside. “Is it enough lace, Drusilla?” she asked anxiously.
    “Well, for what I had originally planned it’s enough, but I’ve had a better idea. I’d like to let in some of the same lace all the way around the hem of the overskirt – so fashionable! Missy, would you mind doing so much extra work? Do be frank if you’d rather not.”
    Now Missy looked blank; in all her life her mother had never deferred to her before, nor stopped to think whether what she asked was excessive. Of course! It was the heart trouble! How amazing! “I don’t mind in the least,” she said quickly.
    Octavia beamed. “Oh, thank you!” Her face puckered. “If only I might help you with the sewing, Drusilla. It’s so much work for you.”
    Drusilla looked at the heap of lilac crêpe in her lap and sighed. “Don’t worry, Octavia. Missy does all the fiddly bits like buttonholes and hems and plackets. But I do admit it would be wonderful to have a Singer sewing machine.”
    That of course was out of the question; the ladies of Missalonghi made their clothes the old-fashioned hard way, every inch of every seam sewn by hand. Drusilla did the main sewing and the cutting, Missy the fiddly bits; Octavia could not manage to hold an instrument so fine as a sewing needle.
    “I am so very sorry your dress has to be brown, Missy,” said Drusilla, and looked at her daughter pleadingly. “But it is lovely material, and it will make up very well, you wait and see. Would you like some beads on it?”
    “And spoil the cut? Mother, you cut superbly, and the cut will carry it without any adornments,” said Missy.
    That night in bed Missy lay in the darkness and remembered the details of the loveliest afternoon of her entire life. For not only had he said hello to her, he had climbed down from his cart and actually chosen to walk along with her, chatting