Free Fortune's Lead by Barbara Perkins Page A

she must have inherited from her father. ‘I just wanted to see what you’d say. I like people much better if they stick up for themselves—don’t you? Please don’t tell about my arm—is that asking nicely enough? After all, it’s not very bad, is it? And people do fuss so!’
    ‘We-ell...’ The twinkle was as infectious as Henry’s: I found myself, unwillingly, smiling. I was relieved, too—and somehow, despite her rudeness, I couldn’t help liking Esther. Standing in front of me in a pleated skirt, a jumper at least a size too large for her, and with her hair still tangled untidily, she looked like a child—though a very beautiful one. ‘I’ll tell no tales on condition you let me dress your arm again in the morning,’ I said firmly, hoping it would do. ‘But I am not some kind of—of whipping-boy, not even if my job depends on it! And,’ I added hastily, remembering my job was supposed to be nothing to do with her, ‘I shouldn’t think it does, either!’
    ‘Heavens, no—Pa never takes any notice of what I think,’ Esther said cheerfully. ‘Sorry if I was rude, but I haven’t got any manners, you know. We’re all frightfully bossy in this house. If Kev starts in on you, you’d better stand up to him, too. He can be quite inhuman. He’s a bruising rider, when he gets the time, though.’ She gave me another grin, while I wondered why being a bruising rider should be something one said with approval. ‘I shouldn’t think you’ll see much of him—when he’s here, he’s out on Thunder. Or hopping over to see that dreary girl of his at Whatham Hall. I suppose she’s not bad over the jumps—but it’s not going to do her any good giving him soppy looks, I don’t know why she doesn’t realize it! I hope—‘she had turned to the mirror, and was giving her hair an apology for a brush—‘ you’re not the type to fall for Kev. I shouldn’t, if I were you.’
    ‘I should say it’s very unlikely,’ I said drily.
    ‘Some people think he’s handsome, though I can’t think why that’s supposed to have anything to do with anything,’ Esther said dispassionately. ‘It’s a pity he’s the eldest. Dominic and Con are more my cup of tea, but they’re over in Ireland, of course. Okay, I’m ready. Shall we go down?’
    We went down. Tea, Mrs. Mott had said, would be in the drawing-room at four o’clock: it was a quarter past now, but I hoped Henry Would feel my arrival with Esther showed that I was already making an effort to do what he expected of me, even if it made me late. I couldn’t feel, however, that I was going to be much use with Esther, since her personality was nothing if not overwhelming—and if her manner was abrupt, she was so undeniably attractive as to need absolutely no help from me. Even if I could see what he meant about her conversation, and her way of dressing, there seemed little use in supposing she would take any notice of anything I said or did, or benefit from it.
    It was unfortunate that while I was pouring out the tea from an elegant silver tea-service (at Henry’s request) I should find myself suddenly caught up with memories of Gypsy Rose. The drawing-room was as beautiful as the rest of Thurlanger House—and here was I, teapot graciously poised, feeling like someone in a suitably captioned Totter photograph ... Hastily, I made myself listen to what Henry was telling me about Beemondham and its district’s inhabitants. He wasn’t—no, of course he wasn’t—talking as if after a suitable period had elapsed, these were going to be my permanent neighbours...
    ‘Some more cake, Shah?’ Henry enquired solicitously—making a helpful interruption to my attempts to wrestle with the unreal picture of my future which kept creeping up on me. Or not such a helpful interruption: forced to look at him, I almost blushed. At this rate I would have to repeat six sensible things to myself every day before breakfast. Having ascertained that I didn’t want any