Free A Song Twice Over by Brenda Jagger Page A

Majesty’s present government and the names and dispositions of Her ministers. She had her own views on import tariffs, knew exactly why the Corn Laws should be abolished, and more than even her father realized about the state of Frizingley’s textile trade. Yet had never once been outside the shelter of her father’s garden walls alone, without the chaperonage of at least a maid, a coachman and her old governess, as befitted a young lady of rank and fortune whose delicacy and whose reputation must at all times be protected.
    A rule not to be relaxed until her marriage, when – like her dowry – she would pass from her father’s control to her husband’s.
    And what restrictions would Tristan be likely to impose? Would he even remember, at the end of any day, to ask or care just how she had spent it? Doubting it, she smiled at Cara Adeane, wondering if a girl like this, accustomed to roaming wherever she pleased, could understand the reasons why Miss Dallam of Frizingley Hall was indeed contemplating marriage? Not for security or companionship or affection – since she had always had these things in plenty – but quite simply to be rid of the gentle, well-meaning hand on her elbow hurrying her away from anything at which it might be thought improper for her to look; to be free of the earnest, kindly voice murmuring its warnings about the many vital prohibitions – not understanding politics, not eating cheese, never disagreeing with the gentlemen, dearest. So simple – which Society imposed on its ladies.
    No. This beautiful girl with her living to earn, her eyes drinking in the luxury with which Gemma was surrounded, would not easily understand that. Just as Gemma, as she readily conceded, understood little about the earning of livings, such pursuits being inappropriate to her in a world which did not permit paid employment to its gentlewomen. No. Her task in life was to live on the fruits of other people’s labour and she was honest enough to admit that she could not really know how she might feel without the absolute security of her father, John-William Dallam, and his weaving mill, behind her.
    Freedom might seem precarious then. Freedom to go hungry, as she supposed this girl had often done; would do again, perhaps, unless she sold some of these shawls and bonnets.
    â€˜We always go to Miss Baker in Market Street,’ she said now, not unkindly but not wishing to arouse false hopes, since she doubted if her mother would wish to buy. While Gemma herself, as the ‘daughter of the house’, no matter how cherished, lacked the authority to order goods without permission.
    That too would alter on her wedding day.
    â€˜Ah to be sure – Miss Ernestine Baker,’ the lilting Irish voice sounded faintly amused although wishing to be good-natured about it, the sparkling sea-blue eyes issuing an invitation to poke a little gentle fun at that excellent but – goodness – that dreary lady. ‘I know her well. The poor soul. How hard she tries – to keep pace, I mean. But with fashion sweeping along these days, and ladies everywhere running so fast after it … And her eyesight, of course. It saddens me whenever I think of it. But, at her age, what else can one expect? And fine needlework, you know, gets along much better if the seamstress can actually see . Not that Miss Baker sews her own seams … Heavens, no. One can get little charity-school girls with eyes like sparrow-hawks to do that. But when it comes to embroidery and cutting and design – to the flair … Well – you can’t rely on charity-school girls for that. At least I wouldn’t care to.’
    â€˜I suppose not.’ Gemma, who knew Miss Baker’s eyes to be as keen as ever, having been fitted by her very recently for an evening gown, felt, nevertheless, much inclined for laughter, as beguiled by the melodious voice, the graceful gestures, the teasing