Free The Country Gentleman by Fiona Hill

sorrowful, sympathetic nod. “I fear your lovely parcel-gilt suites will suit Linfield but ill. It is a comfortable house, only—”
    “Painted shutters?” Anne broke in.
    Maria nodded.
    “Delft fireplaces? Cambric curtains?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    Anne shook her head. “I shall not tell you,” she said, “for fear of breaking your heart, how much money exactly we spent to remove our eight Venetian chandeliers, my mother’s Chippendale settees, the Aubusson carpets, and the other three waggon-loads of furnishings from London to this place; but let me assure you, my dear, that if I did tell you, we should both be here weeping till Tuesday. Still”—she straightened and poured a cup of chocolate with an air of resolve—“it is done. And what is done, as Mrs. Macbeth so pithily and incontrovertibly observed, is done. I’m sure there is some barn or other where they can be kept. Now, what shall we do today? Mowing? Sowing? Rearing? Shearing? Till? Mill? Drill—”
    “I believe Miss Veal wishes to speak with you,” Mrs. Insel interrupted, noticing the increasing asperity in Anne’s tone. “And I know Mrs. Dolphim will like to be told what her duties are. Then there is the steward, Mr. Rand. Surely he will wish to take you over the estate. And we ought to thank—”
    “Stop, stop,” cried Anne, who heard Mr. Highet about to be mentioned. She gulped what remained of her chocolate in one swallow, flung off the bedclothes, and leapt up. “You persuade me: A day of adventure and obligation awaits. I shall make haste.” She rang the bell for Lizzie. Mrs. Insel stood to go.
    “You will not forget—” she began hesitantly, from the doorsill.
    “To thank Mr. Highet again,” Miss Guilfoyle finished. “No indeed. We shall send him a brace of cheeses, or a golden fleece, or whatever is best from Linfield—”
    “An invitation to dine, I should have suggested.”
    Anne flashed her a dark look but yielded. “Or aninvitation to dine.” She winced, as if the idea crushed her somewhat.
    Maria smiled, opened the door, and was going out when she added over her shoulder, “And his mother, of course.”
    Her look ever darker, “And, God bless us yes, his mother; a poor party we should make without his mother,” Anne said, suppressing a sneeze. “Now do go away before we are to invite little Joan as well.”
    Maria went.
    “Rand, Veal. Veal, Rand. Farm, household. Household, farm. Can’t decide,” Miss Guilfoyle muttered under her breath as, dressed and determined, she made her solitary way down the staircase some half hour later. “They both sound so utterly fascinating, that’s the deuce of it—Oh!” she suddenly broke into her own remarks as she rounded a corner and nearly collided with Charlotte Veal. “Forgive me, I did not see you. I was just hoping to find you. Is there an office where we might discuss the household?”
    “There is the housekeeper’s room,” Miss Veal replied, with more emphasis on the penultimate word than Anne could quite account for. “But—are you alone, ma’am? I did hear you speaking to someone, I think?” She squinted on this side of the corner and that, as if there might be someone only faintly visible still lingering in the air.
    “Speaking, yes. To someone, no,” Miss Guilfoyle said cheerfully, taking Miss Veal rather firmly by her muslin sleeve and making an inquiring gesture at random. “This way? That way? It is my lamentable habit to apostrophize myself aloud. Ah, thank you, this way after all. I cannot say, truthfully, at what epoch of my life I first fell into this custom…Oh, the dining-room is this?” she inquired, asthey passed through a spacious, airy room furnished with a stout, well-worn oaken table suitable for, perhaps, the family of a yeoman farmer. “Very pleasant, very tidy. Thank you. I see evidence of your good management every where. I take it this is a sort of pantry, and— No, thank you, the kitchens will wait till later. Yes, very