The Crafters Book Two by Christopher Stasheff, Bill Fawcett Page B

in jewels and wore gowns that were the last word in la mode, the poor jenny wren had about as much spirit as a damp tea towel. The husband, on the other hand, was ever and anon brimming with spirit—and small wonder! He breathed brandy in much the same way as a fish breathes water. At least the fumes of the bottle somewhat mitigated the exhalations of the stable and the kennel which were his especial parfum. When he did not sweat, he swore; when he did not swear, he swaggered; and when he did none of the preceding, he collapsed in a chair beside the fire and snored. A pretty picture!
    So no, thank you, I do not choose to wed.
    Let your imagination frame my reaction, then, when Stepmamma summoned me into the front parlor not two hours ago and said, “Delilah, a gentleman from London will be calling upon us tomorrow. His name is Mr. Horatio Culpepper, of the Derbyshire Culpeppers. His people are distant connections of my family, so I can readily vouch for the young man’s credentials. I would take it as an especial favor were you to look upon him kindly.”
    I could feel the blood mantling my cheeks. There was such awful meaning behind her words. Still, innocence is always a lady’s first, best shield, as we have learned beyond doubt or debate from our readings, my devoted Caroline. I stood tall—too tall, alack! You know how I gangle and tower—and replied, “What would you have me do for the gentleman, Stepmamma?”
    A fleeting look of distaste crossed her mouth. So it always does whenever I refer to her by that title. She has asked me a score of times to call her Lydia if I cannot bring myself to call her Mamma, but I can do neither one nor the other. Lydia Jane Naseby would be a friend’s name, and she is no friend of mine, yet to call her Mamma—!
    Call her what I might, she would have her way. “When Mr. Culpepper arrives, it would be courtesy were you prepared to entertain him a little by performing upon the spinet. Oh, and I shall ask you to pour at tea, if you do not find that too taxing.” She extended her right hand so that I might see the thickness of white gauze bandaging it, and tossed those golden ringlets of hers which are my bitterest envy. “Some of us are not intended by Providence to bake,” she said lightly. Her musical laughter followed me from the room.
    Need I elaborate? Your sensitive soul, dear Caroline, is twin to mine. You can tell as well as I what she intends! To parade my spinet-playing would be bad enough, but to couple it with a display of how well I preside over the tea things—well! Mr. Culpepper and I had best hie us to St. Uffa’s straightaway and save the niceties. He must be wealthy. Stepmamma would find that a prime feather to tuck into her bonnet were she able to rid herself of me and at the same time secure a profitable alliance for the family.
    Being privy to the low state of my mind, you may doubtless know whence I write you this. As always, when feeling poor in spirit, I have retreated to Mamma’s old attic chamber.
    I do not know what possessed my dear departed mamma to spend so many hours closeted away in this miserable hole. Certainly it suits my melancholic humor and is a paramount retreat for the brooding spirit, but she seemed to like it. The walls are bastioned with bookcases, nearly all of which are crammed with a host of musty tomes. Those wanting books are instead supplied with ranks of oddly shaped wooden boxes and equally malformed glassware. These containers attract almost as much dust without as they hold within. The one time I did meddle with Mamma’s things, I could not stop sneezing for days thereafter.
    One of the books lies open before me on the very table I use to write you this. Thus it has lain since Mamma left it so. Her quill remains beside a crystal inkwell whose contents have evaporated to black residue. The open page reveals lines and lines of Mamma’s clear, fine hand. I will not trouble you with the text as it is an impenetrable admixture