The Genuine Lady (Heroines on Horseback) by Sydney Alexander Page B

it.”
    “They are, though,” Hetty said more stoutly. “And his hair is black as a raven’s wing.”
    “You girls,” Patty said indulgently, as if she was their long-suffering aunt.  
    Cherry looked from one to the other, still not comprehending. Blue as the sky? Black as a raven’s wing? Jared’s hair was brown. Dark brown to be sure, dark like the earth beneath the grass, and rich like a dark horse’s coat, a deep mahogany which could fool a person into supposing it was black… Heavens, these girls certainly didn’t know Jared Reese very well, did they? She decided to add a line to Hetty’s ode. “Grouchy as a cow at dinner time,” she suggested. “Stubborn as a mule at a stream.”
    It was everyone else’s turn to stare at her blankly. Cherry blinked.  
    Patty put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You funny thing! Isn’t she funny, Hetty, Annette? That’s what I like best about you, Mrs. Beacham, you have a real funny sense of humor!”
    Cherry put on a smile and tried to cover up her confusion. If everyone thought Jared was charming and handsome and didn’t see his rudeness and short temper, maybe she was in the wrong and not them. Maybe Jared just didn’t like her. Too bad.   She nearly said that she was sorry she hadn’t seen Jared’s good side, but then decided to just let the whole conversation go. “Call me Cherry,” she said instead, and Patty beamed.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    “An adventuress ,” hissed Anne Braithwhite, née Beacham. “She is nothing better than an adventuress. You cannot possibly expect this of me! They don’t know what a poisonous little witch she is. The child will be no better.”
    Charles Whittier had not expected such vitriol from his client. He had been the Braithwhite solicitor for years, even before Mrs. Braithwhite had come from England as Mr. Braithwhite’s blushing bride, a young English lady who seemed utterly shocked by New York’s crowds and muds and stench, but he had never known her to be anything but a perfect gentlewoman, a paragon of aristocracy and good manners amongst the females of New York society. This show of temper was unprecedented, and to be demonstrated against the wishes of her own family, besides! He really did not know how to react. Charles Whittier did not enjoy being at a loss for words. Indeed, it was the sort of thing a solicitor could really never, ever, allow himself to suffer from. Solicitors lived by their ability to say precisely the right thing, at all times.
    “Mrs. Braithwhite,” he said slowly, searching for delicate words. “Mrs. Braithwhite, the Beachams’ desire to have their nephew near to them is understandable, is it not? Surely the bonds of family will outweigh any unpleasantness regarding his birth. Of course they would wish him to be educated suitably, and brought up as a gentleman. I do not believe this is an unreasonable wish.”

    It had been forty years, but every time she heard Mrs. rather than my lady, Anne felt another little stab of disappointment. That title, or rather lack of title, was all of her disappointments rolled into one. The Duke of Rochester, whom she’d called Harry, had stopped laughing at her little jokes after Lord Trefethen’s angelic daughter made her debut. Soon he’d stopped calling on her altogether. Prince Mikhail had gone back to Russia a bachelor yet. She didn’t know if he’d ever married. Thomas Richland and John Rutherford, heirs to earldoms both, had drifted off and married blondes in the end. Anne’s dark hair had long since gone gray; she kept it ruthlessly covered with a cap anyway. Hair that had never done anything for her, why should she give it the time of day?
    “I simply cannot have anything to do with such a person,” Anne said, tones modulated. She understood that she had to sound reasonable, although inside she was screaming. Would Charlotte Beacham never go away and leave her in peace? “You must understand, my reputation…” She let her voice trail off