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“Put that in your pipe and smoke it, my lord!” she muttered, stomping over to the dining room.
As she passed the gong, she just couldn’t resist. Picking up the striker, she swung back her arm and brought it to bear several times against the brass hanging plate. It reverberated satisfactorily loud with every bong she struck. Childish maybe, but as the echoing discord rang in the cavernous hallway, she felt triumphant.
At the sudden cacophony,Gregory wrenched open the study door and stormed out of the room.
“Stop that, you little hoyden,” he snarled, furious.
Holly glared back at him, held his gaze, then defiantly struck one last resounding bong. She threw the striker onto the floor, where it clattered at his feet. Tossing her head, she spun about and marched into the dining room. He went to retrieve the gong striker, cursing under his breath.
As she’d sashayed past him, her nose in the air, her pert backside swayed before him. He itched to land a few well-deserved slaps to her insolent bottom. It was quite evident to him that his new bride was little more than a child. One given to temper tantrums which needed to be addressed before she became out of hand.
Luncheon was an uncomfortable affair. His wife either goaded him or ignored him. By the end of the meat course, he’d had quite enough of her barbed remarks and sly comments and excused himself, leaving her to sit alone at the vast table.
Gregory went via the boot room where he donned his great coat and hat. He needed some air and decided to find out how the snow had discomforted his tenants. With a derisive snort at the thought that the chill outside was barely colder than the one inside the house, a chill not caused by the weather.
Holly watched her husband leave,surprised to find that instead of satisfaction at their bitter exchange, she felt disappointed and crestfallen. She knew she’d behaved childishly after leaving his study, but he hadn’t listened to her when she’d spoken sensibly, and so she had reverted to other, perhaps somewhat childish tactics in order to annoy him. Knowing this was not well done of her, she sighed. Her mother was right; she tended to let her temper get the better of her.
There was no time to mope if she wanted to get back up to the nursery and begin helping her stepdaughters turn over a happier new leaf.
Kitty and Clemmy immediately looked up and ran to her as she entered the room. Kitty did a pirouette. She was now in a two-piece of matching skirt and fogged top in damson surge over a white blouse. Clemmy’s dress was a warm velvet mid-blue with a white lace collar.
“This was Libby’s outfit, and now it fits me!” Kitty exclaimed, obviously delighted.
“An’ dith was Kithy’s, an’ it fiths me!” Clemmy lisped endearingly.
“You both look adorable!” Holly enthused, her gaze searching the nursery for Libby.
Nanny waved her over. She was seated, a black garment in one hand and a needle and thread in the other.
“Nothing will fit Libby. All her clothes fit Kitty now; she is the age Libby was two years ago, and with Christmas looming, there is no time to have anything made for her. She is very upset,” she added.
“Where is Libby?” Holly asked, glancing about the room.
Nanny pointed to a doorway. Holly found the girl curled up on one of three beds in a large sunny room. Libby held a book in her hand.
“Hello, what are you reading?” she asked, seating herself on the end of the bed.
“The Cricket on the Hearth,” Libby replied, not lifting her eyes from the page.
“Ah, Charles Dickens. I must ask your father to read to us at Christmas. PerhapsA Christmas Carol,” she replied.
“He won’t,” Libby stated flatly.
“We shall see… Libby, I’d like you to come with me to meet my maid, Matilda. She is an excellent seamstress and can alter your mourning clothes, just until we can order you a whole new wardrobe once the snow is gone, after Christmas.”
“I’m reading,” came her stubborn reply.
Holly stood and gently removed the book from Libby’s hands, picking up an embroidered, cross stitch bookmark. She placed it carefully in the open page before she closed it.
“Did you make this?” Holly indicated the bookmark. “It is very fine work.”
“I made it for Mama on her last Christmas.”
Confound it. I’ve royally put my foot in it!
“How lovely, I expect she treasured it. Now then, up you get. Pop your shoes on, and we shall go and find Matilda.”
Holly held her breath, but she needn’t have worried, for Libby crawled off the bed and did as she was asked, following obediently. Her sisters tagged along with them, and Holly was pleased to see that the younger girls cheered Libby up with their excited chattering.
