“I declare, this tired old gown of mine creases so abominably!” complained Cecilia Butters, brushing at her skirt as she took her place opposite her mother-in-law. “I was forced to take little Isabella on my lap, to squeeze into your carriage to come here, and she wrinkled my skirt so frightfully I am not fit to be seen! But it cannot be helped—we have not the means to set up our own carriage, even though a used barouche can be had at a quite reasonable price.”
“You look very well, as always, Cecilia,” Mrs. Butters replied composedly.
“Speaking of gowns, is your new project prospering well, Mother?” George Butters asked.
“You refer to our needlework academy? Tolerably well, I thank you, dear. We have had many more applicants than we can engage—”
“I should think so, considering the easy hours you promised!” cried Cecilia Butters.
“Yes, we have established a workday of only ten hours for the children, because we think it inhumane to operate from dawn until midnight. We shall not sacrifice the health or eyesight of the students at the altar of fashion. Our customers will pay less for our garments, but they may have to wait a little longer for them to be delivered. And in that regard, my dear Cecilia, I hope you will patronize us when you need new garments for yourself or the girls, and encourage your friends to do likewise.”
“What, ma’am, shall we pay for these clothes as though we were merely members of the public, and not your own family?”
“Oh. By all means, Cecilia, I am sure my brother and sister-in-law would be happy to dress you and all your daughters. I should think they would be delighted. But, perhaps you had not understood when I explained that the profits of the enterprise support the charitable academy for the poor?”
“It can hardly make any difference to the Blodgetts, for it requires very little fabric to run up a dress for me, or my daughters. We are all quite petite. I am still only twenty inches round my waist, even after three children.”
“Will you have some creamed potato, Cecilia?”
“Potato? I think not. It is most unhealthy, is it not? You are not serving this to the children, are you?” Their guest turned to Fanny. “Miss Price, please tell the servants not to let the girls have any potato. Quickly.”
Fanny was out of her seat and almost to the door when she caught sight of Mrs. Butter’s glowering face, but she judged it better to do as she was asked, and she hurried to the breakfast room with the message, and lingered there a few moments to confirm that the grandchildren would be brought into the parlour after dinner, while unbeknownst to her, she became the topic of discussion around the new dining table.
“Miss Price is most obliging, my dear Cecilia, but allow me to remind you she is not my servant.”
“Indeed? You have kept her by your side for so long, and I have seen her fetch and carry for you, and assist in the running of your household, so I naturally fell into the error of assuming she was your paid companion. You say she receives no remuneration for everything she does?”
“She is employed by the Society to teach fine needlework at the academy. Her parents are in Portsmouth and her uncle and aunt reside in Norfolk. So I keep her with me. Indeed, there is no-where else she could live, while in London.”
“So, she is your tenant, then?”
“No, she is my guest.”
“How convenient for Miss Price! No expenses to bear.”
“Forgive me, Cecilia, but a moment ago I was the fortunate one, in having a companion who performed her duties without recompense. Then, in your next breath, you insinuate that I am the dupe of Miss Price. Is she eating me out of house and home and I all unawares? Why, pray, do you tend to see all relationships in mercenary terms?”
The younger Mrs. Butters sighed and rolled her eyes at her husband, who was quietly spooning up his soup.
“I meant no disrespect, ma’am. You and Miss Price are quite fortunate if the acquaintance makes both of you happy. You manage so well together, do you not? She is of a very yielding temper, I think.”
The imputation that she could only tolerate young ladies with yielding tempers was not lost on Mrs. Butters, but she had regained her composure and did not wish to quarrel any further with her daughter-in-law. The rest of the evening passed harmoniously enough, with only a few more trials of Mrs. Butter’s patience when they all gathered in the parlour, where Fanny made the tea and cut the cake and the others absorbed themselves in various activities. Mr. Butters read the newspaper, the girls played with paper dolls that Fanny had prepared for them and the other ladies brought out their needlework.
“Are you a horsewoman, Miss Price?”
“I should not describe myself as one, ma’am. When I lived in the country, I used to ride a very gentle little mare for my health. But I never went above a trot. My cousin Thomas Bertram is the real expert on horseflesh. He emigrated to Virginia two years ago, and has established a breeding stables there.”
“Is that so?” And Cecilia Butters began to speak knowledgeably of studs and bloodlines and covering mares, while her little daughters played at her feet.
The youngest girl finished several slices of cake with milky tea, then joined her grandmother on the sofa and stroked her arm entreatingly. “Grandmama, do you know that I need a new saddle?”
“Do you indeed, Isabella? I have purchased several new saddles for you girls. Have you not the use of Ethelinda’s first saddle? Has it not passed down to you?”
“But I
