"Idrie! Idrie, you won't believe what Daddy's done!"
The young woman lowered her book and turned in her chair to face the smaller and lighter-haired version of herself.
"What is it, Lizzy? Surely he's done nothing too dreadful?"
Lisabeth Brightley fell at her sister's feet and said in a passionate tone, "Oh, but he has! He sold you off!"
Her look was steady.
"Has he now?"
The tone was one that might have been used to comment on the weather or the latest cricket scores, both of which this young lady had little interest. Lisabeth, however, refused to overlook such a serious and disgraceful matter, (particularly where unfamiliar husbands were concerned).
"You must speak with him, Idrie," she said with a pleading tug of her sister's skirt. "Oh, you must speak to him immediately!"
Although she seldom saw a point in granting Lisabeth's wishes, Idrielle Brightley was more or less her slave; not in the literal sense of the word, but never (since that unfortunate affair with Mr. Empton's goose) has she refused any whim or demand for Lisabeth's benefit. Idrielle Brightley paid little attention to the world and considered herself fortunate in many ways; this life served and arranged her unimportant affairs, not the other way around.
Their father was at his desk, immersed in letters, when she and her sister entered, with the latter stepping on her skirt tails. (And that patient woman never uttered a word of remonstrance!)
Mr. Brightley was a man of exact habit and method and one felt his presence whenever they visited Brush of Hills with its sprawling lawns, falling hills, and abundant gardens. A touch of feminine charm swept through the bright halls of the house since, once upon a time, the trill of children's laughter rushed along the now peaceful walls. Even childish ink-stained art hung on the walls of his study from the sweet youthful days of long ago. While others may have found this memory-filled room burdensome, Mr. Brightley enjoyed these tender moments of reflection. The image of Lizzy playing dolls, Idrie reading in her corner and dear Henrietta smiling from the chaise, brought him peace.
Mr. Brightley, his full grey head tied back with a ribbon, looked up from his papers.
"Idrielle, my dear! I haven't seen you in a while, but I imagine you're too consumed by your books to remember your old father. It's fine, my dear, I'm only teasing. Where did I place that pen...? I hope you're well?"
"Quite," and receiving a well-aimed kick in the ankle from her sister added hastily, "Well, in health, I should expect so, Father."
He clapped his hands. "Wonderful! You never were one to complain, unlike your sister, eh Lizzy?" He gave his youngest a debonair grin, to which she returned with a scowl from behind her sister.
"To what do I owe this pleasure? Come, come, sit in my armchair there. It's always been your favourite spot."
She would have snuggled into the offered chair had her sister's tug on her arm not implied that now was not the time to 'rest in father's company'.
"Thank you, Father, but I'd rather not... at the moment."
Mr. Brightley raised his spectacles higher upon his nose, eyeing her from beneath his brows. Lisabeth leaned in and whispered, causing their father to raise an inquisitive brow.
"Tell him you need to discuss something important."
"I've something of utmost importance to speak of with you, Father, and hope you can spare a moment of your time."
YOU ARE READING
Bride of Choice
Historical Fiction[Cover Design by Angel S.] Wade Lambert was known throughout the enchanting countryside of Harwickshire by friends and relatives alike to be the perfect epitome of trouble. And his handsome features and air of sophistication did not help matters as...
