The Girl from Paris by Joan Aiken

Author:Joan Aiken
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2016-08-18T04:00:00+00:00

Ten

The journey back to England was long, tedious, and remarkable only for a violent quarrel which took place on deck between Ellen and Benedict Masham; Kitty, who was a wretched sailor, having retired below to the ladies’ cabin with her smelling salts and her maid.

“I would be greatly obliged, Mr. Masham, if you could see your way to desist from meddling in my private affairs!”

“Your affairs, my dear Ellen, are hardly private when they are reported in The Times and the Morning Post.”

Ellen could have slapped him. She felt—with fury, with despair—that she was being treated like a naughty child, snatched away from misdoing, scolded, given no right to exercise her own will or choose her own course. She, who had been earning her own living for years, while Benedict was still at college! And why, of all people in the world, should Benedict and Kitty assume the right to judge her? Kitty, who had married a disagreeable man twice her age for his money—who lived in a hideous Midlands town, whose husband manufactured nails and talked with a Bradford accent—how dared she venture to lay down rules for other people’s conduct? Let alone Benedict—Ellen stared at him with real hate.

Having addressed his remark to her in a cool, measured tone, he was leaning on the rail and gazing at the ominously large waves as if there were no more to be said. He looked, as always, trim, composed, and elegant, in gray trousers, dark broadcloth coat, beautifully cut, and fine, soft black ulster; he held his hat in his hand, for the wind hummed menacingly in the shrouds, but his thick corn-colored hair remained annoyingly unruffled; the fashionably jutting beard he had recently grown and his travel-bronzed skin gave him a somewhat buccaneering appearance.

Whereas Ellen felt herself to be blown about, blowsy and untidy; she had not dressed for a sea voyage; her bonnet threatened every minute to lift off her head, her shawl and skirts tugged and fluttered (and she had much ado to keep the latter from flying up in a most undignified and improper manner—she was glad at least not to be wearing a crinoline, for she noticed that the English ladies still adhering to this fashion were in even worse difficulties); her hair was being whirled over her face, and a huge lump in her throat prevented her from giving Benedict the setdown he deserved. Women had the worst of it in every possible way, she thought resentfully; considered incapable of making sensible decisions for themselves, treated as if they were mentally deficient, and obliged to dress in clothes that curtailed or prevented any active life and left them at a hopeless disadvantage.

Clutching at the rail to keep her balance, she, too, stared at the humpbacked, slate-colored waves, each with an ominous curdle of foam bristling against the dark sky.

“Had you not best go below?” inquired Benedict coldly. “It appears likely that we shall run into a severe squall.”

“Thank you, I would rather remain here.”

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