Aunts -- Fiction; England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Fathers and daughters -- Fiction; Love stories; Stepmothers -- Fiction
"Why, how hideous!" she suddenly exclaimed. "How more than wrong of
Clarkson! I gave orders that the curtains in this room were to be
rose-pink; those dull blue abominations must come down; we won't have
them--they'd try anyone's complexion. Child, for goodness' sake don't
stare! And yet, come and let me look at you. That blue dress suits you;
but then you are young, and you have a complexion for blue."
She patted my hand for a minute, then she yawned profoundly.
"I am glad to be home," she said. "A honeymoon when you are no longer
young is fatiguing, to say the least of it, and I am sick of hotel
life. I have already sent out my 'At Home' invitations, and for the next
few days the house will be crammed every afternoon. You will have to be
present--why, of course, you will--don't knit your brows together like
that. I mean to be a good stepmother to you, Heather. Ah, here comes
Gordon. Gordon, you look very presentable now. Sit close to me on this
sofa, and let Heather give you some tea. It's nice to have one's own
girl to wait on one, isn't it?"
"Profoundly nice," said the Major; "exquisitely nice. To think that we
have a child of our very own, Helen!"
"I don't think about it," replied Lady Helen. "It isn't my custom to
wear myself out going into raptures, but, Gordon, I am very seriously
displeased about those curtains."
"Curtains, dear--what ails them? I see nothing wrong in them."
"But I do. I told Clarkson's people rose-colour, soft rose-colour, and
they sent blue--I will never get anything at Clarkson's again."
"They must be changed, sweetest one," replied my father.
I was giving him a cup of tea just then, and my hand shook. My
stepmother noticed this; she said, in a sharp voice:
"Heather, get me a fan; that fire will spoil my complexion."
I fetched her one. She held it between herself and the fire.
"By the way, Gordon," she said suddenly, "we had better tell the child
now."
"Oh, what?" I asked in some astonishment and also alarm.
"Really, Heather, you need not give way to such undue excitement. A year
of my training will completely change you. I only wished to mention the
fact that your name is no longer Grayson; in future you are Heather
Dalrymple. Your father and I have agreed that you both take my name;
that is a thing often done when there is a question of money. I hold the
purse strings. I am a very generous person as regards money; Major,
dear, you can testify to that."
"I can, Helen. There never was your like, you are wonderful."
"You therefore are little Heather Dalrymple in future," continued my
stepmother, "and your father and I are Major and Lady Helen Dalrymple.
It's done, child, it's settled; the lawyers have arranged it all.
Grayson is a frightful name; you ought to be truly thankful that it is
in my power to change it for you. You need not even wait for your
marriage; the change takes place at once."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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