The coming out
‘Oh Violet do stop slouching,” snapped the Countess of Pontefract. “No man will ever propose if you continue to loll around like an ape.”
Violet sighed. She’d been sitting in the car with her mother for nearly two hours and there’d been a constant stream of dos and don’ts – do sit up straight, don’t touch your hair, do keep your gloves clean, don’t frown. She pushed her shoulders back against the leather seat and met the eyes of their driver Perkins in the mirror. Violet thought she saw a flash of sympathy in them. She was correct; Perkins had driven the Countess of Pontefract for nearly 20 years and was often subject to bossy instructions himself.
“Perkins, do try and drive less like you’re riding a horse at Ascot,” the Countess had barked two days earlier while he drove them to London from Richings.
Richings! The thought of home gave Violet a pang. Usually around now she’d still be outside walking Patch, trying to
