The Serpent's Tooth
Bithia Mary Croker
9781465659057
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
COLONEL FENCHURCH stood on his own hearthstone—that is to say, the smoking-room rug—with his back to the fire, and a cup of tea in his hand. He was a good-looking dapper little man, with a neat white moustache, a cheery voice, and an unfailing flow of talk. “I say, Doodie,” turning to a lady in a splashed habit, who was meditatively consuming buttered toast, “weren’t the roads beastly? Just look at my boots and leathers!” Doodie, his wife, nodded, but made no other reply. “A clinking run,” he continued, “and a lot of those thrusters got left—you went well—eh?—that was a nasty place out of the round plantation!—on the whole—a good hard day!” Once more his better-half inclined her hatted head; evidently her mind was preoccupied. She was staring fixedly at a certain pattern in the carpet, with a remote and far-away gaze; a plain weather-beaten lady whose age—much discussed among her acquaintances—was probably five-and-forty; her habit displayed a slight square-shouldered figure; a pot hat pushed to the back of her head disclosed the inevitable red mark, a long but aristocratic nose, and a clever resolute countenance. Dorothy Fenchurch was a notable example of the strong-willed active woman, mated to a weak, easy-going, good-tempered man: and the match had proved a conspicuous success. In the opinion of Tom Fenchurch, no wife in the County was fit to hold a candle to his wonderful Dorothy—what a housekeeper, horsewoman, companion!—and for her part, his Dorothy was contented. Greedy of influence, social and domestic, she thoroughly enjoyed the rôle of manager and mentor. How much more satisfactory to rule in a small establishment, and over a limited circle, than to languish at home, the insignificant member of an important house, who kept their women-folk inflexibly in the background; and so it came to pass that twelve years previously, the Honourable Dorothy Claremont bestowed her hand and her fortune on agreeable Colonel Fenchurch, who had little to offer her, besides his handsome face, his retired pay, and his heart. The couple had settled down in a ramshackle old house, in a ramshackle old village in the Midlands, inconveniently remote from the railway, but within easy reach of the principal Meets of a well-known sporting pack. The bride’s relations—who had not favoured the alliance—shrugged their shoulders and commiserated ‘poor Dorothy.’ They little knew that ‘poor Dorothy,’ now thoroughly free and independent, was as happy as the day was long! Here, in the sleepy hamlet of Thornby, the Honble. Mrs. Fenchurch soon made her presence felt. She, so to speak, ‘took hold’ with both hands; stirred up the villagers, the parson, and the doctor; improved the old manor out of all recognition—and that at no great expense.
