Mr. Waddington of Wyck

May Sinclair
A free download from

Mr. Waddington of Wyck

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mr. Waddington of Wyck, by May
Sinclair Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to
check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or
redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.
This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.
Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how
the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since
*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of
Title: Mr. Waddington of Wyck
Author: May Sinclair
Release Date: February, 2006 [EBook #9967] [Yes, we are more than

one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on November 5,
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

Produced by Suzanne Shell, Dmitriy Genzel and PG Distributed



Barbara wished she would come back. For the last hour Fanny
Waddington had kept on passing in and out of the room through the
open door into the garden, bringing in tulips, white, pink, and red tulips,
for the flowered Lowestoft bowls, hovering over them, caressing them
with her delicate butterfly fingers, humming some sort of song to

The song mixes itself up with the Stores list Barbara was making: "Two
dozen glass towels. Twelve pounds of Spratt's puppy biscuits. One
dozen gent.'s all-silk pyjamas, extra large size" ... "A-hoom--hoom,
a-hoom--hoom" (that Impromptu of Schubert's), and with the notes
Barbara was writing: "Mrs. Waddington has pleasure in enclosing...."
Fanny Waddington would always have pleasure in enclosing
something.... "A ho-om--boom, hoom, hee." A sound so light that it
hardly stirred the quiet of the room. If a butterfly could hum it would
hum like Fanny Waddington.
Barbara Madden had not been two days at Lower Wyck Manor, and
already she was at home there; she knew by heart Fanny's
drawing-room with the low stretch of the Tudor windows at each end,
their lattices panelled by the heavy mullions, the back one looking out
on to the green garden bordered with wallflowers and tulips; the front
one on to the round grass-plot and the sundial, the drive and the
shrubbery beyond, down the broad walk that cut through it into the
clear reaches of the park. She liked the interior, the Persian carpet faded
to patches of grey and fawn and old rose, the port-wine mahogany
furniture, the tables thrusting out the brass claws of their legs, the
latticed cabinets and bookcases, the chintz curtains and chair-covers, all
red dahlias and powder-blue parrots on a cream-coloured ground. But
when Fanny wasn't there you could feel the room ache with the
emptiness she left.
Barbara ached. She caught herself listening for Fanny Waddington's
feet on the flagged path and the sound of her humming. As she waited
she looked up at the picture over the bureau in the recess of the
fireplace, the portrait in oils of Horatio Bysshe Waddington, Fanny's
He was seated, heavily seated with his spread width and folded height,
in one of the brown-leather chairs of his library, dressed in a tweed coat,
putty-coloured riding breeches, a buff waistcoat, and a grey-blue tie.
The handsome, florid face was lifted in a noble pose above the stiff
white collar; you could see the full, slightly drooping lower lip under
the shaggy black moustache. There was solemnity in the thick, rounded

salient of the Roman nose, in the slightly bulging eyes, and in the
almost imperceptible line that sagged from each nostril down the long
curve of the cheeks. This figure, one great thigh crossed on the other,
was extraordinarily solid against the smoky background where the
clipped black hair made a watery light. His eyes were not looking at
anything in particular. Horatio Bysshe Waddington seemed to be
absorbed in some solemn thought.
His wife's portrait hung over the card-table in the other recess.
Barbara hoped he would be nice; she hoped he would be interesting,
since she had to be his secretary. But, of course, he would be. Anybody
so enchanting as Fanny could never have married him if he wasn't. She
wondered how she, Barbara
Continue reading on your phone by scaning this QR Code

 / 80
Tip: The current page has been bookmarked automatically. If you wish to continue reading later, just open the Dertz Homepage, and click on the 'continue reading' link at the bottom of the page.