- -
- 100%
- +
‘Do you really wish to help?’
‘I may as well be of use. And this place clearly needs a great deal of work if it is to be approached properly.’
‘That sounds intriguing. How would one approach it improperly?’
She really should know better than to encourage someone like Chase Sinclair, but she could not stop her smile.
‘You are giving a fair example of just that, Mr Sinclair. I do wish to help, if you feel I can be of use.’
It was the first time she had seen him smile without calculation or mocking and she wished she had not prompted the change. It was like the morning mist clearing outside Whitworth, revealing soft fields sparkling with wildflowers and dew—a moment of clear beauty, suspended and unique.
Even for a rake he was disconcertingly handsome, his face worthy of a renaissance sculpture, all sharp angles and hard planes, its harshness softened only by the fullness of his lower lip and the lines of laughter and mockery at the corners of his steel-grey eyes.
She was surprised Drusilla and Fenella weren’t infatuated with this unfairly endowed specimen of manhood, or perhaps they had once been and his light-hearted teasing cured them—he might look like a fairy-tale hero, or perhaps even a villain, but he certainly did not act like one. Heroes tended to take themselves seriously, but Chase Sinclair did not appear to take anything seriously, least of all himself.
But as she waited for his response, she again felt the presence of an inner shadow, as if another person entirely was moving behind the handsome façade, considering how to wield it to his advantage.
‘Very well,’ he said at last, placing his hand on a stack of slim leather-bound books on the desk. ‘These notebooks contain my cousin’s accounts of his travels in Egypt. All the years I knew him he always kept them in order and in custom-made trunks, but as you can see that is no longer the case.’
Ellie glanced from the stack on the desk to the shelves he indicated and realised they, too, were populated not only by books and curios, but also stacks of brown-leather volumes.
‘My goodness, there are hundreds of them!’
‘Possibly. I would like to send them to my sister at Sinclair Hall, but first I want to put them in order, so I can ascertain if any are missing and hunt them down in this paper bog Huxley created. I wonder what Mallory was up to allow matters to deteriorate like this. He was always a stickler for neatness.’
‘Are you speaking of Mr Mallory? His secretary?’
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
She smiled. ‘Why, yes. Well, not very well. I met him on two occasions when he visited Henry’s father before he passed away. He did strike me as a very competent and serious young man. I do hope the notebooks are dated, at least?’
‘The notebooks aren’t, but the entries are, so with some you may have to leaf through them to find a dated entry. If you prefer not to...’
Ellie planted her hands on her hips. It would be a relief to do something useful to keep her mind off her woes.
‘I shall be happy to help. I shall need some pen and paper so I can keep a record of the ones I have and perhaps separate them by year or month. And I think I will insert a sheet of paper at the beginning of each with its date and some reference to the notebooks which precede and follow it as I find them. Once I complete that stage, I will compile a catalogue so we can see which volumes are missing.’
She turned to see if her plan met with his approval, just in time to see his smile tucked away.
‘Did I say something amusing, Mr Sinclair?’
‘Not at all. You are the very model of good sense, Miss Walsh, and I commend your plan of attack. Mallory would approve. Pen and paper you shall have.’
‘What shall I do with these strips of paper?’ Ellie asked as she picked up one of the notebook with two notes dangling like pennants from between the pages.
‘Leave them. No, in fact, if you find anything, bring it to me.’
* * *
‘Oh, look!’
Chase looked. It was the third time that expletive had burst from Miss Walsh’s lips in as many hours, accompanied by a look of delight that was beginning to grate on his nerves. Not that it was not a charming sight—her mouth softening into her rare smile and her eyes widened and lit with joy, turning them from mere brown to warm honey flaked with dancing sparks of gold and the tiny glimmer of green around the iris.
For the third time Chase found his attention wholly captured by her excitement. This time he tried for dismissiveness.
‘What have you found tucked inside his notebooks now? Another mouldering pressed daisy? An ancient Egyptian shopping list, perhaps? For ten yards of mummy wrappings and a sheave of papyrus?’
‘No. This was under the notebooks and it looks quite old.’ She approached the desk, holding a small leather-bound book with the gentleness of a lepidopterist balancing a rare butterfly on her palm. He took it just as carefully, memories flooding back.
‘You are right; it is very old. It is a book of hours given to my cousin by a friend of his, Fanous, an abbot at a Coptic monastery near his house in Qetara.’
‘It is exquisite.’
It was indeed exquisite. A monk had probably toiled for months over the detailed illustrations and squiggly Coptic letters. The picture was of a man and a woman in medieval garb standing hand-fasted and heads bowed, either in joint prayer or in mutual embarrassment. He could almost feel the tension between them and he breathed in, surprised at his unusually sentimental interpretation of the image.
‘It is a wedding, I think,’ she said, her voice low and serious. ‘Look here in the corner, that is the priest and those tables might signify a wedding feast. Those look like greenish pumpkins.’
‘Either that or rotund babes. Those two clearly look as if they have anticipated their wedding vows.’
Her mouth quirked almost into a smile and she tucked a strand of light-brown hair behind her ear as she leaned over him to turn the page.
Unlike Dru and Fen she didn’t dress or curl her hair, just dragged it back into a mercilessly regimented bun that did nothing to enliven her looks. But the deeper she delved into the notebooks, the more she unravelled. Her bun was slowly loosening its hold and though she kept tucking the escaping strands of hair behind her ears, they rarely stayed there, adding character and life to her face.
‘See? These are their children, helping with the harvest.’ Her voice was low and warm, lost in the imaginary world she concocted from the colourful illustrations. This is probably how she saw her little world with Henry—a safe, bucolic haven surrounded by gambolling lambs and sandy-haired babes or honey-eyed little girls with determined brows and far too much intelligence for comfort. Reality, as he knew only too well, was unlikely to be as pleasant.
She turned another page and caught a slip of paper before it fluttered to the ground. It was covered in Huxley’s scrawl and before he could take it she read it aloud, a frown in her voice.
‘“Fanous as Jephteh? Who else knew him?” Does that mean anything to you, Mr Sinclair? Or this list of letters? “J... M... P... S... C... E...at bull & pyramid”. How peculiar. It almost sounds like the name of an inn...you know, like the Horse and Plough, or the Lamb and Eagle.’
Her eyes were alight with interest and Chase took the note, adding it to the growing stack he’d been collecting. Nothing so far appeared to shed any light on Huxley’s request. He was beginning to wonder if Huxley’s last letter was merely the sign of a decaying mind and odd fancies. The untidiness of the study and Folly appeared to support that possibility.
Mallory should be able to clear up this conundrum, but according to Pruitt he left just two days before Huxley’s death to destinations unknown which was also peculiar, to say the least. Not that he suspected Mallory of anything improper. Huxley had taken him on as secretary when he was still a young man and he was as straight as an arrow, but it was still strange he’d disappeared so abruptly and not yet returned. Chase hoped the message he’d sent to his Uncle Oswald to have someone trace Mallory would settle that problem, but meanwhile all he could do was continue sifting through his cousin’s remains and hope something pointed him in the right direction.
So far the only items of interest were these peculiar notes such as the one Miss Walsh had just found, though they, too, probably meant absolutely nothing. Yet something about the letter and the peculiar disorder in the study bothered him.
And it was, unfortunately, not the only thing bothering him.
At the moment the more potent disturbance was Miss Walsh herself. Her excited ‘Oh, look!’ was bad enough when directed at him across the expanse of the desk. But having her a mere hand’s length away was proving more distracting than he would have thought possible.
Not that she appeared to share his discomfort in the least. She was wholly engrossed in the note, her finger gently tracing the letters so that he could almost feel the rasp of her finger on the paper.
He held himself still, resisting the urge to take advantage of the little book to lean closer to her. This close he could see where the well-worn muslin fabric curved over her breasts and hips. Even in that dowdy dress it was evident she had lovely breasts, not too small, not too large. His hands heated at the thought of how well they would fit in his palms, wondering whether they would be cool or warm, what colour her...
He cleared his throat, focusing on the fragile book. His imagination was always fertile, but it usually waited for more suitable subjects for its flights of fancy.
He reached for the scribbled strip of paper and, though he had not actively intended to, his arm brushed hers. He drew back, feeling stifled.
‘I’ll take that. And we had best return to our task if we are ever to finish.’
Her curiosity and excitement extinguished immediately, and the schoolmistress was back—calm, blank and faintly disapproving. He could have kicked himself for his petty rejection. He was definitely off form.
‘Shall I have Pruitt bring us some tea? My temper can be measured in direct opposition to my hunger.’ It wasn’t much of an apology, but her mouth relaxed a little as he went to tug at the bell pull.
‘You remind me of Hugh.’
‘Who is Hugh?’
‘My brother. We could tell the hour by his temper when he was a boy. If we had not fed him by five we did not need the clock to chime the hour. But once fed he was an angel for precisely another three hours. Mama always said it was because his mind was so hard at work. He is quite brilliant.’
‘I don’t have that excuse, unfortunately. How many of you are there?’
‘Five. Myself, Susan, Edmund, Anne and Hugh.’
‘You are the eldest? Never mind, don’t bother answering. Of course you are.’
‘Why of course?’
‘I recognise the symptoms. You are natural shepherds—everything into its proper slot.’
‘Ah. Did your brother herd you?’
‘Not for many years. Lucas knows when to abandon a lost cause, a very useful characteristic in an older sibling.’
‘I wish he would tell me how. My siblings inform me I am terribly managing.’
‘Perhaps I should have a word with them instead. Teach them a trick or two to herd the shepherd. Behind your back, of course.’
‘I don’t believe they need your help, Mr Sinclair. They are enough of a handful without your dubious advice. Now, as you said, we should return to these stacks or we shall never be done.’
Her shift in humour was so swift he was caught off guard.
‘Did I upset you? It was just idle nonsense. I would not really do that, you know.’
She shrugged and returned to her armchair. Chase took the book of hours and leaned across the desk to place it by her hand.
‘Keep this. My cousin would have liked you to have it.’
She shook her head and pushed the book back towards him. It was another dismissal, but it made him all the more determined to restore her to good humour. He didn’t like the ease with which she slipped back into her shell and he certainly didn’t like being the cause of it.
‘Take it. Please.’
He could see her weakening, but her eyes darted to the stacks of books on the table.
‘I could not take something so precious, but perhaps... No.’
‘What is it you would like?’
‘I see he has two sets of the Desert Boy novels—the one on the table and the one on the shelves over there. Perhaps I could have one... They are my siblings’ favourite books and I thought...’
‘You could have both if you like. One for your family and the other for you to have here at Huxley.’
‘Oh, but I won’t be—’ Her words stopped as if dropped off a cliff. Then she gathered herself. ‘One set will do, Mr Sinclair. My siblings will be very grateful.’
He watched her, unable to shake a sense of unease about her. And so he did what he always did when he was on shaky ground—he went digging.
‘How old are your siblings?’
Wistfulness warred with reserve on her expressive face. Even her features were a study in contrasts—her eyebrows and long eyelashes were several shades darker than her hair, accentuating the faintly exotic slant of her eyes, and her lower lip was a lush counterpoint to a thin and very precise upper lip. She wasn’t traditionally pretty, but there was something fascinating about her face, a play of contrasts that caught and held the viewer’s interest; like a painting he didn’t understand but instinctively liked.
‘Susan is twenty-two and Edmund almost eighteen, and Anne seventeen and Hugh is fourteen,’ she replied, her voice still curt.
‘Are you worried about them?’
She kept her gaze on the book, her long fingers riffling through the pages.
‘They have never been without me before. And then there is Aunt Florence.’
‘Your aunt is minding them? Then surely you need not worry.’
‘They are probably minding her, rather. She is a darling, but she can be as bad as my mother for daydreaming. I do not know how useful she will be if anything happens.’
‘Perhaps you underestimate them. I find it hard to believe siblings of yours are not also intelligent and resourceful. They must grow up eventually, you know.’
She finally looked up.
‘Next you will say I am mollycoddling them or...or something worse.’
‘No, I will say you probably need time away from them more than they need time away from you. Though I would have recommended a rather more relaxing venue than Aunt Ermy’s domain.’
Her mouth wavered between annoyance and amusement.
‘That does leave quite a few possibilities in between,’ she replied and he smiled at her lowering of arms.
‘Just about anywhere else, in fact. So, where would you go if you could go anywhere?’
Her gaze became wistful again as they settled on the Desert Boy books. ‘I wish I could disappear into the leaves of one of these books. Or perhaps...there.’ She turned to the framed picture on the wall. It was one Sam painted for Huxley many years ago—a view of the Nile from the cliffs above Qetara, the sails of the feluccas blushing in the sunset and the shores stubbly with papyrus reeds.
‘I hesitate to ruin your daydream with anything akin to reality, but Egypt is hardly relaxing. Sam, my sister, nearly sat on a scorpion while painting that. She probably would have if poor Edge hadn’t spotted it and pushed her away.’
‘Goodness. Who or what is poor Edge?’
‘He’s the nephew of Huxley’s antiquarian partner, Poppy Carmichael, and a good friend of ours until we all left to join the army during the war. His name is Lord Edgerton, to be precise, but Sam enjoyed vexing him by devising less-than-complimentary variations on his name and her favourite was Lord Stay-Away-from-the-Edge because he was always telling her to be careful, so we all began calling him Edge. He loved ancient Egypt and the antiquities as much as Poppy and Huxley. Show him a tomb and you’d lose him for the rest of the day. He had a habit of saving Sam when she tumbled into trouble, which was often, and thereby thoroughly putting up her back. In short, that picture is a lovely lie.’
‘But you love it. Egypt.’
‘Yes, but not for its relaxing qualities. Some of my best memories are from the years we spent in Egypt. Huxley was my mother’s cousin and it was through him that she met my father. When my father...died...we stayed with my grandmother in Venice, but one day Huxley appeared and swept us all off to Egypt. My mother’s family tried to object because she had been quite ill, but, since he was our guardian along with my paternal uncle, he carried the day. Until I joined the army, I spent my time between Venice and Egypt which were both a definite improvement on Sinclair Hall. But hardly relaxing.’
He cringed a little—his answer was more revealing than intended and her clever honey-brown eyes focused on him with curiosity. They were more honey than brown, a tawny swirl that made him think of the sweet-honey-and-nut baklava cakes Mrs Carmichael used to bribe them back to the house come evening.
He could see the questions bubbling inside her, but then her mouth turned prim again, curiosity reined in.
‘Well, perhaps that is what I want, too. Exciting can still be relaxing if it is different from what one knows.’
‘That is true. Perhaps you shall go to Egypt one day after all.’
She laughed, but there was such resignation in the sound he felt an instinctive surge of pity.
‘Don’t dismiss the possibility. Who knows? Perhaps a distant relative will demand you accompany her and her seventeen pugs on a voyage to the orient.’
‘Seventeen? Must it be seventeen?’
‘It must. In fact, you will set out with seventeen, but there might well be a few more by the time you arrive.’
She burst into laughter.
‘A pug harem. It sounds even more tiring than managing Whitworth.’
‘Adventure is often tiring. But if it is calm you seek, I could find you a post acting as governess to the heir to Shaykh Abd al-Walid, Prince of the White Desert.’
‘Being a governess isn’t at all calm. Before my... We once had a governess and, believe me, the poor woman was run ragged between us.’
‘This is not a household of sardonic and argumentative Walshes hiding under prim veneers, but a single, indolent and very plump little boy who can be appeased with sweetmeats and who naps most of the day.’
‘He sounds rather like a cat.’
‘Not like my sister-in-law’s cat. Inky is the size of a bear cub and, though she has a sweet tooth, she is definitely not indolent.’
‘Then I shall stick to my plump charge, though I doubt even someone as silver-tongued as you could convince a prince to employ someone as unqualified as I.’
‘You underestimate me, Miss Walsh. I have more skills than my silver tongue and as a servant of the Crown I can be...convincing.’
The laughter in her eyes was suddenly tinged with speculation.
‘Are you a servant of the Crown?’
‘Aren’t we all?’ he riposted.
As if she sensed his evasion, her eyes fell from his and she went back to her seat, sinking into it with an abruptness that made her skirts billow for a moment.
‘This is all amusing, but rather silly. I am unlikely to leave Whitworth so there is no point in dreaming of Egypt.’
‘You mean Huxley.’
‘What?’
‘You said you are unlikely to leave Whitworth.’
Her cheeks turned as pink as the sunset in Sam’s painting.
‘Of course. I meant...it was a figure of speech. I am still not accustomed... You know what I meant. In any case, they are both a long way from Egypt...’
The squeak of the gallery door interrupted her and Chase pushed to his feet in annoyance as a footman entered with a generously stacked tea tray.
No doubt the servants were told to keep them supplied with refreshments so they did not leave Huxley’s wing unless absolutely necessary, he thought.
Ermy’s campaign to separate Miss Walsh from Henry was clearly underway.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.