Read Online A Prologue To Love by Taylor Caldwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Taylor Caldwell
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addiction to meaningless platitudes, thought Mr. Bothwell.
“John,” said Cynthia demurely, though her eye sparkled, “is very punctilious about duty. Isn’t he a love?”
“Heh, heh,” said Mr. Bothwell amiably. If there was anyone who looked less like a ‘love’ it was John Ames. John’s face was paler than usual, and there were grim corners about his mouth. He even gave Cynthia a formidable look. Mr. Bothwell began to wonder why he had voluntarily made this gift to Cynthia. “Shall we have a drop of sherry?” he asked with a fond glance at the young woman.
“No,” said Cynthia. “You know very well, Uncle Carlton, that I hate sherry. Now, if you have some of that fine Scotch whiskey — ”
“It just happens that I received a new shipment from Pierce’s today,” said Mr. Bothwell. He had been quite a beau in Boston and New York and appreciated a refined lustiness in women. There were too many sticks among the proper ladies in Boston. He opened a drawer in his desk and brought out a crystal decanter and three shining glasses.
“None for me, thank you,” said John with another icily sullen look at Cynthia.
“Sherry, then?”
“No, thank you.”
“Then it seems that Cynthia and I will have to toast each other alone,” said Mr. Bothwell. He smiled to himself. If that rigid Croesus thought that by his disapproval he would be able to quell Cynthia’s spirits, he was mistaken.
The whiskey was delightful. Mr. Bothwell’s ruddy Irish color deepened. He relaxed even more in his chair. Cynthia drank expertly, not like a scrubwoman in one gulp, not like a squeamish lady who made a wry face, but with knowing approval. “I must order some of this,” she said. “Dear Uncle Carlton. You’re looking so well.”
“The sea, you know,” said the lawyer with a wink. “I’m not the kind who takes his wife, in full dress, out on Bailey’s Beach at noon. I prefer a session with my friends in some quiet clubroom at the hotel. I do ride, you know, Cynthia, and I’m fond of a brisk walk all alone at night before retiring. What did you say, John? Excellent! Let me pour you a glass at once. Taste in whiskey, as in wines, is cultivated.”
John Ames’ mouth tightened. Did the old rascal mean that as an insult?
“I’m sorry you and Aunt Matilda can’t come tonight to my birthday party,” said Cynthia. “I’m making it quite a gala affair. Harper is coming too; I’ve always been so fond of Harper. And it’s so sad that he lives alone in that huge house, though it’s very beautiful, and with such a marvelous view of the river.”
Mr. Bothwell smiled blandly at her. “Harper’s loneliness can be cured at any time,” he suggested. “He is waiting.”
John Ames was thinking with dismay: A gala affair! He knew Cynthia’s extravagance. She was discreetly gazing at her muff.
“I trust,” he said ironically, “that I am also invited, though I expected to leave for Lyndon very early tomorrow. And I know your parties, Cynthia. They usually last to dawn.”
He was angry. He had expected, now that the matter of the trust fund had been concluded, that he would spend the night in Cynthia’s bed. He had been thinking of little else. He had wondered why he should feel so much emotion, so much terrible desire, so passionate and overwhelming an urge. Nevertheless, he considered her a woman without the proper decencies of women, a light-minded creature without solid values. He did not believe in the least now that wealthy men in Boston wanted to marry her and give her all she wished. That, he believed, was the tormenting goad she had applied to him, and it still stung. She was ungrateful and unscrupulous; she had brought him here under an aura of duty, for which he had nothing but loathing, and after robbing him she was dismissing him. He gripped the arms of his chair.
Cynthia turned to him. Her beautiful eyes were very soft and tender;
“John,” said Cynthia demurely, though her eye sparkled, “is very punctilious about duty. Isn’t he a love?”
“Heh, heh,” said Mr. Bothwell amiably. If there was anyone who looked less like a ‘love’ it was John Ames. John’s face was paler than usual, and there were grim corners about his mouth. He even gave Cynthia a formidable look. Mr. Bothwell began to wonder why he had voluntarily made this gift to Cynthia. “Shall we have a drop of sherry?” he asked with a fond glance at the young woman.
“No,” said Cynthia. “You know very well, Uncle Carlton, that I hate sherry. Now, if you have some of that fine Scotch whiskey — ”
“It just happens that I received a new shipment from Pierce’s today,” said Mr. Bothwell. He had been quite a beau in Boston and New York and appreciated a refined lustiness in women. There were too many sticks among the proper ladies in Boston. He opened a drawer in his desk and brought out a crystal decanter and three shining glasses.
“None for me, thank you,” said John with another icily sullen look at Cynthia.
“Sherry, then?”
“No, thank you.”
“Then it seems that Cynthia and I will have to toast each other alone,” said Mr. Bothwell. He smiled to himself. If that rigid Croesus thought that by his disapproval he would be able to quell Cynthia’s spirits, he was mistaken.
The whiskey was delightful. Mr. Bothwell’s ruddy Irish color deepened. He relaxed even more in his chair. Cynthia drank expertly, not like a scrubwoman in one gulp, not like a squeamish lady who made a wry face, but with knowing approval. “I must order some of this,” she said. “Dear Uncle Carlton. You’re looking so well.”
“The sea, you know,” said the lawyer with a wink. “I’m not the kind who takes his wife, in full dress, out on Bailey’s Beach at noon. I prefer a session with my friends in some quiet clubroom at the hotel. I do ride, you know, Cynthia, and I’m fond of a brisk walk all alone at night before retiring. What did you say, John? Excellent! Let me pour you a glass at once. Taste in whiskey, as in wines, is cultivated.”
John Ames’ mouth tightened. Did the old rascal mean that as an insult?
“I’m sorry you and Aunt Matilda can’t come tonight to my birthday party,” said Cynthia. “I’m making it quite a gala affair. Harper is coming too; I’ve always been so fond of Harper. And it’s so sad that he lives alone in that huge house, though it’s very beautiful, and with such a marvelous view of the river.”
Mr. Bothwell smiled blandly at her. “Harper’s loneliness can be cured at any time,” he suggested. “He is waiting.”
John Ames was thinking with dismay: A gala affair! He knew Cynthia’s extravagance. She was discreetly gazing at her muff.
“I trust,” he said ironically, “that I am also invited, though I expected to leave for Lyndon very early tomorrow. And I know your parties, Cynthia. They usually last to dawn.”
He was angry. He had expected, now that the matter of the trust fund had been concluded, that he would spend the night in Cynthia’s bed. He had been thinking of little else. He had wondered why he should feel so much emotion, so much terrible desire, so passionate and overwhelming an urge. Nevertheless, he considered her a woman without the proper decencies of women, a light-minded creature without solid values. He did not believe in the least now that wealthy men in Boston wanted to marry her and give her all she wished. That, he believed, was the tormenting goad she had applied to him, and it still stung. She was ungrateful and unscrupulous; she had brought him here under an aura of duty, for which he had nothing but loathing, and after robbing him she was dismissing him. He gripped the arms of his chair.
Cynthia turned to him. Her beautiful eyes were very soft and tender;
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