Read Online Dark Angel by Sally Beauman - Free Book Online

great many famous friends: He knew film stars and painters and singers and writers. My godfather Wexton, who used to be his best friend, had dedicated a whole book of poems to my uncle Steenie, poems he had written in the Great War which were called Shells.
    Should I mention my uncle Steenie? He did not come to Winterscombe very often, it was true, and when he did, there were arguments about money: Uncle Steenie wanted to be the Best-Kept Boy in the World, and he used to remind people of this in a loud voice when he had finished all the wine at luncheon. I found this very odd, because although Uncle Steenie was undeniably well kept and had that beautiful complexion, he was not a boy and hadn’t been a boy for quite a long time. When he talked about being one, he made my father furiously angry.
    “For God’s sake, Steenie,” I heard my father say once, when I passed them in the library and the door was open. “For God’s sake, you’re almost forty years old. This can’t go on. What happened to the last check I sent you?” Perhaps, on the whole, it was better not to mention my uncle Steenie, either. Charlotte would be sure to ask what he did—she always asked that; she even asked it about my father.
    “But what does he do ?” she said, after I had explained about the estate and my mother’s orphanages and the lake, which needed dredging, and the boiler and its inexhaustible appetite for pound notes.
    “I suppose he has a private income?” She made it sound like a dreadful disease. “Daddy said he thought he must. He said you couldn’t possibly manage otherwise, not in this great barn of a place. Of course, there is the title….” She wrinkled her nose. “But Daddy says titles don’t count these days. Not unless they’re very old—and yours isn’t very old, is it? Daddy says they can be useful, of course. He wouldn’t mind a title on his board, because there’s still some people they impress. It’s a pity he isn’t in the City, like Daddy, don’t you think? It must be horrid to be so poor.”
    “I don’t think we’re poor. Not exactly poor.” I was red in the face. “Mummy says we’re very lucky.”
    “Nonsense. You haven’t two halfpennies to rub together—Daddy said so. He made a big killing last week and he told Mummy then. He made more money on that one deal than your father makes in five years. It’s true! You ask him.”
    No, better not to mention my uncle Steenie, who did not work, or my uncle Freddie and his reluctant greyhounds; better not to mention my aunt Maud, who had been famous as a hostess once but who was now vague and old and wrong about my possibilities. Better, in fact, to stay off the subject of my family altogether.
    I sneaked a look at the clock, hoping it would soon be time for Charlotte to go, and began to stack up my cards: black queen on red king; red knave on black queen: this patience (I could already tell) was not going to come out.
    Charlotte sat opposite me, watching the pack as if she expected me to cheat. She tapped her fingers on the green baize cloth. Queen of spades on king of hearts. Suddenly it came to me: the perfect candidate, the trump card.
    “Oh, by the way,” I began—there was no time to be subtle—“I may go to America next year. Did I tell you?”
    “America?”
    “Yes. To stay in New York. My godmother lives there, and she wants me to stay with her.”
    “Your godmother? You never mentioned an American godmother.”
    “Well, I call her ‘aunt.’ Aunt Constance. But she isn’t really my aunt.”
    This was now more than a boast; it was a lie, since I called her no such thing, but I was launched, and scented victory. Charlotte’s eyes had grown small and concentrated.
    “Constance?”
    “Constance Shawcross,” I said.
    I brought out the name with a flourish. I hoped, I suppose, that it would impress, for I knew, in a vague way, that my godmother was celebrated. She must, however, have been far more celebrated than I had ever