Read Online Dark Angel by Sally Beauman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sally Beauman
Tags: Romance
Ads: Link
imagined, for Charlotte’s reaction exceeded my greatest hopes. She drew in her breath; her eyes rounded; her expression was of envy tinged with disbelief.
“No! The Constance Shawcross?”
“Of course,” I said firmly, although I was at once afraid there might be two and my godmother the wrong one.
“Heavens!” Charlotte looked at me with new respect. “Wait till I tell Mummy.”
Such triumph! I was a little afraid it would be difficult to sustain, because I could tell that Charlotte was about to press me with questions, to which my answers were sure to be wrong. But I was saved. There was a scrunch of tires on gravel, the blaring of a horn. Charlotte looked up. I took the opportunity to switch the order of my cards.
“Your father’s here,” I said. “Oh—and look—this patience is coming out, after all.”
That was how the lie began; it was a lie that would have the most terrible consequences.
When I mentioned Constance’s name that afternoon at the card table, all I really knew was that it was a name likely to impress. I knew my godmother was famous, though for what I had no idea. I knew that my uncle Steenie adored her and pronounced her incomparable; I knew that, when he came to Winterscombe, he would sometimes produce magazines that charted my godmother’s social activities in breathless detail. I also knew that when he mentioned her name he was met with silence and the subject was quickly changed. The magazines, which Uncle Steenie would leave open upon tables, would be removed the instant he left the room. I knew, in short, that there was a mystery.
When I was born (Jenna had told me this) Constance had attended my christening and, like a godmother in a fairy story, had bent over my cradle to bestow a kiss. She had held me in her arms outside the Winterscombe church and had given me as a christening present a most extraordinary bracelet, in the shape of a coiling snake. This bracelet, described by Jenna as unsuitable, I had never seen; it lay lodged with my mother’s diamonds in the bank.
After the christening Constance must have fallen from favor, for she disappeared. More precisely, she was erased. There were numerous photographs of my christening, and Constance appeared in none of them. She was never invited to stay at the house, although I knew she came to England, for Uncle Steenie would say so. The only reason I knew she was my godmother was that she told me so herself; each year at Christmas, and each year on my birthday, she would send a card, and inside them she would write: From your godmother, Constance. The handwriting was small, the strokes of the letters bold, and the ink black.
These cards of hers were arranged, with the others I received, on the nursery mantelpiece. When the birthday was over I was allowed to keep my cards, cutting them out and pasting them in scrapbooks—all the cards, that is, except those from my godmother. Her cards were always removed.
This tactic was designed, I expect, to make me forget my godmother. Since I was a child, it had the opposite effect. The less I was told, the more I wanted to know, but to discover more was extremely difficult. My parents were obdurate: Nothing could persuade either of them to mention Constance by name, and a direct question was met with visible displeasure. They confirmed that she was my godmother—that was all.
Jenna had been provoked, once or twice, into discussion of my christening and the exotic bracelet, but after that I think she was warned off, for she too refused to discuss Constance again. Aunt Maud clearly hated her; on the one occasion when I risked an inquiry there, Aunt Maud drew herself up, gazed down her imperious nose, and sniffed.
“Your godmother is quite beyond the pale, Victoria. I prefer you do not mention her to me. I cannot imagine that she would interest you.”
“I just wondered … if she had … tempestuous eyes,” I persevered.
“Her eyes are like two small pieces of coal,” Aunt Maud
“No! The Constance Shawcross?”
“Of course,” I said firmly, although I was at once afraid there might be two and my godmother the wrong one.
“Heavens!” Charlotte looked at me with new respect. “Wait till I tell Mummy.”
Such triumph! I was a little afraid it would be difficult to sustain, because I could tell that Charlotte was about to press me with questions, to which my answers were sure to be wrong. But I was saved. There was a scrunch of tires on gravel, the blaring of a horn. Charlotte looked up. I took the opportunity to switch the order of my cards.
“Your father’s here,” I said. “Oh—and look—this patience is coming out, after all.”
That was how the lie began; it was a lie that would have the most terrible consequences.
When I mentioned Constance’s name that afternoon at the card table, all I really knew was that it was a name likely to impress. I knew my godmother was famous, though for what I had no idea. I knew that my uncle Steenie adored her and pronounced her incomparable; I knew that, when he came to Winterscombe, he would sometimes produce magazines that charted my godmother’s social activities in breathless detail. I also knew that when he mentioned her name he was met with silence and the subject was quickly changed. The magazines, which Uncle Steenie would leave open upon tables, would be removed the instant he left the room. I knew, in short, that there was a mystery.
When I was born (Jenna had told me this) Constance had attended my christening and, like a godmother in a fairy story, had bent over my cradle to bestow a kiss. She had held me in her arms outside the Winterscombe church and had given me as a christening present a most extraordinary bracelet, in the shape of a coiling snake. This bracelet, described by Jenna as unsuitable, I had never seen; it lay lodged with my mother’s diamonds in the bank.
After the christening Constance must have fallen from favor, for she disappeared. More precisely, she was erased. There were numerous photographs of my christening, and Constance appeared in none of them. She was never invited to stay at the house, although I knew she came to England, for Uncle Steenie would say so. The only reason I knew she was my godmother was that she told me so herself; each year at Christmas, and each year on my birthday, she would send a card, and inside them she would write: From your godmother, Constance. The handwriting was small, the strokes of the letters bold, and the ink black.
These cards of hers were arranged, with the others I received, on the nursery mantelpiece. When the birthday was over I was allowed to keep my cards, cutting them out and pasting them in scrapbooks—all the cards, that is, except those from my godmother. Her cards were always removed.
This tactic was designed, I expect, to make me forget my godmother. Since I was a child, it had the opposite effect. The less I was told, the more I wanted to know, but to discover more was extremely difficult. My parents were obdurate: Nothing could persuade either of them to mention Constance by name, and a direct question was met with visible displeasure. They confirmed that she was my godmother—that was all.
Jenna had been provoked, once or twice, into discussion of my christening and the exotic bracelet, but after that I think she was warned off, for she too refused to discuss Constance again. Aunt Maud clearly hated her; on the one occasion when I risked an inquiry there, Aunt Maud drew herself up, gazed down her imperious nose, and sniffed.
“Your godmother is quite beyond the pale, Victoria. I prefer you do not mention her to me. I cannot imagine that she would interest you.”
“I just wondered … if she had … tempestuous eyes,” I persevered.
“Her eyes are like two small pieces of coal,” Aunt Maud
Similar Books
