Read Online Dark Angel by Sally Beauman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sally Beauman
Tags: Romance
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replied, and that was the end of the subject.
William the butler claimed not to remember her. Uncle Freddie shifted his eyes about whenever I mentioned her name; trapped, alone on a walk in the woods, he once went so far as to admit that he and his brothers had known Constance as a child. She had, he said, frowning at the trees, been jolly good fun—in her way.
“Did Daddy like her then, Uncle Freddie? I don’t think he likes her now.”
“Maybe, maybe.” Uncle Freddie whistled. “I don’t remember. Now, where are those wretched dogs? You shout, Victoria. Oh, well done. Here they come. That’s the ticket.”
That left Uncle Steenie. I had high hopes of Uncle Steenie, particularly if I could waylay him after luncheon, or when he was in his own room, where he kept a silver hip flask for restorative nips on cold afternoons. Uncle Steenie might not come to Winterscombe very often but when he did, he became expansive after a few nips. “Sit down, Victoria,” he would say. “Sit down and let’s have a huge gossip.”
And so, on one of his visits, I evaded Jenna and the regulation afternoon walk and crept along to Uncle Steenie’s room.
Uncle Steenie gave me a chocolate truffle from his secret bedroom supply, sat me by the fire, and told me all about Capri. When he paused for breath I asked my question. Uncle Steenie gave me one of his roguish looks.
“Constance? Your godmother?” He clicked his tongue. “Vicky darling, she is an absolute demon .”
“A demon? You mean she’s bad? Is that why no one will talk about her?”
“Bad?” Uncle Steenie seemed to find that idea interesting. He had another nip and considered it. “Well,” he said at last, in his most drawling voice, “I can never quite make up my mind. You know the little girl in the nursery rhyme, the one with the curl down the middle of her forehead? ‘When she was good she was very very good, and when she was bad she was horrid.’ Constance is like that, perhaps. Except, personally, I liked her best when she was bad. The great thing about your godmother, Vicky, is that she is never dull.”
“Is she … pretty?”
“Darling, no. Nothing so bland. She’s … startling.” He took another nip. “She bowls people over. Men especially. Down they go, like skittles.”
“Did she bowl you over, Uncle Steenie?”
“Well, not exactly, Vicky.” He paused. “She was probably too busy to try. I expect she had other fish to fry. She and I are almost the same age, you know, so we were always friends. We met for the first time when we were—let me see—about six years old. Younger than you are now, anyway. We’re both the same age as the century, more or less, so that must have been 1906. Lord, I’m ancient! 1906! It feels like eons ago.”
“So she’s thirty-seven now?” I was disappointed, I think, for thirty-seven seemed very old. Uncle Steenie waved his hands in the air.
“Thirty-seven? Vicky darling, in Constance’s case, the years are immaterial. Age cannot wither her—though it does the rest of us, unfortunately. Do you know what I saw in the mirror this morning? A most terrible thing. A crow’s footprint, Vicky. In the corner of my eyes.”
“It’s not a very big footprint.”
“Darling, you reassure me.” Uncle Steenie sighed. “And the reason it’s small is my new cream. Have I shown you my new cream? It smells of violets, and it’s too heavenly—”
“Would it get rid of freckles, do you think, Uncle Steenie?”
“Darling, in a flash. There’s nothing it can’t do. It’s a perfect miracle, this cream, which is just as well because it costs a queen’s ransom.” He smiled mischievously. “Look, I’ll give you some if you like. Pat it in, Vicky, every evening….”
So my uncle Steenie changed the subject—more dexterously than the rest of my family, but he changed it nonetheless. That night there were storms and slammed doors downstairs, and Uncle Steenie became so upset he had to be helped up to
William the butler claimed not to remember her. Uncle Freddie shifted his eyes about whenever I mentioned her name; trapped, alone on a walk in the woods, he once went so far as to admit that he and his brothers had known Constance as a child. She had, he said, frowning at the trees, been jolly good fun—in her way.
“Did Daddy like her then, Uncle Freddie? I don’t think he likes her now.”
“Maybe, maybe.” Uncle Freddie whistled. “I don’t remember. Now, where are those wretched dogs? You shout, Victoria. Oh, well done. Here they come. That’s the ticket.”
That left Uncle Steenie. I had high hopes of Uncle Steenie, particularly if I could waylay him after luncheon, or when he was in his own room, where he kept a silver hip flask for restorative nips on cold afternoons. Uncle Steenie might not come to Winterscombe very often but when he did, he became expansive after a few nips. “Sit down, Victoria,” he would say. “Sit down and let’s have a huge gossip.”
And so, on one of his visits, I evaded Jenna and the regulation afternoon walk and crept along to Uncle Steenie’s room.
Uncle Steenie gave me a chocolate truffle from his secret bedroom supply, sat me by the fire, and told me all about Capri. When he paused for breath I asked my question. Uncle Steenie gave me one of his roguish looks.
“Constance? Your godmother?” He clicked his tongue. “Vicky darling, she is an absolute demon .”
“A demon? You mean she’s bad? Is that why no one will talk about her?”
“Bad?” Uncle Steenie seemed to find that idea interesting. He had another nip and considered it. “Well,” he said at last, in his most drawling voice, “I can never quite make up my mind. You know the little girl in the nursery rhyme, the one with the curl down the middle of her forehead? ‘When she was good she was very very good, and when she was bad she was horrid.’ Constance is like that, perhaps. Except, personally, I liked her best when she was bad. The great thing about your godmother, Vicky, is that she is never dull.”
“Is she … pretty?”
“Darling, no. Nothing so bland. She’s … startling.” He took another nip. “She bowls people over. Men especially. Down they go, like skittles.”
“Did she bowl you over, Uncle Steenie?”
“Well, not exactly, Vicky.” He paused. “She was probably too busy to try. I expect she had other fish to fry. She and I are almost the same age, you know, so we were always friends. We met for the first time when we were—let me see—about six years old. Younger than you are now, anyway. We’re both the same age as the century, more or less, so that must have been 1906. Lord, I’m ancient! 1906! It feels like eons ago.”
“So she’s thirty-seven now?” I was disappointed, I think, for thirty-seven seemed very old. Uncle Steenie waved his hands in the air.
“Thirty-seven? Vicky darling, in Constance’s case, the years are immaterial. Age cannot wither her—though it does the rest of us, unfortunately. Do you know what I saw in the mirror this morning? A most terrible thing. A crow’s footprint, Vicky. In the corner of my eyes.”
“It’s not a very big footprint.”
“Darling, you reassure me.” Uncle Steenie sighed. “And the reason it’s small is my new cream. Have I shown you my new cream? It smells of violets, and it’s too heavenly—”
“Would it get rid of freckles, do you think, Uncle Steenie?”
“Darling, in a flash. There’s nothing it can’t do. It’s a perfect miracle, this cream, which is just as well because it costs a queen’s ransom.” He smiled mischievously. “Look, I’ll give you some if you like. Pat it in, Vicky, every evening….”
So my uncle Steenie changed the subject—more dexterously than the rest of my family, but he changed it nonetheless. That night there were storms and slammed doors downstairs, and Uncle Steenie became so upset he had to be helped up to
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