interesting family. This house has seen some times.’
Edgar stared at her. Her face was bland, innocent, lost in thought. She might have been telling this story to anyone. It wasn’t directed especially at him. Or was it?
No one had rung for lamps to be brought in and the room was full of twilight. Sunk into the wing chair, with the uneven wash of the firelight on her wide black skirts and white lace cap, Lady Arabella looked like a monstrous mole. That’s what she was, busily tunnelling her way into old books and diaries, all the musty paraphernalia of a very old house, swallowing the secrets and then letting them ferment inside her. She had a dangerous habit of embroidering and exaggerating. Not that it mattered much what scandals emerged regarding dead and gone Davenports. All the same, he should long ago have examined those old books himself.
‘All old houses have seen interesting times,’ he said, then realised that he had made that platitudinous remark before, and added, ‘It won’t see any more while I live here.’
‘But how can you be sure?’ Lady Arabella said vigorously. She was embarking on her favourite theme. ‘Events are forced on us. These strange children arriving, for instance. They will change the atmosphere and a changed atmosphere provokes things. Then there is George’s war injury. You can’t deny that has made him almost a stranger. We have to learn to know him all over again. And had you forgotten that this is the year Amelia puts her hair up, and Fanny comes of age. These are the seeds of drama.’
Lady Arabella’s voice had become deep and vibrant as it did when she got to the terrifying part of a fairy story, the moment when she was going to deliberately shock and startle her audience.
‘You will see, Edgar,’ she said portentously.
‘Come, Mamma,’ said Edgar playfully. ‘You’re just like a child waiting to stir muddy water to see what lies underneath.’
The old lady pounced.
‘Why is the water muddy?’
Edgar put down his glass of sherry, then picked it up and took a large mouthful.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I hope you will keep off such a cryptic conversation at dinner.’
‘And why should I? It might liven things up. People enjoy hearing scandal about others.’
‘Scandal!’ Edgar’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘What exactly are you referring to?’
Lady Arabella closed her eyes dreamily.
‘How I adore other people’s letters. So revealing. Your great-uncle was a talented correspondent. I fear it’s a dying art in this family. Can you imagine George or Amelia writing really artistic letters. Fanny may, of course. She may have inherited the Irish gift for poetry.’
‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Edgar said good-humouredly. ‘My uncle’s letters would be with the recipients, not here.’
‘Exactly my point. The replies, you understand, are still in existence. I find I have a knack with hidden drawers in desks. I’d have made an accomplished burglar. Then perhaps,’ the old lady chuckled, ‘I wouldn’t have been coming down to dinner when you entertained your friend, Sir Giles Mowatt.’
Edgar was bending over her.
‘What did you find?’
‘The next thing I shall investigate is secret panels. I can’t think why I never thought of this fascinating pastime before.’
‘What did you find?’
‘Edgar, don’t breathe on me like that. I’ve told you what I found. Merely family letters. No secret hoard of sovereigns, unfortunately.’
‘Show them to me.’
‘Yes, indeed I will when I find them.’
‘You said you had found them.’
‘And since then I’ve mislaid them. Isn’t it aggravating—I’ve grown so forgetful. But they’ll turn up, and then certainly you shall see them.’
‘Who were they from? You remember that, at least?’
‘Someone called Philip. A connection of your great-uncle’s. You’ve never explained the ramifications of your family to me. But he seemed to be
Edgar stared at her. Her face was bland, innocent, lost in thought. She might have been telling this story to anyone. It wasn’t directed especially at him. Or was it?
No one had rung for lamps to be brought in and the room was full of twilight. Sunk into the wing chair, with the uneven wash of the firelight on her wide black skirts and white lace cap, Lady Arabella looked like a monstrous mole. That’s what she was, busily tunnelling her way into old books and diaries, all the musty paraphernalia of a very old house, swallowing the secrets and then letting them ferment inside her. She had a dangerous habit of embroidering and exaggerating. Not that it mattered much what scandals emerged regarding dead and gone Davenports. All the same, he should long ago have examined those old books himself.
‘All old houses have seen interesting times,’ he said, then realised that he had made that platitudinous remark before, and added, ‘It won’t see any more while I live here.’
‘But how can you be sure?’ Lady Arabella said vigorously. She was embarking on her favourite theme. ‘Events are forced on us. These strange children arriving, for instance. They will change the atmosphere and a changed atmosphere provokes things. Then there is George’s war injury. You can’t deny that has made him almost a stranger. We have to learn to know him all over again. And had you forgotten that this is the year Amelia puts her hair up, and Fanny comes of age. These are the seeds of drama.’
Lady Arabella’s voice had become deep and vibrant as it did when she got to the terrifying part of a fairy story, the moment when she was going to deliberately shock and startle her audience.
‘You will see, Edgar,’ she said portentously.
‘Come, Mamma,’ said Edgar playfully. ‘You’re just like a child waiting to stir muddy water to see what lies underneath.’
The old lady pounced.
‘Why is the water muddy?’
Edgar put down his glass of sherry, then picked it up and took a large mouthful.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I hope you will keep off such a cryptic conversation at dinner.’
‘And why should I? It might liven things up. People enjoy hearing scandal about others.’
‘Scandal!’ Edgar’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘What exactly are you referring to?’
Lady Arabella closed her eyes dreamily.
‘How I adore other people’s letters. So revealing. Your great-uncle was a talented correspondent. I fear it’s a dying art in this family. Can you imagine George or Amelia writing really artistic letters. Fanny may, of course. She may have inherited the Irish gift for poetry.’
‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Edgar said good-humouredly. ‘My uncle’s letters would be with the recipients, not here.’
‘Exactly my point. The replies, you understand, are still in existence. I find I have a knack with hidden drawers in desks. I’d have made an accomplished burglar. Then perhaps,’ the old lady chuckled, ‘I wouldn’t have been coming down to dinner when you entertained your friend, Sir Giles Mowatt.’
Edgar was bending over her.
‘What did you find?’
‘The next thing I shall investigate is secret panels. I can’t think why I never thought of this fascinating pastime before.’
‘What did you find?’
‘Edgar, don’t breathe on me like that. I’ve told you what I found. Merely family letters. No secret hoard of sovereigns, unfortunately.’
‘Show them to me.’
‘Yes, indeed I will when I find them.’
‘You said you had found them.’
‘And since then I’ve mislaid them. Isn’t it aggravating—I’ve grown so forgetful. But they’ll turn up, and then certainly you shall see them.’
‘Who were they from? You remember that, at least?’
‘Someone called Philip. A connection of your great-uncle’s. You’ve never explained the ramifications of your family to me. But he seemed to be
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