thinking I had been mad to come when I was already here, so I followed Mrs. Mott along the narrow corridor and listened while she told me that I could put the towels from my room on this rail, and Sarah Ann should have put another toothglass up here as she’d been told, but that Mrs. Mott would see to it. Trailing back to my room, I learned with even deeper gloom that Mr. Kevin and I were in sole possession on this floor—the other doors, on each side of the long passage lit by a window at each end, gave on to rooms which were described by Mrs. Mott as the Old Nursery, a box-room, a linen-room, and a little room which wasn’t anything in particular but where Mr. Kevin ‘kept some things.’ By the time she went away downstairs, I was getting a little tired of hearing the name Mr. Kevin: for example, the Old Nursery hadn’t been used since Miss Essie was a baby, and wouldn’t be used again, Mrs. Mott supposed, until Mr. Kevin got married. She left me with the information that there would be tea at four o’clock in the drawing-room, and that was the door on the right as I came down into the hall, but that she could send Sarah Ann up with a cup of tea for me now if I’d like one? I refused politely, and went into my room to unpack, still feeling (in spite of Mrs. Mott’s amiability) that I had been mad to come.
My bright room, with its comfortable bed and pretty curtains, seemed a small consolation. I wondered, rather helplessly, when my duties were supposed to begin—and caught myself longing for the familiar routines of nursing. That reminded me of the added confusion of my promise to Henry not to say I was—had been—a nurse. I wondered what to say if anyone questioned me directly on my past—perhaps I had better invent something? Pulling myself together, I unpacked quickly, tidied myself, and began to go downstairs—after a glance at the closed door of Mr. Kevin’s room. So that rude young man came in and out at all hours, did he? He must lead a gay social life. Well, if he made a noise about it, I thought with more resolution, I would hang my underwear all round the bathroom, in protest!
I reached the gallery and began to walk round it: then I paused for a moment, to look down on the panelled hall from here. There was no sign of Henry, or anyone else, and I stood appreciating (with reservations about my own presence) the feeling of gracious living which went with the house’s well-kept elegance. And then the front door was pushed open, and a girl’s voice, husky and abrupt but young, floated clearly up to me.
‘Don’t fuss, Phil! It’s only dripping a bit! And—’ the girl came round the door as she spoke, a small and somewhat muddy figure—‘don’t tell your mother either, got it? Or I’ll slit yer throat!’
She seemed satisfied that this terrible threat would silence Phil (whoever he was) and came right inside, kicking the door to behind her with one muddy boot. She was in jodhpurs and a jacket, and from above, all I could see of her looks was a mop of tangled brown hair. She came on towards the stairs without looking right or left, and I hesitated, wondering whether to retreat or go forward and introduce myself. I could guess who she was: Henry’s horse-mad daughter. Should I wait to be introduced to her properly, or ... but it was rather late to remove myself, so I stepped forward as she reached the top of the stairs. The movement brought her head round towards me quickly, and for a startled second we stared at each other. The words I had opened my mouth to say temporarily vanished, as I took in the unexpected details of Esther Thurlanger’s appearance. Surely Henry had said (rudely) that his daughter looked like a horse ... but, even dirty, untidy, and streaked with mud, the girl looking at me was startlingly beautiful.
She had a small, pointed face, pale against the surrounding mop of curls. The perfect curve of her eyebrows was somewhat spoiled by a streak of mud across one of them,
My bright room, with its comfortable bed and pretty curtains, seemed a small consolation. I wondered, rather helplessly, when my duties were supposed to begin—and caught myself longing for the familiar routines of nursing. That reminded me of the added confusion of my promise to Henry not to say I was—had been—a nurse. I wondered what to say if anyone questioned me directly on my past—perhaps I had better invent something? Pulling myself together, I unpacked quickly, tidied myself, and began to go downstairs—after a glance at the closed door of Mr. Kevin’s room. So that rude young man came in and out at all hours, did he? He must lead a gay social life. Well, if he made a noise about it, I thought with more resolution, I would hang my underwear all round the bathroom, in protest!
I reached the gallery and began to walk round it: then I paused for a moment, to look down on the panelled hall from here. There was no sign of Henry, or anyone else, and I stood appreciating (with reservations about my own presence) the feeling of gracious living which went with the house’s well-kept elegance. And then the front door was pushed open, and a girl’s voice, husky and abrupt but young, floated clearly up to me.
‘Don’t fuss, Phil! It’s only dripping a bit! And—’ the girl came round the door as she spoke, a small and somewhat muddy figure—‘don’t tell your mother either, got it? Or I’ll slit yer throat!’
She seemed satisfied that this terrible threat would silence Phil (whoever he was) and came right inside, kicking the door to behind her with one muddy boot. She was in jodhpurs and a jacket, and from above, all I could see of her looks was a mop of tangled brown hair. She came on towards the stairs without looking right or left, and I hesitated, wondering whether to retreat or go forward and introduce myself. I could guess who she was: Henry’s horse-mad daughter. Should I wait to be introduced to her properly, or ... but it was rather late to remove myself, so I stepped forward as she reached the top of the stairs. The movement brought her head round towards me quickly, and for a startled second we stared at each other. The words I had opened my mouth to say temporarily vanished, as I took in the unexpected details of Esther Thurlanger’s appearance. Surely Henry had said (rudely) that his daughter looked like a horse ... but, even dirty, untidy, and streaked with mud, the girl looking at me was startlingly beautiful.
She had a small, pointed face, pale against the surrounding mop of curls. The perfect curve of her eyebrows was somewhat spoiled by a streak of mud across one of them,
Similar Books
