Read Online Garth of Tregillis by Henrietta Reid - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Henrietta Reid
Ads: Link
Eunice’s remark about Paul. ‘A nice boy but deeper than he appears.’ Verity too had hinted at a quarrel between him and Giles. Had she been mistaken in thinking he was going to let bygones be bygones? Beneath that easy-going manner had he been harbouring an implacable revenge against Giles Seaton? And if so, what had passed between the two men, I wondered, that could cause such a dark hatred?
Even as it crossed my mind I dismissed the idea. Was I becoming affected, I wondered a little grimly, by Melinda’s malice? From what I had heard of Giles Seaton he had been a gentle and inoffensive character—hardly the type to engender such hatred.
We didn’t dawdle over the meal and as soon as it was concluded Paul hurried back to the study in the recesses of the house and, with some misgivings, I saw that Emile had wandered off with Melinda who had loftily suggested a game of hide-and-seek in the picture gallery. I only hoped her intentions were as innocent as they seemed, because I feared that she had not let up for one minute in her intention of making Emile’s life as unbearable as possible.
When I was alone I wandered back into the hall and paused outside an arched door that led off to one side. I felt intrigued and curious to know what lay behind the iron-bound door: it looked so old and even sinister, the sort of door, no doubt, behind which lay Bluebeard’s secrets. Then I had to laugh at myself as Mrs.
Kinnefer, passing through the hall, paused and smiled as she saw me hesitate.
‘Why don’t you go in, Miss Westall? It’s a wonderful library, so I’m told—though I wouldn’t know much about books myself, but you’ll find the room quiet and you’ll be glad to get a day’s rest, no doubt, before you begin work.’
‘So it’s a library,’ I said, pleased. ‘I’d love to see it.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I thought you’d be fond of books. Well, you can browse there to your heart’s content. With another smile she hurried off and as soon as she was gone I eagerly turned the handle and went in.
I gave a little sigh of pleasure as I saw the room that lay before me. It was long and flooded with light from the mullioned windows with their deep stone embrasures. Comfortable and well-worn armchairs were placed here and there about the room and on the polished floor before the chimneypiece was a thick bearskin rug. Each wall of the room was lined with books, their red morocco and brown nutty leather gleaming richly in the shadows.
Tall, parchment-shaded floor-lamps were placed at either end of the room and I could visualise it in winter with snow thick and crisp on the lawn outside, the fire crackling in the wide grate and the lamps casting a soft glow as one curled up in a wide armchair and perused one of those enticing books.
I wandered eagerly to the shelves. There was such a choice that I found it impossible to make up my mind: I was like a child gazing into a sweetshop, uncertain what to select.
My eye was caught by a book beautifully bound in tooled leather and reaching it down I found that it was an old history of Cornwall. When I opened it I saw to my surprise that the flyleaf was inscribed in a schoolgirl’s careful best handwriting, ‘For Garth’, and signed ‘Diana Seaton’. But even if it hadn’t been signed I think I should have recognized Diana’s writing. I could imagine her laboriously inscribing her name in the book she had so carefully selected.
I turned over the leaves slowly, then became engrossed in a chapter concerning the Fowey Gallants. It told of a band of Elizabethan adventurers who had raided Normandy. Somehow it was easy, sitting in this quiet room, with its atmosphere of having witnessed many strange deeds, to visualize those violent days.
When I had finished the chapter I idly riffled the pages and a sheet of writing-paper fell out and fluttered to the floor. I bent to pick it up and once again I saw it was covered with Diana’s writing—only this time it
Even as it crossed my mind I dismissed the idea. Was I becoming affected, I wondered a little grimly, by Melinda’s malice? From what I had heard of Giles Seaton he had been a gentle and inoffensive character—hardly the type to engender such hatred.
We didn’t dawdle over the meal and as soon as it was concluded Paul hurried back to the study in the recesses of the house and, with some misgivings, I saw that Emile had wandered off with Melinda who had loftily suggested a game of hide-and-seek in the picture gallery. I only hoped her intentions were as innocent as they seemed, because I feared that she had not let up for one minute in her intention of making Emile’s life as unbearable as possible.
When I was alone I wandered back into the hall and paused outside an arched door that led off to one side. I felt intrigued and curious to know what lay behind the iron-bound door: it looked so old and even sinister, the sort of door, no doubt, behind which lay Bluebeard’s secrets. Then I had to laugh at myself as Mrs.
Kinnefer, passing through the hall, paused and smiled as she saw me hesitate.
‘Why don’t you go in, Miss Westall? It’s a wonderful library, so I’m told—though I wouldn’t know much about books myself, but you’ll find the room quiet and you’ll be glad to get a day’s rest, no doubt, before you begin work.’
‘So it’s a library,’ I said, pleased. ‘I’d love to see it.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I thought you’d be fond of books. Well, you can browse there to your heart’s content. With another smile she hurried off and as soon as she was gone I eagerly turned the handle and went in.
I gave a little sigh of pleasure as I saw the room that lay before me. It was long and flooded with light from the mullioned windows with their deep stone embrasures. Comfortable and well-worn armchairs were placed here and there about the room and on the polished floor before the chimneypiece was a thick bearskin rug. Each wall of the room was lined with books, their red morocco and brown nutty leather gleaming richly in the shadows.
Tall, parchment-shaded floor-lamps were placed at either end of the room and I could visualise it in winter with snow thick and crisp on the lawn outside, the fire crackling in the wide grate and the lamps casting a soft glow as one curled up in a wide armchair and perused one of those enticing books.
I wandered eagerly to the shelves. There was such a choice that I found it impossible to make up my mind: I was like a child gazing into a sweetshop, uncertain what to select.
My eye was caught by a book beautifully bound in tooled leather and reaching it down I found that it was an old history of Cornwall. When I opened it I saw to my surprise that the flyleaf was inscribed in a schoolgirl’s careful best handwriting, ‘For Garth’, and signed ‘Diana Seaton’. But even if it hadn’t been signed I think I should have recognized Diana’s writing. I could imagine her laboriously inscribing her name in the book she had so carefully selected.
I turned over the leaves slowly, then became engrossed in a chapter concerning the Fowey Gallants. It told of a band of Elizabethan adventurers who had raided Normandy. Somehow it was easy, sitting in this quiet room, with its atmosphere of having witnessed many strange deeds, to visualize those violent days.
When I had finished the chapter I idly riffled the pages and a sheet of writing-paper fell out and fluttered to the floor. I bent to pick it up and once again I saw it was covered with Diana’s writing—only this time it
Similar Books
