Read Online Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) by Cate Campbell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cate Campbell
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someone—anyone—shared her unspoken opinion. She blinked, wondering what she could say. Finally, awkwardly, she said, “I liked Notre Dame much better.”
“Yes, so did I,” Margot said, nodding at Allison as if her thoughts mattered. As if she really wanted to hear them. She said, “I love the feeling of age in an old cathedral like that. There’s a weight to it. A sort of rooted feeling. It makes me feel connected to all the other people who have been there.”
This was so like the way Allison had felt when she entered the shadowy, cool interior of Notre Dame that she fell silent, remembering. Her mother had been impatient, saying they had seen enough churches, but Allison could have wandered through the cathedral for hours, discovering bits of statuary, interesting niches, enjoying the way the stained glass windows colored the sunbeams that fell over the marble floors. Her mother had tugged her away when she was trying to examine the gallery stalls, which had marvelous carvings. Adelaide ordered the maids to gather their things so they could go to the hotel, and ordered Allison to move on in exactly the same tone of voice she used with Ruby and Jane. Allison had snatched her arm away from her mother, fighting an urge to simply flee.
She couldn’t have done that, of course. She didn’t speak very good French, and she wasn’t allowed any money of her own. There was no place she could go. Simmering with resentment and frustration, she had followed Adelaide out into the courtyard like a dog on a leash. All of this flashed through her mind in a moment as she looked up into Cousin Margot’s searching gaze. “I’d like to go back,” she said, and though she was afraid it was an obscure, even a childish, thing to say, Margot nodded again.
“I would, too. Some day when I can have a nice long vacation.”
Ramona, bravely trying to keep the conversation going, said, “Dick and I honeymooned in Paris. Such a romantic city.” Her husband smiled at her, and she blushed becomingly. She was plumper than Allison remembered, her cheeks rounder, her bosom fuller. It didn’t seem to concern anyone, though. No one appeared to be taking note of what she ate.
“I went to Paris after I finished my undergraduate work,” Margot said. “Paris and London. I didn’t have time for Italy, because I was due to start medical school.” She glanced at Allison, a clear signal that it was her turn to contribute.
Allison wasn’t used to being included this way. It was hard to keep thinking of polite things to say, and Cousin Margot was so attentive, she didn’t want to make a mistake. “Italy was my favorite,” she said lamely.
There was so much more she could have said. She could have described the fabulous Uffizi Gallery in Florence, which had captivated her. She could have mentioned going to an opera in Milan, where the music had been heavenly, but which Adelaide had ruined by saying it was too hot and the Italians were too rude. She had ridden in a gondola in Venice, while her mother ran on about what a terrible place it must be to live, with mold and damp and peeling paint everywhere. Adelaide kept a handkerchief to her nose to shut out the stink of the water. Allison and the gondolier, who fortunately didn’t speak a word of English, had exchanged rueful glances, so that Allison had to hide a laugh behind her hand. It had been one of her favorite moments of the tour.
She could find no way to express all of that. She could hardly even organize her private thoughts about it. She had loved Italy for its music and its art and its laughing people. The food, however, had been a torment.
Uncle Dickson saved her by saying, “Well, well. Allison, your aunt Edith also loves to travel. Don’t you, Edith?”
Allison turned to her aunt. Edith, who hadn’t touched her cup of soup, raised her eyes to her husband. “What, dear?”
Uncle Dickson said, speaking with careful clarity, “We were talking about travel, Edith. You
“Yes, so did I,” Margot said, nodding at Allison as if her thoughts mattered. As if she really wanted to hear them. She said, “I love the feeling of age in an old cathedral like that. There’s a weight to it. A sort of rooted feeling. It makes me feel connected to all the other people who have been there.”
This was so like the way Allison had felt when she entered the shadowy, cool interior of Notre Dame that she fell silent, remembering. Her mother had been impatient, saying they had seen enough churches, but Allison could have wandered through the cathedral for hours, discovering bits of statuary, interesting niches, enjoying the way the stained glass windows colored the sunbeams that fell over the marble floors. Her mother had tugged her away when she was trying to examine the gallery stalls, which had marvelous carvings. Adelaide ordered the maids to gather their things so they could go to the hotel, and ordered Allison to move on in exactly the same tone of voice she used with Ruby and Jane. Allison had snatched her arm away from her mother, fighting an urge to simply flee.
She couldn’t have done that, of course. She didn’t speak very good French, and she wasn’t allowed any money of her own. There was no place she could go. Simmering with resentment and frustration, she had followed Adelaide out into the courtyard like a dog on a leash. All of this flashed through her mind in a moment as she looked up into Cousin Margot’s searching gaze. “I’d like to go back,” she said, and though she was afraid it was an obscure, even a childish, thing to say, Margot nodded again.
“I would, too. Some day when I can have a nice long vacation.”
Ramona, bravely trying to keep the conversation going, said, “Dick and I honeymooned in Paris. Such a romantic city.” Her husband smiled at her, and she blushed becomingly. She was plumper than Allison remembered, her cheeks rounder, her bosom fuller. It didn’t seem to concern anyone, though. No one appeared to be taking note of what she ate.
“I went to Paris after I finished my undergraduate work,” Margot said. “Paris and London. I didn’t have time for Italy, because I was due to start medical school.” She glanced at Allison, a clear signal that it was her turn to contribute.
Allison wasn’t used to being included this way. It was hard to keep thinking of polite things to say, and Cousin Margot was so attentive, she didn’t want to make a mistake. “Italy was my favorite,” she said lamely.
There was so much more she could have said. She could have described the fabulous Uffizi Gallery in Florence, which had captivated her. She could have mentioned going to an opera in Milan, where the music had been heavenly, but which Adelaide had ruined by saying it was too hot and the Italians were too rude. She had ridden in a gondola in Venice, while her mother ran on about what a terrible place it must be to live, with mold and damp and peeling paint everywhere. Adelaide kept a handkerchief to her nose to shut out the stink of the water. Allison and the gondolier, who fortunately didn’t speak a word of English, had exchanged rueful glances, so that Allison had to hide a laugh behind her hand. It had been one of her favorite moments of the tour.
She could find no way to express all of that. She could hardly even organize her private thoughts about it. She had loved Italy for its music and its art and its laughing people. The food, however, had been a torment.
Uncle Dickson saved her by saying, “Well, well. Allison, your aunt Edith also loves to travel. Don’t you, Edith?”
Allison turned to her aunt. Edith, who hadn’t touched her cup of soup, raised her eyes to her husband. “What, dear?”
Uncle Dickson said, speaking with careful clarity, “We were talking about travel, Edith. You
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