Read Online Mariana by Susanna Kearsley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susanna Kearsley
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with my suitcases. No niece of hers was going to be a topic of village gossip. Poor Aunt Freda.'
I traced an idle pattern on the bar with my glass. 'Then you and Geoffrey de Mornay were ..."
'Oh, heavens, no. It was nothing serious. There's never been anyone serious, with Geoff, come to that.' Vivien's smile grew broader as she met my eyes. 'Not yet.'
I colored slightly and took a quick drink from my glass of juice.
'Are you sure you don't want something stronger than that?' 'Quite sure,' I said, turning my wrist so I could see my watch. 'In fact, I ought to be heading home. I still have to finish setting up my studio, and then if I'm lucky I can get a couple of hours' sleep before tonight. I didn't sleep well in London.'
'You do look tired,' Vivien said. 'We can always reschedule the history lesson, if you like.'
'Oh, no, I'll be fine. Seven o'clock was it?'
She nodded. 'Just come round to the back door. That's my private quarters. Ned can look after the customers by himself for one night, can't you, love?'
At the other end of the bar, Ned flipped a page of the sports section. 'Yeah, sure,' he said.
Something must have shown on my face at the thought of Ned tending bar by himself, because Vivien laughed out loud.
'You see the impression you've made on the girl, Ned?' she told him. 'She can't even picture you working.'
'She hasn't seen me in action,' Ned replied with a casual shrug.
Vivien lowered her voice and jerked her head in the direction of her co-worker. 'Ordinarily, we just keep him around because he blends so well with the decor,' she confided. 'But he actually does shift position every once in a while. It's quite exciting.'
'Keep it up,' the barman dared her calmly, 'and it'll be open taps this evening, love. Drinks on the house.'
I laughed. 'Do you want me to bring anything tonight?'
'Just yourself. You're sure you feel up to it?'
'A couple of hours' sleep and I'll be right as rain,' I assured her.
I was feeling exhausted. But for some reason, instead of going straight home when I left the Red Lion, I found myself turning to the right and wandering back up the High Street toward the church.
It had obviously been raining here the night before, as it had been in London. Apart from the telltale overcast sky, the pavement was still damp, and the smell of earth and wet grass and rain-soaked flowers hung heavy in the afternoon air. You could have shot a cannon up the street without hitting a soul, the village was that quiet, but here and there the smear of muddy footprints on the cobbled walk provided evidence that some people, at least, had roused themselves early enough to attend the morning church services.
There were footprints, too, heading up the shaded lane that led to the manor house. Iain Sumner's footprints, I deduced, as there were two sets going in and only one coming out again. On impulse, I left the street and started up the lane, my shoes squelching a little in the drying mud. It was only idle curiosity, I told myself. I hadn't really taken a good look at the house on my last visit, and I doubted whether Geoffrey de Mornay would mind if I just had a peek around.
The lane was quiet and deserted. On my left, through the closely planted trees, I could just glimpse the outline of the church, its yellow stone walls flatly dull in the absence of sunshine. The path hugged the churchyard around a smoothly curved corner, straightening out again for its approach to the manor house. Ahead of me loomed the garden pedestrian gate leading to the Hall's north entrance, a freestanding doorcase carved of pale limestone, surmounted by an ornamental cornice and ball. A sign posted to one side of the gate stated politely: 'Welcome to Crofton Hall. This wing is private. The public is requested to use the East Entrance, which may be reached from the High Street'
Rather a nice way, I thought, of telling people to get lost. Nor would they need to go through the bother of retracing their steps. A little
I traced an idle pattern on the bar with my glass. 'Then you and Geoffrey de Mornay were ..."
'Oh, heavens, no. It was nothing serious. There's never been anyone serious, with Geoff, come to that.' Vivien's smile grew broader as she met my eyes. 'Not yet.'
I colored slightly and took a quick drink from my glass of juice.
'Are you sure you don't want something stronger than that?' 'Quite sure,' I said, turning my wrist so I could see my watch. 'In fact, I ought to be heading home. I still have to finish setting up my studio, and then if I'm lucky I can get a couple of hours' sleep before tonight. I didn't sleep well in London.'
'You do look tired,' Vivien said. 'We can always reschedule the history lesson, if you like.'
'Oh, no, I'll be fine. Seven o'clock was it?'
She nodded. 'Just come round to the back door. That's my private quarters. Ned can look after the customers by himself for one night, can't you, love?'
At the other end of the bar, Ned flipped a page of the sports section. 'Yeah, sure,' he said.
Something must have shown on my face at the thought of Ned tending bar by himself, because Vivien laughed out loud.
'You see the impression you've made on the girl, Ned?' she told him. 'She can't even picture you working.'
'She hasn't seen me in action,' Ned replied with a casual shrug.
Vivien lowered her voice and jerked her head in the direction of her co-worker. 'Ordinarily, we just keep him around because he blends so well with the decor,' she confided. 'But he actually does shift position every once in a while. It's quite exciting.'
'Keep it up,' the barman dared her calmly, 'and it'll be open taps this evening, love. Drinks on the house.'
I laughed. 'Do you want me to bring anything tonight?'
'Just yourself. You're sure you feel up to it?'
'A couple of hours' sleep and I'll be right as rain,' I assured her.
I was feeling exhausted. But for some reason, instead of going straight home when I left the Red Lion, I found myself turning to the right and wandering back up the High Street toward the church.
It had obviously been raining here the night before, as it had been in London. Apart from the telltale overcast sky, the pavement was still damp, and the smell of earth and wet grass and rain-soaked flowers hung heavy in the afternoon air. You could have shot a cannon up the street without hitting a soul, the village was that quiet, but here and there the smear of muddy footprints on the cobbled walk provided evidence that some people, at least, had roused themselves early enough to attend the morning church services.
There were footprints, too, heading up the shaded lane that led to the manor house. Iain Sumner's footprints, I deduced, as there were two sets going in and only one coming out again. On impulse, I left the street and started up the lane, my shoes squelching a little in the drying mud. It was only idle curiosity, I told myself. I hadn't really taken a good look at the house on my last visit, and I doubted whether Geoffrey de Mornay would mind if I just had a peek around.
The lane was quiet and deserted. On my left, through the closely planted trees, I could just glimpse the outline of the church, its yellow stone walls flatly dull in the absence of sunshine. The path hugged the churchyard around a smoothly curved corner, straightening out again for its approach to the manor house. Ahead of me loomed the garden pedestrian gate leading to the Hall's north entrance, a freestanding doorcase carved of pale limestone, surmounted by an ornamental cornice and ball. A sign posted to one side of the gate stated politely: 'Welcome to Crofton Hall. This wing is private. The public is requested to use the East Entrance, which may be reached from the High Street'
Rather a nice way, I thought, of telling people to get lost. Nor would they need to go through the bother of retracing their steps. A little
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