Read Online No Greater Love by Katherine Kingsley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katherine Kingsley
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She’s that sort of person who strikes me as not having any Christian name—it’s almost too human.”
“Oh, she’s human enough. A half-caste of the devil, perhaps, but otherwise human enough.”
“Nicholas, do you think that perhaps we might not speak of her tonight? I cannot feel comfortable, having only just left, and…”
“And you are quite right. She does not bear mentioning. What shall we talk about, then?” He watched her over the rim of his glass, something amused lurking in the back of his eyes.
“You,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “I want to hear about you and Raven’s Close. I want to hear how it used to be.”
And so he told her. He told her about his first memories of Raven’s Close, about his mother and his father, and how cheerful life had been. He told her about his dog, and his pony, and later, his horse, and how proud and grown up he’d felt to be given him on his eighth birthday. He told her about his uncle’s first wife, Laura, and how kind and gentle she’d been, of how she and his mother would sit together for hours on end, talking and laughing. He made it all sound like a fairy tale, and Georgia dreamed, picturing the richness of their lives, the laughter that must have rung in the air, the happiness that had once sung inside the walls.
She watched his face as he talked, really seeing it for the first time, his eyes dreamy with memory, the gray so clear, the wistful expression they held. She watched his full mouth lift in a slight smile as he talked of his mother, the realist, and his father, the idealist, and the ongoing arguments they used to have over his father’s crazy schemes. He talked of his mother’s garden, and how beautiful it had once been, enclosed in the stone walls that now stretched emptily to make a square at the back. He told her of how he would help his mother with the little spade his father had fashioned for him, and of his pleasure in seeing the fruits of their labor come to life. He described the stone statue that stood in the garden, a sculpture of a young child that his mother had admired on a visit to France and bought because it had reminded her of him and because, sentimental as ever, she wanted the little stone boy to have a happy home. And Georgia couldn’t help feeling saddened as she thought of the little stone child who had stood witness while that home slowly died around him.
Nicholas spun his stories, and they might not have been sitting in a dark room lit only by the crackling fireplace and die single candelabrum, but in Raven’s Close as it had once been, all alive and shining, just as Georgia’s eyes were as she listened.
“But that was more than twenty years ago,” he said, finishing with a faint laugh, and the spell was broken.
Georgia felt as if she’d been rudely jerked back to earth, and she felt the old familiar sensation of being unpleasantly returned to her surroundings. She drank deeply of her wine, suddenly nervous, knowing the evening was coming to a close and the dark night was about to begin. “What made it all change?” she asked, trying to delay the inevitable.
“My parents died. I went to Ravenswalk. And then after I left Ravenswalk for India, this happened. Georgia, I’m sorry that I’ve brought you to this. Truly I am.”
She looked at Nicholas with astonishment. “Why should you be sorry? I knew exactly what the conditions would be—or had guessed. It is why you married me, Nicholas. You can’t have forgotten?”
“No, of course not. But it still seems dreadfully unfair to subject you to such a thing.”
“Anything is better than Ravenswalk. Really. In the last week I have had more hope than I have in the last eight months—no, in truth, far longer than that—and that hope is worth a great deal.”
“Then I am happy. Come, Georgia, it is late. I hadn’t realized how long we had been talking. Let me show you up to your room.”
“My room?” she said, not quite able to believe her
“Oh, she’s human enough. A half-caste of the devil, perhaps, but otherwise human enough.”
“Nicholas, do you think that perhaps we might not speak of her tonight? I cannot feel comfortable, having only just left, and…”
“And you are quite right. She does not bear mentioning. What shall we talk about, then?” He watched her over the rim of his glass, something amused lurking in the back of his eyes.
“You,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “I want to hear about you and Raven’s Close. I want to hear how it used to be.”
And so he told her. He told her about his first memories of Raven’s Close, about his mother and his father, and how cheerful life had been. He told her about his dog, and his pony, and later, his horse, and how proud and grown up he’d felt to be given him on his eighth birthday. He told her about his uncle’s first wife, Laura, and how kind and gentle she’d been, of how she and his mother would sit together for hours on end, talking and laughing. He made it all sound like a fairy tale, and Georgia dreamed, picturing the richness of their lives, the laughter that must have rung in the air, the happiness that had once sung inside the walls.
She watched his face as he talked, really seeing it for the first time, his eyes dreamy with memory, the gray so clear, the wistful expression they held. She watched his full mouth lift in a slight smile as he talked of his mother, the realist, and his father, the idealist, and the ongoing arguments they used to have over his father’s crazy schemes. He talked of his mother’s garden, and how beautiful it had once been, enclosed in the stone walls that now stretched emptily to make a square at the back. He told her of how he would help his mother with the little spade his father had fashioned for him, and of his pleasure in seeing the fruits of their labor come to life. He described the stone statue that stood in the garden, a sculpture of a young child that his mother had admired on a visit to France and bought because it had reminded her of him and because, sentimental as ever, she wanted the little stone boy to have a happy home. And Georgia couldn’t help feeling saddened as she thought of the little stone child who had stood witness while that home slowly died around him.
Nicholas spun his stories, and they might not have been sitting in a dark room lit only by the crackling fireplace and die single candelabrum, but in Raven’s Close as it had once been, all alive and shining, just as Georgia’s eyes were as she listened.
“But that was more than twenty years ago,” he said, finishing with a faint laugh, and the spell was broken.
Georgia felt as if she’d been rudely jerked back to earth, and she felt the old familiar sensation of being unpleasantly returned to her surroundings. She drank deeply of her wine, suddenly nervous, knowing the evening was coming to a close and the dark night was about to begin. “What made it all change?” she asked, trying to delay the inevitable.
“My parents died. I went to Ravenswalk. And then after I left Ravenswalk for India, this happened. Georgia, I’m sorry that I’ve brought you to this. Truly I am.”
She looked at Nicholas with astonishment. “Why should you be sorry? I knew exactly what the conditions would be—or had guessed. It is why you married me, Nicholas. You can’t have forgotten?”
“No, of course not. But it still seems dreadfully unfair to subject you to such a thing.”
“Anything is better than Ravenswalk. Really. In the last week I have had more hope than I have in the last eight months—no, in truth, far longer than that—and that hope is worth a great deal.”
“Then I am happy. Come, Georgia, it is late. I hadn’t realized how long we had been talking. Let me show you up to your room.”
“My room?” she said, not quite able to believe her
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