Read Online Sheltering Rain by Jojo Moyes - Free Book Online Page B

“What are you saying? Do speak up.”
    Sabine shook her head, slowly, wishing she did not have to see her grandmother’s taut, exasperated expression.
    â€œI’m a vegetarian.”

CHAPTER TWO
    I t was really quite simple. Apparently. If one took a bath in the downstairs bathroom (as opposed to the upstairs one, which had obviously been installed when the house was built, and last seen hot water some time then, too), then one removed all evidence of one’s visit within five minutes of finishing one’s ablutions. That meant all damp towels, shampoo bottles, flannels, even toothbrushes and toothpaste. Or one could expect to find them dumped outside one’s bedroom less than half an hour afterward.
    If one wanted breakfast, then one made sure one was downstairs in the breakfast room by eight-thirty. Not the dining room. Of course. And not at a quarter past nine, by which stage half the day had apparently gone, and Mrs. H had much better things to do than to wait around while everyone had her breakfast, although she was too nice to say so herself. And one had porridge, followed by toast. With honey, or marmalade. Both of which sat in little silver pots. And no, there was no Alpen. Or Pop-Tarts.
    And one didn’t complain about the cold. One dressed properly, and didn’t wander around wearing next to nothing and then wittering on that it was drafty. That meant thick jumpers. And trousers. And if one didn’t have enough of them, then one only had to say so because there were lots of spares sitting in the bottom of the big chest of drawers. And only a rude person would comment on how musty they smelled, or the fact that they looked like they had last been worn by Albanian orphans some time before one was born. And that went for footwear, too. One could not expect to wear expensive training shoes around the place and expect to keep them box fresh. One should go to the boot room and find oneself a sturdy pair of Wellingtons. And if one was going to get hysterical about spiders, then one should shake the things out first.
    This was all without the rules one should simply not have to be reminded of. Like not letting the dogs upstairs. Or keeping one’s boots on in the drawing room. Or turning over the television so that it wasn’t on Grandfather’s favorite news channel. Or beginning to eat before everyone had been served. Or using the phone without asking first. Or sitting on the Aga to keep warm. Or having a bath in the evening (or of a depth any greater than six inches).
    A week into her stay, Sabine found there were so many rules to remember it was as if the house were a person itself, as seemingly persnickety, and set in its ways as her grandparents. At home, she had grown up with almost no rules; her mother had taken a perverse satisfaction in letting her structure her own life, a kind of Montessori existence, so that, faced with these never-ending and seemingly incomprehensible strictures, Sabine found herself increasingly resentful and depressed.
    That was until Thom taught her the most important rule, one that did return some small measure of freedom back into her life—never, ever attempt to traverse any distance within the house or grounds at a pace slower than the Kilcarrion walk. This was a brisk, purposeful gait, to be conducted with chin lifted and eyes focused on the middle distance, which, if carried out at correct speed, served to deflect any of the questions such as, “Where are you going?” or, more commonly, “What are you doing? Come on, you can help me muck out this stable,” or “. . . fetch the horses in,” or “. . . unhook the trailer,” or “. . . hose out the dogs’ shed.”
    â€œIt’s not just you,” said Thom. “She doesn’t like to see anyone idle. Gets her anxious. That’s why we all do it.”
    Now that Sabine thought about it, she realized it was true. She had