Read Online Some Old Lover's Ghost by Judith Lennox - Free Book Online Page B

turned to nothing by a man like Daragh Canavan. Sarah saw through him, saw to the weak and capricious heart of him, and knew that Daragh should not have her. As Tilda left the kitchen to feed the hens, Sarah’s hands fisted against her forehead. She could forbid Tilda to see the wretched man, but she saw clearly the dangers in that. She could leave Southam, now that Edward de Paveley was dead. She could confront Daragh, ask his intentions – but if he offered marriage, what should she do?
    Sarah remembered the funeral, and the way that Joscelin de Paveley had looked at Daragh Canavan. The beginnings of a wild and freakish idea hovered at the edges of her mind, but could not yet be seized and thrown into view. Then the thought came clear,and Sarah’s heart began to pound like a kettle drum. Her fisted hand pressed at the pain in her chest as she sat down again. Joscelin de Paveley is rich, she whispered out loud. Joscelin de Paveley has land aplenty. She stared, her breath tight in her lungs, at the list she had written for Tilda that morning. Ink , the final entry said.
    And oh, such sweet revenge.
    Sarah insisted on accompanying Tilda to Ely next market day. They walked; Sarah refused to cycle and thought the bus a waste of money. Crossing the fields with their seas of ochre corn waved by the wind, Sarah’s stout boots tramped purposefully through poppies and pineapple weed; Tilda, behind her, carrying the basket, saw nothing and schemed continually.
    In Ely, Sarah bought a reel of thread, harangued the cobbler about the price of shoelaces, and posted her letter. Tilda knew that Daragh would be waiting for her outside the Electric Cinema. When Tilda pleaded for a drink or the lavatory, Sarah went with her to the water fountain and insisted they take turns in the cubicle in the Ladies, to save the penny. Walking home, Tilda’s boots scuffed miserably in the dust.
    Because of the hot, dry weather, Sarah decided to wash the curtains, rugs and bedlinen. Steam ran down the walls of the scullery, and Tilda’s back ached from hauling coal into the stove to boil water. All the rooms in the cottage smelt of household soap and starch, rows of washing hung limply on the line in the windless air, and every moment of the day was busy. When Daragh came to chop the wood, Tilda saw the questions in his eyes. Aunt Sarah watched him, checking that he was doing the job properly, only turning away when he flung off his shirt to wash his face under the pump in the yard.
    Joscelin de Paveley’s overriding emotion on her father’s death was one of immense relief. The house seemed suddenly a more pleasant place. She no longer flinched at the sound of a footstepin the corridor, she no longer dreaded dinner times. Although she wore black, she felt light-hearted.
    She sorted through her father’s bedroom and study, and made a huge bonfire, burning all his possessions. The false leg, which had lost some of its terror now that it was no longer attached to her father, smouldered in the heart of the flames. Jossy endured a long, dull afternoon while Mr Verney, the solicitor, read out Edward de Paveley’s will. ‘To my daughter, Joscelin, the Hall and its contents and the residue of the estate. To my brother, Christopher, and his son, the use of the steward’s house for their lifetimes.’ Small legacies to Nana and Cook and the gardener, and not a word of love or affection. Jossy didn’t care. Jossy had seen the Gentleman.
    The Gentleman now had a face. And green eyes and black hair. Jossy had glimpsed him in the street after her father’s funeral. She had been to Southam several times since in the hope of encountering him again, but had not seen him. He lingered in her memory, though, and in her imagination. She fantasized a dozen times a day about their next meeting. He’d rescue her from robbers or kidnappers; or she’d go to a party, look across a crowded room, and their eyes would meet. Each day she dressed carefully and spent hours