Read Online The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) by Barbara Cartland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Cartland
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dirty windows. For a moment she could not remember where she was.
Then she saw the dying embers of the fire still glowing red, and opposite her, stretched out on the other wooden settle so that she had not noticed him at first, the Count was lying fast asleep.
Very gently, so as not to awaken him, she stood up.
Her hip felt numb from the hardness of the wood, but she was no longer tired and the deep sleep she had enjoyed all night had left her refreshed and full of energy.
She glanced down at the Count and saw once again that he had taken off his cravat and his shirt was open.
She turned her eyes away, feeling she should not stare at him while he was unconscious. At the same time she could not help noticing that when he was relaxed he looked much younger and less intimidating.
‘Perhaps,’ she told herself, ‘it is because his eyes are closed.’
Carrying her thick cloak over her arm and taking up the parcel which contained her only possessions from the floor where the Count must have put it, she crept towards the stairs.
They creaked as she climbed them, but when she reached the top and looked back, the Count was still asleep.
She went into the bed-room which she had been given to sleep in.
It smelt worse, she thought, even than it had the night before, and crossing the dark room she pulled away the rubbish which had been stuffed into the window and let in the first gleams of sunlight.
She was determined to tidy herself up before they set out once again on their journey. Perhaps today, she thought, they would reach Djilas and she had no wish to arrive looking like a gypsy.
Standing on the table was the basin of water in which she had washed the night before. The bucket was still half full.
She went to the window, saw that there was nothing below but bushes, and flung the dirty water out.
Then she undressed, but was careful to put her clothes not on the floor which could not have been scrubbed for years, but onto her cloak.
She washed in the cold water and felt it fresh and invigorating and dried herself on her nightgown.
‘When I get to Djilas someone will lend me a nightgown until my luggage arrives,’ she thought confidently.
Then she dressed again, brushed her hair and tried to arrange it as best she could with the aid of a small piece of cracked mirror she found fixed to the wall.
Then having put a little powder on her small nose she went downstairs.
This had all taken some time and she was not surprised to find the front room was empty. She went towards the kitchen and met the Count coming out from it. He had shaved and his cravat was round his neck once again.
“You got up early,” he said.
“I wanted to tidy myself,” she answered.
“You look very elegant,” he replied, and she was not certain whether it was a compliment or a criticism.
The Inn-Keeper’s wife was boiling them eggs for breakfast. Vesta was too late to prevent them being hard boiled, but she felt it would be churlish to complain.
The old hen which she had shown the woman how to cook the night before appeared to be tender and not unappetising. The onions and milk which Vesta had added to the pot had given it a flavour.
Vesta carved it from the bone and finding nothing clean to pack it in, used the paper which had covered her nightgown.
There was no other food to supplement the chicken, but she hoped that perhaps they would come across orange trees such as they had seen on their way up the mountain or some other fruit which grew in such profusion near the valley.
The Count ate his breakfast of eggs and butterless black bread quickly and, although he did not say so, Vesta had the impression that he was anxious to be off. “Have we far to go today?” she asked.
“It depends,” he replied. “I have not been on this track for some time and naturally the snows and the torrents change it year by year until it becomes almost unrecognisable. We may have to make a detour.”
She thought he was deliberately attempting to
Then she saw the dying embers of the fire still glowing red, and opposite her, stretched out on the other wooden settle so that she had not noticed him at first, the Count was lying fast asleep.
Very gently, so as not to awaken him, she stood up.
Her hip felt numb from the hardness of the wood, but she was no longer tired and the deep sleep she had enjoyed all night had left her refreshed and full of energy.
She glanced down at the Count and saw once again that he had taken off his cravat and his shirt was open.
She turned her eyes away, feeling she should not stare at him while he was unconscious. At the same time she could not help noticing that when he was relaxed he looked much younger and less intimidating.
‘Perhaps,’ she told herself, ‘it is because his eyes are closed.’
Carrying her thick cloak over her arm and taking up the parcel which contained her only possessions from the floor where the Count must have put it, she crept towards the stairs.
They creaked as she climbed them, but when she reached the top and looked back, the Count was still asleep.
She went into the bed-room which she had been given to sleep in.
It smelt worse, she thought, even than it had the night before, and crossing the dark room she pulled away the rubbish which had been stuffed into the window and let in the first gleams of sunlight.
She was determined to tidy herself up before they set out once again on their journey. Perhaps today, she thought, they would reach Djilas and she had no wish to arrive looking like a gypsy.
Standing on the table was the basin of water in which she had washed the night before. The bucket was still half full.
She went to the window, saw that there was nothing below but bushes, and flung the dirty water out.
Then she undressed, but was careful to put her clothes not on the floor which could not have been scrubbed for years, but onto her cloak.
She washed in the cold water and felt it fresh and invigorating and dried herself on her nightgown.
‘When I get to Djilas someone will lend me a nightgown until my luggage arrives,’ she thought confidently.
Then she dressed again, brushed her hair and tried to arrange it as best she could with the aid of a small piece of cracked mirror she found fixed to the wall.
Then having put a little powder on her small nose she went downstairs.
This had all taken some time and she was not surprised to find the front room was empty. She went towards the kitchen and met the Count coming out from it. He had shaved and his cravat was round his neck once again.
“You got up early,” he said.
“I wanted to tidy myself,” she answered.
“You look very elegant,” he replied, and she was not certain whether it was a compliment or a criticism.
The Inn-Keeper’s wife was boiling them eggs for breakfast. Vesta was too late to prevent them being hard boiled, but she felt it would be churlish to complain.
The old hen which she had shown the woman how to cook the night before appeared to be tender and not unappetising. The onions and milk which Vesta had added to the pot had given it a flavour.
Vesta carved it from the bone and finding nothing clean to pack it in, used the paper which had covered her nightgown.
There was no other food to supplement the chicken, but she hoped that perhaps they would come across orange trees such as they had seen on their way up the mountain or some other fruit which grew in such profusion near the valley.
The Count ate his breakfast of eggs and butterless black bread quickly and, although he did not say so, Vesta had the impression that he was anxious to be off. “Have we far to go today?” she asked.
“It depends,” he replied. “I have not been on this track for some time and naturally the snows and the torrents change it year by year until it becomes almost unrecognisable. We may have to make a detour.”
She thought he was deliberately attempting to
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