Read Online The Gates of Rutherford by Elizabeth Cooke - Free Book Online Page B

porch,” Charlotte told him.
    She held his arm, guiding him only slightly. After all, he wasmuch more used to the dark than she was. As they drew closer, she could make out that the “cottage” was in fact a rather large house with a deep thatched roof. In one of the casement windows, an oil lamp had been put on the sill. From his coat pocket, Michael took out a key. “This is for the front door,” he said. “It was sent with all sorts of instructions to have patience with the lock.”
    Eventually, they got it open. The hallway was unexpectedly cavernous, with a stair rising on the left-hand side. Taking the lamp from the porch, Charlotte walked forward. “I think the parlor is straight ahead,” Michael said. “I haven’t been here since I was a boy.”
    He was right. And on the table, a cold supper had been left for them, the sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, and a plum cake resting under a large muslin dome. On the handle of the cover, someone had tied twigs of apple blossom. “Oh, how sweet,” Charlotte said.
    â€œA woman will come in every day,” Michael told her. “I don’t expect you to char. You do enough of that at the hospital.” He was taking off his coat. “Look in the suitcase,” he said. “My holdall there. There might be something to drink.”
    Although she was dying for hot tea rather than alcohol, Charlotte took out the bottle of champagne. “Lovely,” she murmured.
    â€œGet some glasses from the kitchen. You’ll have to potter about to find it,” he told her. “I have no idea where it might be.”
    Just for a second, she hesitated. In the hospital, she was used to being given orders. In fact, it amused her tremendously to become “Nurse” as soon as she set foot in St. Dunstan’s. It was relief, somewhat, and a pleasure at times—when she was not exhausted—to be truly useful at last. But it suddenly occurred to her now that this was the very first time that a friend or a member of her family had given her an order—“Get some glasses” —in such a peremptory tone. As one would do with a servant. No smile, no kind inflection. No pleaseor thank you. Michael’s head was turned away from her; his hand beat on the arm of the chair, and his leg jittered with impatience.
    â€œI’m just going,” she said.
    â€œI could do with a bloody drink more than anything.”
    Again, in the doorway, she stopped. Bloody, was it? Interesting.
    The kitchen was a long, dank-smelling affair at the back of the house. She found candles and another lamp on the draining board of a little scullery beyond it. The floor was flagstone, and beyond the scullery was another tiny room, with shelves set around at waist height. Here, she saw the reason for the pervading aroma of damp. There was a stone plug in the floor, and water about six inches deep. There must be a stream underneath the house, she thought. Was there such a one in Rutherford? She didn’t know. She had never inspected the kitchens at all.
    â€œIt’s quite a revelation,” she said to Michael when she got back with two mismatched glasses. “What is the room for with the water in it?”
    â€œMilk churns,” Michael said. “There’s a farm a bit farther down. It’s an overspill for them.”
    â€œGosh,” she murmured. “The things one learns.”
    She gave him the glasses. He had already opened the champagne in her absence and, she noticed, taken some already from the bottle. She poured, and clinked her glass with his. “What shall we drink to?” she asked.
    â€œThat’s an easy one,” he said. “To you.”
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    T hey made their way upstairs in another half hour, leaving the remnants of their supper on the table. At the top of the stairs, there was a wide landing with doors on three sides, and a