Read Online The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact by Jana Petken - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jana Petken
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the reading would not go well. She would not speak to him or influence his professional neutrality in any way, of course, but she prayed that he would get the whole thing over as quickly as possible.
She moved to the far corner of the room and stood against the wall, hoping that she could somehow become invisible. She cast her eyes around the crowded room again and thanked God that at least the wake was going well and that everyone seemed to be enjoying the company. She watched Mrs Baxter handing sandwiches to John Sweeny and Derek Pike, two of the regular labourers who’d been working at Merrill Farm for years. They thanked her and then carried on talking with hushed voices. As usual, Mrs Baxter had taken over, and Celia had never been so grateful. Mathew Greene, the vicar, was talking to her aunt Marie, and every now and again, they looked in her direction. Everyone seemed to be whispering in a conspiracy that didn’t involve her. She had to get out of the room. She didn’t want their pity; she didn’t deserve it.
Marie Osborne made her excuses to the vicar and followed Celia. Marie had noticed a dramatic change in her niece since the wedding. She was painfully thin, sullen, and withdrawn to such an extent that they had barely shared two words together since her arrival. One of her eyes was slightly swollen, whilst her cheek had the yellowish pallor of a fading bruise. Celia’s injuries had shocked her to the core, and the reason she gave for them was as believable as the old king’s faithfulness to the queen!
Marie passed Joseph on her way out of the room. Her first impressions of him had not altered in the last few months. She was experienced in the ways of men and had been in their company in places that no wives would dare to go, or be allowed to go. Respected as a renowned painter, an intelligent conversationalist, and a woman of substantial independent wealth, she was in a position to move in most circles. She had met royalty, politicians, and men of great standing. But she had also known gamblers and drunks who had lost their entire fortunes, turning into rogues with their reputations in tatters. She was convinced that Joseph Dobbs was such a man, although he’d never had a fortune and she believed the term ‘rogue’ was not a word strong enough to describe him; he was so much more than that.
Celia was busying herself in the kitchen, loading a tray with pastries brought by Mary Shields. Her head was bowed, and she made a point of ignoring her aunt, who was leaning against the frame of the open door:
“Celia, put down that tray. Walk with me,” she heard her aunt say in a manner that broached no argument.
Celia hid her face; her aunt was the last person she wanted to have a conversation with. She was sure that she would blurt something out to her in a moment of weakness.
“No, I can’t just now, Auntie. I have to help Mrs Baxter,” she said.
“Now, Celia. I am not taking no for an answer.”
Celia took off her apron, put on her coat, and buttoned it right to the top button with fingers that shook with apprehension. Her aunt would undoubtedly ask her about the bruises, and she would keep asking until she got a satisfactory answer. If only Joseph hadn’t marked her face. She’d thought about that all week. If he had left her face alone, she would not have had to endure the endless badgering from Sergeant Butler, Mrs Baxter, and her aunt, who’d always had the knack of getting her to open up entirely. No one else had that affect on her. She suddenly wanted to laugh. She had accepted Joseph’s beating, and now she was berating him for not doing a proper job of it. She stifled a nervous giggle and followed obediently behind her aunt, who was marching down the orchard path like a soldier going into battle and looking forward to it.
As Celia walked, she steadied herself and planned her defence. The next few minutes would be crucial. She would have to guard her tone and her words. She was
She moved to the far corner of the room and stood against the wall, hoping that she could somehow become invisible. She cast her eyes around the crowded room again and thanked God that at least the wake was going well and that everyone seemed to be enjoying the company. She watched Mrs Baxter handing sandwiches to John Sweeny and Derek Pike, two of the regular labourers who’d been working at Merrill Farm for years. They thanked her and then carried on talking with hushed voices. As usual, Mrs Baxter had taken over, and Celia had never been so grateful. Mathew Greene, the vicar, was talking to her aunt Marie, and every now and again, they looked in her direction. Everyone seemed to be whispering in a conspiracy that didn’t involve her. She had to get out of the room. She didn’t want their pity; she didn’t deserve it.
Marie Osborne made her excuses to the vicar and followed Celia. Marie had noticed a dramatic change in her niece since the wedding. She was painfully thin, sullen, and withdrawn to such an extent that they had barely shared two words together since her arrival. One of her eyes was slightly swollen, whilst her cheek had the yellowish pallor of a fading bruise. Celia’s injuries had shocked her to the core, and the reason she gave for them was as believable as the old king’s faithfulness to the queen!
Marie passed Joseph on her way out of the room. Her first impressions of him had not altered in the last few months. She was experienced in the ways of men and had been in their company in places that no wives would dare to go, or be allowed to go. Respected as a renowned painter, an intelligent conversationalist, and a woman of substantial independent wealth, she was in a position to move in most circles. She had met royalty, politicians, and men of great standing. But she had also known gamblers and drunks who had lost their entire fortunes, turning into rogues with their reputations in tatters. She was convinced that Joseph Dobbs was such a man, although he’d never had a fortune and she believed the term ‘rogue’ was not a word strong enough to describe him; he was so much more than that.
Celia was busying herself in the kitchen, loading a tray with pastries brought by Mary Shields. Her head was bowed, and she made a point of ignoring her aunt, who was leaning against the frame of the open door:
“Celia, put down that tray. Walk with me,” she heard her aunt say in a manner that broached no argument.
Celia hid her face; her aunt was the last person she wanted to have a conversation with. She was sure that she would blurt something out to her in a moment of weakness.
“No, I can’t just now, Auntie. I have to help Mrs Baxter,” she said.
“Now, Celia. I am not taking no for an answer.”
Celia took off her apron, put on her coat, and buttoned it right to the top button with fingers that shook with apprehension. Her aunt would undoubtedly ask her about the bruises, and she would keep asking until she got a satisfactory answer. If only Joseph hadn’t marked her face. She’d thought about that all week. If he had left her face alone, she would not have had to endure the endless badgering from Sergeant Butler, Mrs Baxter, and her aunt, who’d always had the knack of getting her to open up entirely. No one else had that affect on her. She suddenly wanted to laugh. She had accepted Joseph’s beating, and now she was berating him for not doing a proper job of it. She stifled a nervous giggle and followed obediently behind her aunt, who was marching down the orchard path like a soldier going into battle and looking forward to it.
As Celia walked, she steadied herself and planned her defence. The next few minutes would be crucial. She would have to guard her tone and her words. She was
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