Read Online The Shape of Sand by Marjorie Eccles - Free Book Online

Wycombe stayed beside his pride and joy, gazing out over the gardens and the long view towards the church, with a familiar feeling of coming home.
He had first come to Charnley with Amory in the school vacations, and for so many reasons, it was always such a pleasure to be back.
    â€œâ€˜Cor! Why, it’s a motor and a half sir, this!” declared Copley, whistling with appreciation when he appeared and saw the Daimler Silent-Knight standing on the gravel in gleaming splendour. Its proud owner beamed, and for a while they discussed the superiorities of sleeve-valve engines and cylinders, petrol consumption and horse power. Copley laid his dark gipsy paw softly on the gleaming coachwork. “Beats the owd ‘osses into a cocked hat, don’t she, Colonel?”
    â€œOh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” returned Wycombe, feeling bound to spring to the defence of his old love as well as his new. “This lovely lady needs a great deal more attention than a mere nosebag of hay and a brisk rub down! On the other hand she can go at twenty miles an hour! Both have their uses, both their disadvantages.”
    â€œI haven’t got nothing against ‘osses, as fur as they go – but speed, that’s the coming thing, that’s what it’s all about, ain’t it, my lord? Must give you a thrill, sir.” He looked longingly at the steering wheel.
    Wycombe didn’t disappoint him. “Well, well, see she’s properly housed, will you? You know how to handle her?”
    Copley’s face lit up. “That I do!” he declared, grasping the starting handle. “You leave her to me, sir! I’ll drive her round the back and see to it she comes to no harm.”
    â€œThank you, Copley. Do that, if you would.”
    Inside the house, Amory had just emerged from his study where he had been ensconced since his arrival from the station, and was hurrying towards the stairs, pocketing his watch. He spun round when his friend was shown in.
    â€œMyles! How very good to see you!”
    The two men greeted each other with great cordiality, like the brothers they’d always regarded themselves. They had been the closest of friends since their schooldays at Harrow, and had continued so, despite long enforced separations due to Wycombe’s army postings. He was honorary uncle to the children, and Marcus’s godfather. They exchanged news until, after a few minutes, Amory said, “Well, we must hurry up and
change. I’ll see you down here for a drink before dinner, and we’ll chat later about what you propose to do. We shall be quiet this evening, just the family – and Kit, of course – you, and one other house guest, whom I think you may remember.” He had entirely forgotten Miss Jessamy.
    Wycombe raised his eyebrows.
    â€œDoes the name Valery Iskander ring any bells?”
    Â 
    Iskander, by God! thought Wycombe with dismay, as he was tying his bow tie, achieving perfect symmetry the first time, as he invariably did. Neat in all his movements, he was the epitome of the professional soldier, tall and well set up in a military way, athletic and vigorous, keen eyed and with a now inbuilt tan to his skin from serving in foreign lands with his regiment for most of his life. He had been forced to acknowledge that he had made a mistake when, five years ago, he had sent in his papers, meaning to live the life of a landed gentleman from then on. The intention did not coincide well with the reality, which turned out to be something for which he had not bargained, though he knew he ought to have expected it.
    His estates had always been admirably managed while he had been a serving officer, and he had failed to consider the fact that his decision to take overall control on his return might be resented by the efficient land agent who had done the job during his absence. However, he managed to avoid confrontation, having very soon come to the admission that