feet.
‘Heavens, Smudge!’ said Charlotte, pink blooms of embarrassment appearing on her neck. ‘You can’t go about like that!’
‘It was the dreadful accident! I had to come down!’
‘She did, Mother; don’t be cross with her.’ Emerald was conciliatory, seeing rage flare in Charlotte against her youngest child.
‘Imogen! Go!’
Patience and Ernest affected deafness while Smudge, chastened, began to slink away. An uncomfortable silence ensued.
All their preparations had been in vain. Emerald’s birthday celebrations had begun in confusion and disarray. She cast about for something sensible to say, something that would reassure her mother and friends that an hospitable timetable would be re-established, and was about to suggest the library, and tea, when she halted, arrested in movement like a musical statue.
She was obeying a prompt, an instinct left over, perhaps, from an earlier time; the instinct that stops a mouse in its short-sighted tracks when a cat is watching it from a chair; that makes a dog lying by the fire tremble, and whimper, when there is no one near to see.
And as she stopped, there came, of a sudden, a hard gust of wind behind her, striking her through her dress, forcefully, blowing all thoughts of convention from her mind. The heavy front door was closed, but the chill struck Emerald’s back, finding its way through the jamb and hinges – through the solid wood itself, it seemed, as a cold wave will sometimes catch one as one leaves the sea and knock the breath from the body.
Halted, she looked around the faces of her friends and family, who, all unnoticing, stood about awaiting the offers of sustenance or rest they had every reason to expect. But the breeze had caused the air to whisper and creak loudly all around and she was compelled to investigate it.
‘What is it?’ said Clovis as Emerald turned her head to look over her shoulder.
She walked to the door, opened it and looked out into the squally air. Shivering, looking away to her right, far down the drive, she strained her eyes at the emerging vision.
Clovis arrived at her side and followed the direction of her gaze. He gave a low whistle.
‘My word,’ he said, ‘they’re here.’
They all hurried to the door, Smudge peering around Florence’s skirt.
It was true: a small group of people was emerging from the gloom of the drive onto the gravel, slowly and all together. It was difficult to see how many of them there were.
‘They must have missed Robert… How queer!’ cried Emerald. ‘Quick, Mother!’
Florence Trieves and Smudge stayed in the doorway, as Emerald, Charlotte, Clovis, Patience and Ernest moved forward to greet the survivors.
It did make for an odd-looking meeting: the many vibrant colours of the household – party-peacock blues and greens, bright copper – approaching the travelling drabness of the shocked and drifting passengers.
‘Can you see the porter?’ said Patience, craning, her view obscured by other people’s shoulders.
‘No,’ said Clovis, as Emerald, ahead, neared the first of them.
‘Didn’t you see the carriage and cart?’ she asked them. ‘Did the Railway send you up? Are you hurt?’
But none of them answered.
‘Have you come from the accident?’ asked Clovis. ‘We were told to expect you.’
They lifted their faces as one, like a herd of cattle turning their heads in a field to watch one pass by. Shock had brought the group into a mass, as if the experience they had endured had bonded them in strange and bloodless numbness.
‘Welcome to Sterne,’ Emerald tried again, briskly. ‘I’m Emerald Torrington. You must have had the most distressing time.’
Clovis, at her side, glanced down at her and she met his eyes briefly, reassured, and looked back to the shifting passengers. They gazed on her in dazed bedazzlement.
Now that she was nearer to them, she saw that they were not particularly dressed alike, as she had first thought, but only made uniform by dint
‘Heavens, Smudge!’ said Charlotte, pink blooms of embarrassment appearing on her neck. ‘You can’t go about like that!’
‘It was the dreadful accident! I had to come down!’
‘She did, Mother; don’t be cross with her.’ Emerald was conciliatory, seeing rage flare in Charlotte against her youngest child.
‘Imogen! Go!’
Patience and Ernest affected deafness while Smudge, chastened, began to slink away. An uncomfortable silence ensued.
All their preparations had been in vain. Emerald’s birthday celebrations had begun in confusion and disarray. She cast about for something sensible to say, something that would reassure her mother and friends that an hospitable timetable would be re-established, and was about to suggest the library, and tea, when she halted, arrested in movement like a musical statue.
She was obeying a prompt, an instinct left over, perhaps, from an earlier time; the instinct that stops a mouse in its short-sighted tracks when a cat is watching it from a chair; that makes a dog lying by the fire tremble, and whimper, when there is no one near to see.
And as she stopped, there came, of a sudden, a hard gust of wind behind her, striking her through her dress, forcefully, blowing all thoughts of convention from her mind. The heavy front door was closed, but the chill struck Emerald’s back, finding its way through the jamb and hinges – through the solid wood itself, it seemed, as a cold wave will sometimes catch one as one leaves the sea and knock the breath from the body.
Halted, she looked around the faces of her friends and family, who, all unnoticing, stood about awaiting the offers of sustenance or rest they had every reason to expect. But the breeze had caused the air to whisper and creak loudly all around and she was compelled to investigate it.
‘What is it?’ said Clovis as Emerald turned her head to look over her shoulder.
She walked to the door, opened it and looked out into the squally air. Shivering, looking away to her right, far down the drive, she strained her eyes at the emerging vision.
Clovis arrived at her side and followed the direction of her gaze. He gave a low whistle.
‘My word,’ he said, ‘they’re here.’
They all hurried to the door, Smudge peering around Florence’s skirt.
It was true: a small group of people was emerging from the gloom of the drive onto the gravel, slowly and all together. It was difficult to see how many of them there were.
‘They must have missed Robert… How queer!’ cried Emerald. ‘Quick, Mother!’
Florence Trieves and Smudge stayed in the doorway, as Emerald, Charlotte, Clovis, Patience and Ernest moved forward to greet the survivors.
It did make for an odd-looking meeting: the many vibrant colours of the household – party-peacock blues and greens, bright copper – approaching the travelling drabness of the shocked and drifting passengers.
‘Can you see the porter?’ said Patience, craning, her view obscured by other people’s shoulders.
‘No,’ said Clovis, as Emerald, ahead, neared the first of them.
‘Didn’t you see the carriage and cart?’ she asked them. ‘Did the Railway send you up? Are you hurt?’
But none of them answered.
‘Have you come from the accident?’ asked Clovis. ‘We were told to expect you.’
They lifted their faces as one, like a herd of cattle turning their heads in a field to watch one pass by. Shock had brought the group into a mass, as if the experience they had endured had bonded them in strange and bloodless numbness.
‘Welcome to Sterne,’ Emerald tried again, briskly. ‘I’m Emerald Torrington. You must have had the most distressing time.’
Clovis, at her side, glanced down at her and she met his eyes briefly, reassured, and looked back to the shifting passengers. They gazed on her in dazed bedazzlement.
Now that she was nearer to them, she saw that they were not particularly dressed alike, as she had first thought, but only made uniform by dint
Similar Books
