Read Online The Whispering Rocks by Sandra Heath - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandra Heath
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“Where’s Armand?” she asked Paul, smiling a little. “Surely you haven’t traveled all the way on the Turk?”
Sarah could not take her eyes from the girl. She was like an exquisite doll. Her hair was pinned slightly, falling naturally into the Grecian curls which Betty had worked so hard to create out of Sarah’s black tresses. Betty. The thought of the poor little maid pricked saltily behind Sarah’s lids and she blinked the tears away. Surely it had not really happened—
Melissa touched Paul’s hand. “I asked you a question.”
“There was an accident at Hob’s Brook. Miss Stratford’s maid was killed and the coach and baggage remain firmly the wrong side of the crossing. As to Armand—”
“Yes?” The dainty voice was slightly sharp as Melissa guessed there was more bad news to come.
He cupped her chin in his hand gently. “Armand may be dead, ‘Lissa. He was your faithful servant and I know not how to break such tidings kindly. He was carrying the maid across on horseback but the current was too strong. I found the maid’s body but there was no sign of Armand.”
‘Then he may not be dead?” Her eyes were large.
“It’s possible—without tangible proof there’s always hope.” Paul spoke reluctantly, not wanting to raise her hopes.
Melissa’s lovely green eyes swung to Sarah, but it was to her brother that she spoke. “Then he’ll come back. I know that he will.”
He said no more on the subject, turning to lift Sarah to the ground. “ ‘Lissa, please take Miss Stratford inside out of the rain.” He gave the Turk’s reins to Martin, who waited nearby.
Melissa held her hand out to Sarah and smiled, but the smile did not reach those spectacular green eyes. “Please come inside, Miss Stratford.” She spoke politely enough but there was a barrier there, an almost tangible barrier.
The servants waited in the hall to greet their master. The butler, Marks, stepped forward, a genuine smile of pleasure on his old, wrinkled face. As Paul spoke to each one in turn, Sarah could see how well he was liked and respected by all, down to the meanest scullery maid and kitchen boy. Yes, and by the adoring glances of the maids, he was not only liked and respected! He stopped to converse with the butler, listening closely and then giving some orders. Marks nodded, calling two of the maids and sending them scurrying up the dark, narrow staircase to the first floor, calling instructions by the dozen as he went.
Sarah looked around the entrance hall. How different Mannerby House was from Rook House. Both were old, but Rook House had been gutted inside and rebuilt by the finest architects in a gracious gold and white style which was more fitting to a new house than one so old.
Mannerby was as it always had been, bringing a breath of medieval times to Regency England. Dark wooden bannisters lined the staircase and oak beams ranged across the low ceilings. Red tiles covered the floors, tiles polished so much that you could see your face in their uneven surface.
Small tapestries hung on the walls, just as if left there by the original owner of the house, and everywhere there was the subtle gleam of copper and brass. A tall old grandfather clock stood against a wall, ticking the minutes away steadily and slowly, its face having a rather surprised look as if permanently startled by life. Ancient portraits were hanging on every conceivable space, interspersed by brackets which held thick yellow candles.
Halfway up the stairs, on a small landing, was a narrow window at the side of which was a huge portrait of a woman in Elizabethan dress. A stiff ruff framed the thin, hawk-like face and she stared down her beaky nose at the group in the entrance hall far below her. On a table beneath the portrait stood a large, fat, porcelain Buddha. The Buddha was green, gold, and white and had emerald eyes which glittered as his head moved. From where she stood Sarah could hear the tiny chink, chink of that
Sarah could not take her eyes from the girl. She was like an exquisite doll. Her hair was pinned slightly, falling naturally into the Grecian curls which Betty had worked so hard to create out of Sarah’s black tresses. Betty. The thought of the poor little maid pricked saltily behind Sarah’s lids and she blinked the tears away. Surely it had not really happened—
Melissa touched Paul’s hand. “I asked you a question.”
“There was an accident at Hob’s Brook. Miss Stratford’s maid was killed and the coach and baggage remain firmly the wrong side of the crossing. As to Armand—”
“Yes?” The dainty voice was slightly sharp as Melissa guessed there was more bad news to come.
He cupped her chin in his hand gently. “Armand may be dead, ‘Lissa. He was your faithful servant and I know not how to break such tidings kindly. He was carrying the maid across on horseback but the current was too strong. I found the maid’s body but there was no sign of Armand.”
‘Then he may not be dead?” Her eyes were large.
“It’s possible—without tangible proof there’s always hope.” Paul spoke reluctantly, not wanting to raise her hopes.
Melissa’s lovely green eyes swung to Sarah, but it was to her brother that she spoke. “Then he’ll come back. I know that he will.”
He said no more on the subject, turning to lift Sarah to the ground. “ ‘Lissa, please take Miss Stratford inside out of the rain.” He gave the Turk’s reins to Martin, who waited nearby.
Melissa held her hand out to Sarah and smiled, but the smile did not reach those spectacular green eyes. “Please come inside, Miss Stratford.” She spoke politely enough but there was a barrier there, an almost tangible barrier.
The servants waited in the hall to greet their master. The butler, Marks, stepped forward, a genuine smile of pleasure on his old, wrinkled face. As Paul spoke to each one in turn, Sarah could see how well he was liked and respected by all, down to the meanest scullery maid and kitchen boy. Yes, and by the adoring glances of the maids, he was not only liked and respected! He stopped to converse with the butler, listening closely and then giving some orders. Marks nodded, calling two of the maids and sending them scurrying up the dark, narrow staircase to the first floor, calling instructions by the dozen as he went.
Sarah looked around the entrance hall. How different Mannerby House was from Rook House. Both were old, but Rook House had been gutted inside and rebuilt by the finest architects in a gracious gold and white style which was more fitting to a new house than one so old.
Mannerby was as it always had been, bringing a breath of medieval times to Regency England. Dark wooden bannisters lined the staircase and oak beams ranged across the low ceilings. Red tiles covered the floors, tiles polished so much that you could see your face in their uneven surface.
Small tapestries hung on the walls, just as if left there by the original owner of the house, and everywhere there was the subtle gleam of copper and brass. A tall old grandfather clock stood against a wall, ticking the minutes away steadily and slowly, its face having a rather surprised look as if permanently startled by life. Ancient portraits were hanging on every conceivable space, interspersed by brackets which held thick yellow candles.
Halfway up the stairs, on a small landing, was a narrow window at the side of which was a huge portrait of a woman in Elizabethan dress. A stiff ruff framed the thin, hawk-like face and she stared down her beaky nose at the group in the entrance hall far below her. On a table beneath the portrait stood a large, fat, porcelain Buddha. The Buddha was green, gold, and white and had emerald eyes which glittered as his head moved. From where she stood Sarah could hear the tiny chink, chink of that
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