Read Online The Young Nightingales by Mary Whistler - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Whistler
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side of the white-painted front door—overhung by a gaily striped awning to prevent blistered paintwork—and hear the sound of it shrilling loudly throughout the whole of the interior of the house, or so it seemed to her.
Almost immediately footsteps crossed the cool tiled hall, and a middle-aged woman servant appeared and opened the door. She stared for a moment a little reprovingly at the English girl, and then signified that she could enter.
“ The mistress has been expecting you for more than an hour,” she observed in a severe tone, and with an accent that proved she was as English as Madame Bowman herself. “Is this all your luggage?” she broke off to enquire with a sniff, as she surveyed the handsome piled-up suitcases and the hat-box.
“Yes.” Jane apologised for being late. “But I ’ m afraid I over-slept,” she admitted.
The woman sniffed again, and then remarked in an aside that Madame Bowman was always one for punctuality. But she stood aside to allow Jane to walk past her into the hall, and she said something about getting Andre to carry the luggage upstairs.
“This way, miss.” She led the way across the hall to a door with .a beautiful cut-glass handle and flower panels painted on it, and after tapping briefly apparently understood that she had received permission to enter, for she swung it wide. She stalked into the room, her starched white apron bristling, as it were, and announced that the young lady had arrived. Someone murmured something in a very low and dulcet tone, arid a jerk of the head indicated to Jane that she was to enter.
On the short journey across the hall she had felt quite charmed by the mixture of Victorian opulence and modern Swiss polish that overlaid it like a couple of conflicting garments, and she realised that there were many treasures in the somewhat confined space—or possibly the heavy draperies and the quantities of flowers in enormous china vases made it seem somewhat limited. The walls were hung with heavy portraits, and there were solid chests and console tables loaded with bric-a-brac . At least two magnificent jardinières were filled with pot plants, and a couple of love-birds cooed at one another in a gilded cage that was hung beneath an arch.
Having seen all this Jane was, therefore, not so surprised when she entered what was obviously the main drawing-room, or salon , of the house to find that it, too, was crammed to capacity with a heterogeneous collection of furniture and furnishings. The carpet was a lovely soft Aubusson, and the curtains were faded lavender silk swaying slightly in the draught from the open windows. Every piece of furniture would have made an antique dealer’s heart leap—so much she recognised after one swift, comprehensive glance round—and the figure in the most comfortable easy chair the room contained caused something like an actual flood of relief to course through her.
For if this was Madame B owman—nonagenarian—then surely she had frothing to worry about? Not unless appearances in this case were unfortunately quite deceptive.
“Do come in, my dear,” the soft voice cooed, “and don’t take any notice of Florence if she scolded you for being late. She’s been with me for years, and she thinks she knows everything about me and insists that my life is run on oiled wheels. I’ll admit I’m not so very fond of too well-oiled wheels, but it’s nice to be well taken care of, and Florence certainly does that for me. ”
Jane put out a hand and closed her fingers round the pallid ones that were extended to her, and as Madame Bowman’s fingers were encrusted with rings the somewhat impulsive act was a trifle painful as the sharp edges of the stones cut into Jane’s flesh. She refrained, however, from wincing noticeably, and merely caught and held her breath for a moment as she found herself gazing into the handsomest pair of deep blue eyes framed in a network of wrinkles she had ever seen in her life.
Roger’s
Almost immediately footsteps crossed the cool tiled hall, and a middle-aged woman servant appeared and opened the door. She stared for a moment a little reprovingly at the English girl, and then signified that she could enter.
“ The mistress has been expecting you for more than an hour,” she observed in a severe tone, and with an accent that proved she was as English as Madame Bowman herself. “Is this all your luggage?” she broke off to enquire with a sniff, as she surveyed the handsome piled-up suitcases and the hat-box.
“Yes.” Jane apologised for being late. “But I ’ m afraid I over-slept,” she admitted.
The woman sniffed again, and then remarked in an aside that Madame Bowman was always one for punctuality. But she stood aside to allow Jane to walk past her into the hall, and she said something about getting Andre to carry the luggage upstairs.
“This way, miss.” She led the way across the hall to a door with .a beautiful cut-glass handle and flower panels painted on it, and after tapping briefly apparently understood that she had received permission to enter, for she swung it wide. She stalked into the room, her starched white apron bristling, as it were, and announced that the young lady had arrived. Someone murmured something in a very low and dulcet tone, arid a jerk of the head indicated to Jane that she was to enter.
On the short journey across the hall she had felt quite charmed by the mixture of Victorian opulence and modern Swiss polish that overlaid it like a couple of conflicting garments, and she realised that there were many treasures in the somewhat confined space—or possibly the heavy draperies and the quantities of flowers in enormous china vases made it seem somewhat limited. The walls were hung with heavy portraits, and there were solid chests and console tables loaded with bric-a-brac . At least two magnificent jardinières were filled with pot plants, and a couple of love-birds cooed at one another in a gilded cage that was hung beneath an arch.
Having seen all this Jane was, therefore, not so surprised when she entered what was obviously the main drawing-room, or salon , of the house to find that it, too, was crammed to capacity with a heterogeneous collection of furniture and furnishings. The carpet was a lovely soft Aubusson, and the curtains were faded lavender silk swaying slightly in the draught from the open windows. Every piece of furniture would have made an antique dealer’s heart leap—so much she recognised after one swift, comprehensive glance round—and the figure in the most comfortable easy chair the room contained caused something like an actual flood of relief to course through her.
For if this was Madame B owman—nonagenarian—then surely she had frothing to worry about? Not unless appearances in this case were unfortunately quite deceptive.
“Do come in, my dear,” the soft voice cooed, “and don’t take any notice of Florence if she scolded you for being late. She’s been with me for years, and she thinks she knows everything about me and insists that my life is run on oiled wheels. I’ll admit I’m not so very fond of too well-oiled wheels, but it’s nice to be well taken care of, and Florence certainly does that for me. ”
Jane put out a hand and closed her fingers round the pallid ones that were extended to her, and as Madame Bowman’s fingers were encrusted with rings the somewhat impulsive act was a trifle painful as the sharp edges of the stones cut into Jane’s flesh. She refrained, however, from wincing noticeably, and merely caught and held her breath for a moment as she found herself gazing into the handsomest pair of deep blue eyes framed in a network of wrinkles she had ever seen in her life.
Roger’s
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