Read Online Through The Wall by Patricia Wentworth - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Wentworth
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they went to see the rest of the house she contrived to remain behind.
Penny went on doing showman.
“The rooms are the same on both sides—four bedrooms on this floor, and an attic room above. And there is a linen-cupboard on each side. It really was two houses to start with. That’s the door through to our side—there’s one on each floor. Eliza sleeps in your attic, so the other two bedrooms are spare. Then downstairs there are three sitting-rooms, and the kitchen, and things like that—the same both sides. You’ve got the dining-room, and a little room that hasn’t been used much, and Uncle Martin’s study, which I think is the nicest room in the house. And on our side there’s the breakfast-room, and the drawing-room, and a room the aunts have always had for themselves. No one ever goes into the drawing-room except Felix—because of the piano, you know. It’s a lovely Bechstein grand. He really does play beautifully. And he composes. He ought to be doing that all the time, instead of going round playing people’s accompaniments.”
Marian wasn’t stupid. There was an emphasis on “people”—Penny’s eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed. She remembered that Felix Brand was Helen Adrian’s accompanist, and that Helen Adrian was, from her pictures, a very pretty woman. There was no need to say anything. They were coming into the study, and when they were really there all she could do was to draw a long satisfied breath and say, “Oh!”
It was the most comfortable room she had ever seen. All the strangeness went out of her as she looked at it. It wasn’t until afterwards that she could notice and admire the pair of Chippendale bookcases with their curved horns and diamond lattice-work, or the writing-table with its pigeon-holes and little drawers, and the brass handles which were the colour of very pale gold. At the time she only knew that it was a beautiful room, and that she loved it.
Penny squeezed her arm and pulled her over to the window. The view was the same as from the bedroom above, but you saw more garden and less cover. There was a narrow bed of forget-me-nots under the three windows, set with May-flowering tulips just coming into bloom, the long pointed buds still green but flushed and streaked with rose, and purple, and scarlet, and yellow. The middle window was a door with two shallow steps going down to a flagged path beyond the flowers. You only had to turn a handle and step out. There was a pink cherry in bloom away to the left.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” said Penny. She was still holding Marian’s arm. Eliza had vanished. They were alone.
Marian said, “Yes,” with a deep sigh of content, and all at once Penny felt that she could say anything. Her hand squeezed harder. The words came tumbling out.
“Marian—you won’t want to take the piano, will you? I don’t know what Felix would do without it, and it wouldn’t be right in here—not a bit. The aunts have been saying you’d want it, and the drawing-room furniture. And of course it’s all yours, but you’d hate it really—nasty gilt spindly stuff, and the sort of shiny brocade you can only sit on in your best evening dress. You wouldn’t really want to spoil this room with it—would you?”
“I should hate it. And of course I won’t take the piano away from Felix.”
The door behind them was open. Eliza came through it with a tea-tray. The cat Mactavish followed, walking delicately, like Agag. Having set down the tray, Eliza straightened herself. Penny became aware that the moment was a fateful one. There were persons so uninstructed as to address a princely Persian as “puss.” There were ill-mannered vulgarians who attempted to lay an uninvited hand upon him. There were those who knew how to treat him. Eliza was undoubtedly waiting to see into which category Miss Marian Brand would fall. She said,
“I thought you would like a cup of tea after the journey.”
And Marian said, “How lovely,” and
Penny went on doing showman.
“The rooms are the same on both sides—four bedrooms on this floor, and an attic room above. And there is a linen-cupboard on each side. It really was two houses to start with. That’s the door through to our side—there’s one on each floor. Eliza sleeps in your attic, so the other two bedrooms are spare. Then downstairs there are three sitting-rooms, and the kitchen, and things like that—the same both sides. You’ve got the dining-room, and a little room that hasn’t been used much, and Uncle Martin’s study, which I think is the nicest room in the house. And on our side there’s the breakfast-room, and the drawing-room, and a room the aunts have always had for themselves. No one ever goes into the drawing-room except Felix—because of the piano, you know. It’s a lovely Bechstein grand. He really does play beautifully. And he composes. He ought to be doing that all the time, instead of going round playing people’s accompaniments.”
Marian wasn’t stupid. There was an emphasis on “people”—Penny’s eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed. She remembered that Felix Brand was Helen Adrian’s accompanist, and that Helen Adrian was, from her pictures, a very pretty woman. There was no need to say anything. They were coming into the study, and when they were really there all she could do was to draw a long satisfied breath and say, “Oh!”
It was the most comfortable room she had ever seen. All the strangeness went out of her as she looked at it. It wasn’t until afterwards that she could notice and admire the pair of Chippendale bookcases with their curved horns and diamond lattice-work, or the writing-table with its pigeon-holes and little drawers, and the brass handles which were the colour of very pale gold. At the time she only knew that it was a beautiful room, and that she loved it.
Penny squeezed her arm and pulled her over to the window. The view was the same as from the bedroom above, but you saw more garden and less cover. There was a narrow bed of forget-me-nots under the three windows, set with May-flowering tulips just coming into bloom, the long pointed buds still green but flushed and streaked with rose, and purple, and scarlet, and yellow. The middle window was a door with two shallow steps going down to a flagged path beyond the flowers. You only had to turn a handle and step out. There was a pink cherry in bloom away to the left.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” said Penny. She was still holding Marian’s arm. Eliza had vanished. They were alone.
Marian said, “Yes,” with a deep sigh of content, and all at once Penny felt that she could say anything. Her hand squeezed harder. The words came tumbling out.
“Marian—you won’t want to take the piano, will you? I don’t know what Felix would do without it, and it wouldn’t be right in here—not a bit. The aunts have been saying you’d want it, and the drawing-room furniture. And of course it’s all yours, but you’d hate it really—nasty gilt spindly stuff, and the sort of shiny brocade you can only sit on in your best evening dress. You wouldn’t really want to spoil this room with it—would you?”
“I should hate it. And of course I won’t take the piano away from Felix.”
The door behind them was open. Eliza came through it with a tea-tray. The cat Mactavish followed, walking delicately, like Agag. Having set down the tray, Eliza straightened herself. Penny became aware that the moment was a fateful one. There were persons so uninstructed as to address a princely Persian as “puss.” There were ill-mannered vulgarians who attempted to lay an uninvited hand upon him. There were those who knew how to treat him. Eliza was undoubtedly waiting to see into which category Miss Marian Brand would fall. She said,
“I thought you would like a cup of tea after the journey.”
And Marian said, “How lovely,” and
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