Read Online Winter Garden by Adele Ashworth - Free Book Online Page A

clear the air.
    â€œI really think there is little fact behind it after all,” she admitted, sitting straighter in her seat and reaching for a third slice of cake. “I don’t know if anyone even lived in the Winter Garden valley so long ago. Records are vague at best, and only kept through the church that far back. One could trace the history, probably, but Baron Rothebury likely only has information regarding his family after the time of purchasing his estate.”
    â€œI should think Winter Garden existed then, being so close to Portsmouth,” Lady Isadora remarked with drawn brows. “That the baron’s property is as old may be in some doubt, but I imagine there were people here.”
    â€œPerhaps, Madame DuMais, you could ask the gentleman with whom you are living if he knows,” Mrs. Bennington-Jones murmured with a calculated twist of her mouth. “I’ve no doubt the two of you are…sufficiently acquainted by now. And he is, after all, a scholar, is he not?”
    An awkward pause followed. A servant shifted feet on the creaking wooden floor, someone dropped a fork to her plate clumsily. All but the Englishwoman who had so brazenly asked the question looked elsewhere—to their tea, to the flowers, anywhere but to her.
    So that was it. She lived alone with Thomas in a small cottage, and in less than one week speculation as to the depth of their relationship had started. Quicker than she’d expected, or than it would have in France,she had to admit, and probably with more scrutiny and concern. In France, Thomas would be considered fortunate to have an attractive widow in his company; she, at the worst, would be ignored. Here, in this small village, he would be snubbed and she would be scorned, at least by respectable women. He had been right. They could never pose as lovers. Already these ladies questioned her scruples. But they also, for now, had nothing more enticing to go on than assumption.
    Madeleine folded her napkin in her lap, meticulously, thinking with care as she spoke. “Mr. Blackwood is a scholar, Mrs. Bennington-Jones, but he is not from Winter Garden. I am uncertain whether he knows anything at all of its history.”
    â€œIndeed,” Mrs. Rodney inserted with interest.
    Madeleine smiled dryly. They were all certainly aware of this and yet they chose to carry on as if ignorant. “He is also a rather quiet individual. I know very little about him other than what I have learned while translating his memoirs.”
    â€œAnd how on earth did he ever find you among all the translators in France?” Mrs. Bennington-Jones asked with pointed meaning. “Naturally I don’t mean to be insulting, but surely there must be other individuals who are better able to do the work.”
    Madeleine gazed at her directly, pretending innocence as she clutched her napkin with both hands. “How so, Mrs. Bennington-Jones?”
    The woman shifted her large body in her chair. “Well, I’m sure there are men—”
    â€œAhh…I’m sure that there are,” she cut in, composed and in flawless form. “But I’ve always wanted to travel to England, and this seemed a prime opportunityto spend some time here. I am, of course, well-qualified for the position as I was extensively educated in the language during the six years I spent in a Viennese finishing school for young ladies, run by the very famous Madame Bilodeau. I’m sure you’ve heard of her?”
    Mrs. Bennington-Jones blinked, taken aback by a question she had not foreseen. “I imagine so, yes.”
    Madeleine lowered her chin, smiling tightly. “When I read Mr. Blackwood’s advertisement in a Parisian newspaper requesting aid from a person of skill and good breeding to translate his memoirs, I wrote him with recommendations and a list of my credentials, and he chose me from among several. I left France only a few days after receiving word. As I