"Ardath Mayhar - The Clarrington Heritage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mayhar Ardath)

have had even more stairs to climb every time we went up or down."
Marise nodded. Taking up the case, she started up the stair, which was
a lovely one, curving around the side of the entry hall to the first landing.
Ornate fixtures lighted it, and the plum-colored carpet was soft underfoot. At
the landing the corridor leading onto the second floor caught her attention.
Muted lights in fixtures shaped like bunches of flowers illuminated a row of
arched doors, one of which stood open.
Was someone there? She moved silently into the corridor and along it to
the open doorway. The room beyond was empty of a tenant, although it was
furnished. Or had been.
A rose-hung tester bed centered the farther wall, its hangings ripped
from their supports, lying over it in tatters. Draperies patterned with roses
of a matching hue were slashed and torn from the poles that had held them. The
gray and rose carpet was smeared with what had to be dog-dung.
Fresh roses and shards of broken crystal vases lay amid the mess and
the stench.
Someone had prepared this lovely room for the newlyweds. Some other
someone had torn it apart, fouled it past repair.
She put her free hand over her nose and fled toward the stair. She ran
up the remaining steps and into the small arched door leading to the tower.
So that had caused Ben's anger. It had made him lie to her to spare her
feelings. If the door hadn't been open, if she had not yielded to the
temptation to snoop, she would never have known that someone here hated her,
resented her existence fiercely enough to do this insane thing. Ben had tried
to spare her, and it was only her own folly that had wasted his effort.
Her heart thumped painfully in her chest as she entered a round room,
furnished as a sitting room. A short flight of stairs curved against one wall,
leading, she understood at once, to the bedroom above it. Though the
furnishings were somewhat faded, the hangings slightly dusty, it was a
charming room, full of light, for continuous windows circled it.
She'd found that the tower, unlike any she had ever seen, was set into
the rear of the house, looking over well kept gardens. Even late fall had not
robbed those of their charm, for chrysanthemums glowed in shades of bronze and
gold amid the dark green leaves of evergreens.
Marise had sat in a low rocking chair, her case at her feet, and there
she had come to terms with the devastation she had seen in that pink bedroom.
Ben counted with her more than anything or anyone else. If he needed her, then
nothing anyone in this solid, hostile house could do was going to drive her
away. She'd stay here as long as Ben needed and wanted her.
Standing in the dim entry hall, a much older Marise opened her eyes and
straightened her back. How little one knows, she thought, when you are young
and in love, of what may come of your rashly given vows.
She gave the door a last polish with her cloth and shook her head.
Behind every door in this place of many doors lay bits and pieces of her past.
Each time she entered a room, some scene, happy or tragic or funny or
horrifying, lay there in wait for her. It was terrifying, in a way, and yet
she made a point of entering every room in the house on a regular basis.
Not every day -- the human mind and spirit can bear only so much. But
often enough to know that she had not lost her courage. Often enough.
She wondered how many times that might be, since she had barricaded