"Mary Stewart - Wildfire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stewart Mary)

Chapter 3



YES, THERE IT WAS, as large as life, the arrogant black signature in the visitors' book: Nicholas Drury,
London. May 29th, 1953. I looked down at it for a moment, biting my lip, then my eye was caught by
another entry in the same hand, high up on the preceding page: Nicholas Drury, London. April 28th, 1953.
He had been here already this summer, then. I frowned down at the book, wondering what on earth he
could be doing in Skye. He must, of course, be collecting material for some book; he would hardly have
chosen a place like this for a holiday. This Highland fastness, all trout and misty heather and men in shabby
tweeds, accorded ill with what I remembered of Nicholas. I picked up the pen, conscious that my hands
were not quite steady. All the carefully acquired poise in the world was not going to make it any more
possible for me to meet Nicholas Drury again with the casual camaraderie which was, no doubt,
fashionable among the divorces of his London circle.

I dipped the pen in the inkstand, hesitated, and finally wrote: Gianetta Brooke, Tench Abbas Rectory,
Warwickshire. Then I tugged my wedding ring rather painfully off my finger and dropped it into my bag. I
would have to tell Major Persimmon, the hotel proprietor, why Mrs. Drury had suddenly become Miss
Brooke: there were, it seemed to me, altogether too many embarrassments contingent on there being a Mr.
and Mrs. Drury in the same hotel. Marcia Maling had already promised to say nothing. And Nicholas was
not to know that I had not become Miss Brooke again four years ago. He would probably be as annoyed
and uncomfortable as I, when we met, and would surely try to pass off the awkward encounter as easily as
possible. So, at any rate, I assured myself, as I blotted and shut the book, though, remembering my
handsome and incalculable husband as I did, I felt that there was very little dependence to be placed on the
good behavior of Nicholas Drury.

Then I jumped like a nervous cat as a man's voice said behind me: "Janet Drury, as I live!"

I turned quickly, to see a man coming down the stairs towards me.

"Alastair! How nice to see you again! Where've you been all these years?"

Alastair Braine took both my hands and beamed down at me. He was a big, rugged-looking man, with
powerful shoulders, perpetually untidy brown hair, and a disarming grin that hid an exceptionally shrewd
mind. He looked anything but what he wasтАФone of the coming men in the ruthless world of advertising.

"America mostly, with a dash of Brazil and Pakistan. You knew I was working for the Pergamon people?"

"Yes, I remember. Have you been back long?"

"About six weeks. They gave me a couple of months' leave, so I've come up here with some friends for a
spot of fishing."

"It's lovely seeing you again," I said, "and I must say your tan does you credit, Alastair!"

He grinned down at me. "It's a pity I can't return the compliment, Janet, my pet. Not"тАФhe caught himself
up hastilyтАФ"that it's not lovely to see you, too, but you look a bit Londonish, if I may say so. What's