"Warrington, Freda - A Taste of Blood Wine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Warrington Freda)

"You may laugh, but we have to make all our own equipment. Making a good cardboard strut for a photographic plate is just as important as intricate mathematical reasoning. And a damn sight more useful. Isn't it, Henry?"
"Or the stamina to sit up all night counting alpha-particles until your eyes fall out," said Henry, sounding hostile.
"I should be happy to do whatever was required of me."
"I can't pay you anything."
"I was not asking for a job, Dr Neville. On the contrary, if you need resources for your laboratoryЕ "
Neville looked startled. "Well, I couldn't possibly accept payment, but I dare say the Cavendish might be grateful for some new equipment. Oh, don't look like that, Henry; your salary's not in danger." His gaze switched suddenly to the Bunsen burner. The water was boiling vigorously, Henry having forgotten all about it. "Oh, rescue that water, would you, Karl? You're nearest."
Karl half-turned and folded one slender, white hand around the beaker and stood holding it as the physicist went on, "I just have a feeling about you, vonЧer, Karl. Normally I wouldn't dream of taking on someone with no formal qualifications, but to encourage someone with such a thirst for knowledge as you obviously have would be a delight. And then there's the most important qualification of all."
"Which is what?"
"The ability to make a good cup of tea. There's a teapot around here somewhere. We often brew up down here; saves bothering the maid, y'see, especially since Sally sprained her ankle coming down the stairs once. Adds a nice schoolboyish touch, I think. Henry, sort the tea out, will you? What are you staring at?"
Then Dr Neville stopped, opened and closed his mouth like a fish. It was only then that Karl realised why they were staring. He had picked up the beaker of boiling water in his bare hand and was still holding it. He felt the heat but disregarded it, knowing it could not harm him and forgetting how extraordinary it must look.
"Your hand!" Neville exclaimed.
Karl set the vessel down. They both hurried over to him, flustered. "My God, I forgot to tell you to pick it up with tongs! Have you burned yourself?"
Karl turned his hand over and gave it a perfunctory inspection, moving away from them as he did so. "No, it is all right. I didn't even notice."
Dr Neville touched the edge of the beaker and snatched his hand away. "Ouch! It must have scalded you. I'm most dreadfully sorry. This is your fault, Henry: if you'd been paying attentionЧ! Better run it under the cold tap to make sure."
Karl went to the sink and did as he asked, only to avoid an argument. This was the danger, that some small sign would give him away. His immunity to things that would harm humans he took so much for granted that it was too easy to forget. Yet it was no danger, really. Men were always swift to seize on a rational explanation where the irrational was too outlandish to be considered.
"Are you all right?" George Neville said weakly.
"Perfectly."
"I don't seeЧ"
"I have tough skin," said Karl, "from playing the cello."
***
Charlotte was running away.
Influenza had laid her low for two weeks. Normally she would have soldiered through it, but this time she gave herself into the kingdom of fever and dark dreams as if into the arms of a lover. Illness became a veil to hide her from the world.
But now she was nearly better. Her father had sent her to Parkland Hall to convalesce. She always had mixed feelings about staying hereЧshe loved the house and grounds, disliked her auntЧbut this time she had welcomed the chance. It meant she would miss Karl von Wultendorf's visit to Cambridge, as if the longer she delayed meeting him, the more likely he was simply to disappear.
She knew her anxiety was irrational, but it had grown into something beyond her controlЧwhile the delusions of a high temperature, which had protected her, had also seemed intimately connected to the fear. There was a dark web on her that she could not shake off.
What's wrong with me? she thought, alone in a bedroom that was very different from her room at home; twice the size, all blue and gold with a four-poster bed and brocaded hangings. Why, when I have so much, do I feel so empty?
Convalescence had given her too much time to think. She leaned on the windowsill and stared out, too listless to move although she had been there for two hours. A late summer haze shimmered over the trees, drifting like silver gauze over a distant lake, blurring the horizon into the sky. The landscape looked as she felt; blurred, torpid, dull.
One thing she loved above all about Parkland Hall was the garden. Her window overlooked a broad lawn, edged by a stone balustrade on which roses and wisteria twined, shaded by a vast plane tree. On the far side, exactly one hundred steps swept down through a belt of silver birch, laburnum, conifers and rhododendrons to another lawn, an Italianate layout with formal flowerbeds and a fountain at its centre. Beyond that was a steep drop into semi-wild woodland. To either side, hidden from her view, were other formal layouts, water gardens, mazes; and then the wild gardens that she loved the best. They were shadowy and mysterious, set with statues and follies that had been gathering lichen and ivy since the eighteenth century.
As a child, her moments of true happiness had been spent exploring the grounds alone. They still were, if she were honest. It was like stepping into another time. She could forget everything there, even herself.
Charlotte felt like a fugitive fleeing from some unseen beast. Yet however fast she ran it was always gaining on her with soft, slow footsteps. And the beast was real life.
A marquee was being erected on a side lawn to the right of the house. From here she could just see the white walls flapping in and out, men hauling on the ropes, and members of the Hall staff going to and fro. The butler, Newland, was supervising. Tomorrow was Madeleine's nineteenth birthday party, and the worldЧso it feltЧwould be descending on Charlotte's refuge.
She would have to endure it, for Madeleine's sake. At least Anne and David would be here.
"I dare say I'll survive," she told herself. "Think about Maddy instead of yourself, idiot."
A noise behind Charlotte made her start.
"Talking to yourself? I sometimes wonder about you, dear, I really do."
Aunt Elizabeth came into the room, angular and elegant in a dress of gold silk voile, a sash round her hips and a wide-sleeved jacket of the same colour. She had the type of strong-boned face that didn't seem to age, although she was only five years younger than Charlotte's father. She wore her dark hair in a youthful bob.
"I hope you're feeling better," Elizabeth said ominously.
"Yes, Auntie, I'm much better, thank you."
"Good, because you are going to enjoy yourself tomorrow, or at least, look as if you are. You can't use the excuse of flu to hide in your room. I'm not having Maddy upset by anything"
"I wouldn't dream of upsetting her." Charlotte meant to sound conciliatory, but the words came out abruptly.
"Not intentionally, but you don't seem able to help yourself. I don't know what we're going to do with you."
"There's no need for you to do anything," she said quietly. "I'm quite happy working for Father. I should never have triedЧ"
"Yes, well, don't let's dwell on it. Not everyone is cut out for Society, obviously."
"I suppose not," she said, shrivelling inside. Elizabeth needled her constantly about her unsociability, and she hated it. Her relationship with her aunt had never been warm. The only thing in which Elizabeth had ever failed was the attempt to mould Charlotte to her own design.
Lady Elizabeth Reynolds' husband was a baronet, but it was an unconventional marriage. He spent most of his time abroad and Elizabeth rarely went with him, preferring to preside over his country seat and to enjoy herself in high society. Charlotte had her suspicions as to what her idea of enjoyment was. It seemed the marriage was just a respectable front for both husband and wife. Perhaps that was not wrong in itself, but the irony was that her old-fashioned father trusted his sister to chaperon his daughters, while all the time she was perverting Fleur and Madeleine to her own amoral outlook. For that reason, Charlotte could not trust or respect her.
"All is not lost," Elizabeth went on, her tone gentle. "You still ought to think about marriage, dear."
Charlotte had expected more vitriol about her social ineptitude, not this turn in the conversation. "I don't see much point, Auntie. I'm not likely to get married and I don't really want to."
"You don't want to be on your own forever, dear, surely?"
"I shan't be on my own. I shall be with Father."
"But be practical, dear. He won't live forever. What are you going to do when he dies?"
Charlotte was shocked that Elizabeth could make such a bald statement about her own brother. "Lots of women are alone these days."