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

"Well, yes, butЧ"
"But what? He's the most wonderful man I've ever met! If he comes to the lecture I can introduce him to Father, and persuade Father to invite him to CambridgeЕ "
Charlotte's stomach tightened. She hated strangers coming to the house at the best of times. She had been clinging to thoughts of home to get her through the last of these wretched parties, and at this moment, the thought of her refuge being invaded was unbearable. "When did you ever go to one of Father's lectures?" she said.
"I'll make an exception for Herr von Wultendorf." Madeleine's eyes elongated like a cat's. "I'd make an exception to anything for him."
"Where is he?"
Madeleine leaned towards her and whispered, "Over there by the window, talking to Clive. Don't stare."
As discreetly as she could, Charlotte looked at the stranger who was with a little group framed against the red velvet curtains. But Fleur's husband Clive was standing alongside him and she could only make out that he was just over six feet tall and slim, his hair dark with a reddish glow. It was enough, though, for her to see that he was attractive, imposing. A threat. She looked away quickly.
Charlotte usually suppressed her feelings until they choked her, rather than cause a scene, especially with Madeleine. Now her misgivings overcame her. "No," she said sharply.
Madeleine's face fell. "What d'you mean, 'No'?"
"You can't invite complete strangers to Father's lectures, let alone to our house."
"I can do what I like!" Madeleine's mouth became a sulky rosebud.
"You had better not."
"I don't know what's the matter with you, Charli. You're being utterly ridiculous. IЧno, I'm not going to argue with you here, it would be too undignified." Madeleine slipped gracefully to her feet and walked away to rejoin her friends, her sulky expression vanishing as if nothing had happened.
Charlotte was shaking from head to foot. Much as she loved Madeleine, her love was sometimes spiked with irritationЧand envy. She would have done anything to share her sister's easy confidence.
Charlotte had not gone to school with Fleur and Madeleine but had been educated at home by her father. Their mother had died when she was a child and he had been her constant companion, training her in science so that she could work with him. She had taken willingly to the role, but it had meant a sheltered life in the dry, donnish atmosphere of his circle. Had it shaped her, or had she chosen its security because she was reclusive by nature? She avoided the wilder side of Cambridge life, the end of term celebrations and May Week, keeping to the well-worn comfortable paths on which she met no challenge and no danger. She was happy to be a quiet presence at her father's side, respected because she was his daughter and his assistant.
And yetЕ she must have wanted something more, or she would not have given in so easily to her aunt's wishes.
"Charlotte will suffocate," Aunt Elizabeth had said. "It's essential for a girl to be introduced to society, especially with the shortage of eligible men after the War. Look what a good marriage Fleur has made. You must let me bring her and Madeleine out togetherЧor do you want her to grown into a dried-up old spinster, George?"
He father had not replied to that, but neither had he tried to stop Charlotte as she gave herself over to her aunt to be presented at Court and all the palaver that followed.
But Charlotte was no debutante. She had wanted to succeed, she longed to be charming and confident, to make friends and attract admirers, but the cold reality was that she hated it. She seemed to have nothing in common with these brittle insincere people, who all knew each other, who judged everyone they met by their status and social adeptness and dismissed anyone who did not fit in. Once outside her own safe world she had fallen apart.
So much for Elizabeth's hopes of marrying her off. If a man showed more than a passing interest, she would freeze involuntarily with a dread that turned her eyes to ice and her tongue to stone. However polite she tried to be, everything about her cried, "Don't come near me!"
And then she would overhear comments that destroyed what little self-esteem she still possessed.
"Madeleine and Fleur are such lovely girls; it's a shame their sister's so stand-offish. Pretty, I know, but I shouldn't bother, old chap; she's as miserable as sin."
So the more she hated it, the more she withdrew; and the more people ignored her, the more she hated it. It was the serpent gnawing its own tail. Only the dread of incurring Elizabeth's wrath had kept her from fleeing back to Cambridge weeks ago. Her aunt and sisters made a great show of despairing of her, and that was the most painful thing of all.
Yet inside her, besides this incapacitating shyness, there was something else; a streak of cynicism, almost a contempt for this social circus. These people were all affectation, so shallow compared with the ones she really loved. Her father, David and Anne.
Nearly time to go home, she reminded herself, and everything will go back to normalЕ yet that knowledge, however comforting, did not ease the sick ache of failure within her. And now Madeleine would begin dragging these awful people back to Cambridge.
I've had enough, she thought suddenly, sitting up. The thought of drawing attention to herself by leaving the party was almost as bad as remaining there, but panic won. Charlotte reached the door. No one seemed to notice, and she made the mistake of glancing back into the room to make sure.
The stranger, Karl von Wultendorf, was staring straight at her.
In that moment, everything changed. It was as if the world had ceased to exist for a heartbeat then recreated itself, the same yet indefinably askew. A shadow was whispering to herЕ
The attention of any man alarmed her; someone like Clive, handsome, brash and cynical, was deeply intimidating. But this man was not merely handsome. He had an aura of dark beauty that seemed to magnetize the whole room in the most sinister way, as indifferent to the people who were drawn to him as a candle is to a moth. It was not his beauty that arrested her so much as his air of complete self-containment; and the way his gaze cut as softly as a light beam through everything that separated themЧcold and dispassionate, straight into her soul.
The look flatly terrified her. She fled up the stairs, hoping and praying that she would never see him again.
***
"Who is he?" Madeleine asked at the breakfast table the next morning, wilting over a plate of toast. Her tiredness had the charm of a sleepy kitten, and her red hair was aglow in the flat grey daylight.
Fleur was not really listening to Madeleine's chatter, Charlotte observed, but kept gazing distractedly into the conservatory, where her easels and canvasses stood amid a tangle of greenery. Fleur had always been creative; her paintings were landscapes, flower studies, and portraits of friends, freely worked in delicate colours. Clive affected to belittle her talent, which infuriated Charlotte. Although Fleur serenely took no notice, it was such a foolish habit, to disparage everything for the sake of it. Now Clive sat behind a newspaper as if in silent disapproval of his wife's sisters. Madeleine didn't care, of course, but his presence made Charlotte uneasy.
"Who is who?" said Fleur.
"Karl von Wultendorf, of course."
"I don't know. A friend of a friendЕ all sorts of odd people get dragged along to my parties, I never know who half of them are anyway."
"They're brought along for their novelty value," Clive said from behind The Times. "Anyone strange or foreign, preferably with a tide, and we're supposed to find them entertainingЕ bloody ridiculous. Don't know why we have to put up with them."
"Don't be such a misery, dear," Fleur said mildly. "Even if he gate-crashed, he was too lovely to turn away. I should love to paint him."
Clive gave a disapproving grunt. Fleur didn't react. She was so uncharacteristically listless and pale that Charlotte was worried about her. It seemed more than tiredness or the after-effects of drink.
"Well, I'm in love," Madeleine declared. "If I find out he's married, I shall die. He isn't, is he?"
"For goodness' sake, Maddy, I don't know!" said Fleur.
"Don't snap at me! Is your hangover that bad? I expect Charlotte to be miserable and boring, but not you!"
Charlotte toyed with a boiled egg. Maddy's remarks were thoughtless rather than malicious. They were also accurate. She had nothing to say to her sisters. She loved them, yet from childhoodЧto her perpetual regretЧshe had seemed to have little in common with them.
Fleur sighed. "Sorry, Maddy. I'm not miserable. It's just that I had a wonderful idea for a painting last night and I can't wait to start."
"Wonderful idea?" Madeleine said archly. "You should keep away from the strange substances brought by your strange friends."
"You should try it, dear." Fleur stretched, arms lily-slender. "It makes one feel so marvellously creative."
Charlotte swallowed a mouthful of toast whole, almost choking on it. They were talking about cocaine. How horrified their father would be if he knew, and even more furious at Fleur for trying to corrupt Maddy. She tried to hide her shock, but failed.
"Oh, don't give me that old-fashioned look, Charli," said Fleur.
"But it's illegal!"
"All the best things are," Fleur said dismissively. "To be honest, I rather wish you chaps would go home. You are darlings, but you know I can't bear any distractions when I'm working. You don't mind, do you?"