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

"Well, I do rather," said Madeleine. "I was hoping to stay a few more days."
"You can go back to Auntie's house."
"You know perfectly well Aunt Lizzie left town last week. She's gone back to Parkland to organise my birthday party."
Unmoved, Fleur responded, "You'll have to go back to Cambridge then. You don't mind, Charli, do you?"
"Of course not!" said Charlotte, too fervently.
"Oh well, Charlotte wouldn't mind," said Madeleine. "She's hardly been the life and soul of the party, has she?"
"Do be grown up about it, Maddy." There was a touch of irritation in Fleur's tone. "It's really important that I work. I'll telephone Father and ask him to send Maple to fetch you."
"God, home. What a bore," said Madeleine, but Charlotte felt a wave of relief. Discovering what sort of company Fleur kept was the last straw. She wanted to escape, to forget it all.
"Buck up, Maddy, it's not long to your party, is it?" Fleur stood up and moved to the conservatory as she spoke, turning round in the doorway.
"Two whole weeks," Madeleine groaned. Then her face brightened. "Oh, I hope Karl comes to the lecture!"
***
In the car on the way home, it was Madeleine who sat in silence, while Charlotte made conversation with Maple, her father's chauffeur and valet. He was a sweet, gentle man, not an atom of unkindness in him. She was grateful for the comforting familiarity of his long, white-whiskered face. In the back of the Rolls-Royce, the smoky leather scent wrapped itself round her like a blanket and she began to relax at last.
She fell asleep for a time. When she woke they were in Cambridge and almost home, but her head ached and her throat felt dry and sore. Rain was sheeting along the tree-lined street as Maple guided the long bonnet of the Rolls through the gate to their house.
"Are you all right, Charli?" said Maddy. "You look as white as a sheet."
"It's nothing, I just feel as if I've got the flu coming on," Charlotte replied, coughing.
Madeleine shrank away dieatrically. "Well, don't come near me with it."
The Nevilles' house was a graceful villa of creamy grey stone near the Botanical Gardens, sheltered by trees and a high wall. Charlotte drank in the sight of it as Maple opened the car door for them. There was Sally, the maid, waiting for them in the porch, her thinness accentuated by the long black uniform, her hair as always in untidy wisps round her sweet, vague face. Next to her was Maple's wife Mary, a prim little hen of a woman who never gave a sign of liking or disliking anyone. They both smiled and stepped forward to welcome Charlotte and Madeleine home.
As Charlotte stepped inside and shook the rain off her coat, the homely scent of years of ingrained beeswax, tobacco and mustiness greeted her. The walls were panelled in dark wood, the rooms crowded with Victorian furniture. On dull days such as this its gloominess could seem oppressive, but at this moment it spoke only of peace and solitude.
Since their mother had died, the household had been presided over by Mary Maple, aided by a cook and a maid; not a large staff by some standards, but it had been hard to find good servants since the War. George Neville preferred a small household, and would probably have been happiest if he and Charlotte had lived there alone.
"Oh, I hate this house," Madeleine said with feeling, shivering as Sally took their coats and hats.
"Maddy!"
"Well, it's so dark. Just because I live here, I don't have to like it."
Their father came out into the hall to welcome them. He was wearing a tweed suit that had seen better days, a shirt with an old-fashioned stand-up collar. His grey hairЧonce as red as Maddy'sЧwas thinning and his white moustache was stained yellow on the tips by tobacco. Charlotte loved him, respected him, was sometimes afraid of him; it shocked her that Madeleine could be downright rude to him, and not be cowed by his anger. Yet now it was Maddy who ran to kiss him, not Charlotte. She had never been demonstrative.
"Had enough of London at last?" he said, patting her arms awkwardly.
"No, never," said Madeleine. "We had a marvellous party last night."
"Hm? Was your aunt at this party?"
"No, she went back to Parkland Hall last week. You knew that."
He shook his head, torn between pleasure at seeing his daughters and entrenched disapproval of their gallivanting about in London. "She is supposed to be chaperoning you."
"Oh, Father, don't be so old-fashioned. We were at Fleur's last night, not an opium den."
He glowered at her, but Madeleine took no notice. "I didn't really want to come home, but Fleur chucked us out because she wanted to paint. Can you believe it?"
"Oh, well, the Season's over anyway, isn't it?" He glanced meaningfully at Charlotte. "Time to do some useful work."
They were walking into the drawing room as they spoke, a dimly-lit room that was all brown and crimson and ivory, the air busy with the ticking of clocks. Their father was fascinated by the workings of clocks and watches.
"Not me," said Madeleine, stretching out on the sofa. "I've been invited to lots of weekend parties in the country."
"Have you indeed? I shall have to consider that. You are not going on your own."
"Well, I'm sure Charlotte's not coming with me." Madeleine removed her shoes and flexed her silk-stockinged feet. She seemed oblivious to her father's stern tone; somehow she contrived to slide beyond his discipline like a fish through soapy hands. But Charlotte was enmeshed by his authority, could not bear to incur his disapproval. "Don't be grumpy as soon as we've arrived home."
"I'm not in the slightest bit grumpy, young lady. We'll discuss it after lunch." He looked at Charlotte. "And how did you enjoy all this debutante nonsense?"
She didn't know what to say. He must have guessed from her face that she'd hated it, but she couldn't bring herself to admit it, not in front of Madeleine. By the time she had composed an innocuous reply, Madeleine was talking again.
"Father, there's something I must ask you." Her tone became earnest and respectful, carefully dropping no hint of romantic interest. "Charli and I met a very nice Austrian gentleman last night who is interested in studying science at Cambridge. I suggested he come to your lecture in London next week so that I could introduce him to you. He'd be so very glad of your advice."
Charlotte expected her father to be put out. Instead he said, "Oh, well, I dare say it won't hurt to invite him up here, show him around. Does he know my field's experimental physics? Is that what he wants to do?"
Charlotte didn't hear her sister's reply. Her head was spinning. However irrational her feelings were, she could not endure the thought of a stranger coming into the house; it was almost a sense of foreboding, that once invited they would never be rid of him. She interrupted, "I didn't meet him. We don't know anything about him, Father, and you're far too busy. Maddy shouldn't haveЧ"
"Charli, this is none of your business!" Madeleine said in exasperation. "What's wrong with you? He's only a man, not a sabre-toothed tiger."
"It is my business. I'm the one who works with Father, not you."
Madeleine's brown eyes narrowed. "What right do you have to tell me whom I can and cannot invite to the house? You have been completely impossible this whole Season. In fact you've ruined it for me!"
"What?" Charlotte gasped.
Their father tried to interrupt but Madeleine would not be stopped. "My first Season, it should have been so much fun. Instead I have you there looking like Banquo's ghost at the feast, not speaking to anyone, rushing out in the middle of parties, everyone saying, 'What's the matter with your sister?' and me trying to make excuses for you, 'Oh, she's just shy.' Well, I don't think you're shy, Charlotte, you're just an absolute, selfish, sick-making misery!"
Charlotte was too shocked to speak. It was true, Madeleine had tried to help; but Charlotte had been too busy brooding on her own failure to think that it might have hurt Maddy as well. She couldn't answer. Her face blank, all she could do was stand up and walk out.
She went upstairs to her bedroom, sat down at her dressing-table, and put her head in her hands. Suddenly her whole life was a dark vortex; her existence with her father not a refuge but a prison, because she could not face the bright coldness of the world outside. Failure loomed like a cloud, and at the centre of it was the look that Karl von Wultendorf had given her, which for no reason had filled her with terror. The quarrel with Maddy was the last straw. All this is my own faultЕ There must be something wrong with me. Why do I behave like such a fool?
Charlotte felt choked with guilt. She would have done anything to put things right with Madeleine. Yet she had never been able to express her feelings to anyone, not even to her own sisters. It was not done to show emotion. That was what her father had obliquely taught her to believe.
Why am I so terrified of life? I was all right until I went to London. At least I thought I wasЕ but now I know that I'm not, that I have never been all rightЕ
After a few minutes there was a sound, someone tapping on the door and opening it. She looked round, expecting to see her sister there, ready to make peace. Maddy was volatile, but didn't usually stay angry for long.