"Phyllis A. Whitney - Spindrift" - читать интересную книгу автора (Whitney Phyllis A)

The walls were of gold damask, faded to a softer hue than they must have known originally. Most of the damask-covered walls throughout the house were the original, tenderly restored. There was a gold and cream canopy over the painted Italian bed, with a cream satin Empire sofa at its foot. The carpet was a pale buff, deeply piled, and most of the furniture was creamy white with touches of pale gold. It was not a room in which I could toss books around on the floor, or put my feet on the sofa. It made me distinctly uncomfortable.
But all this unpacking and examining of my surroundings was simply a marking of time. Theodora Moreland was waiting for me and her temper never unproved when she waited very long. Yet still I postponed, changing to white slacks and a blouse printed with blue cornflowers, brushing my short mop of hair and restoring my lipstick.
When Joel knocked, I was ready. He came in, his quiet look guardedly approving me. Theo liked those around her to dress smartly.
"We'd better go up," he said. "She must be in a good mood or she wouldn't have given you all this splendor. Can you live with it?"
He knew me and I found myself smiling. "I'll manage. I'll move the chairs around and spill powder on the dressing table,
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rumple the counterpane. I can't live in a museum, but I don't think it necessarily means an amiable intent to put me here."
"Come along then." He moved toward the door and waited for me.
I followed, suddenly hesitant and uncertain. I had forgotten how to love him, but I had not forgotten the old rituals. Whenever we were away from home-in a hotel, or wherever-he had always paused before he opened the door of our room for me and pulled me into his arms. His kiss was somehow a promise that we faced the world together-that I needn't be alone. But I couldn't bear it if he kissed me now.
He didn't, and I couldn't tell if he even remembered as he opened the door and we stepped into the lavishly red-carpeted hall, warm and alive after the cold, classic splendor of my bedroom.
"Be careful with her, Christy," Joel said as we followed the miles of corridor back to the stairs and the left wing on the third floor.
"Careful in what way?"
"Perhaps I mean patient. She's a very loving grandmother, you know. It's going to be hard to share Peter with us again."
"She's a damaging grandmother," I said. "Peter is ours and I don't mean to share him with anyone."
"That's what I mean. You've always worn a chip on your shoulder with her. She is his grandmother, so take it easy."
"And you've always been on her side."
"I still am," he said, and the cool note in his voice warned me.
We did not speak again, and I found that as I walked the corridor and climbed the stairs, I was holding off the house. When houses lived long enough, they developed character, just as people did, and I had the curious feeling that this house had turned inimical to me. I had not been in it since the days just after my father's death and I had the feeling now that it did not want me here.
On the third-floor corridor a balcony door had been opened upon the mid-October afternoon and I wanted to delay again by running to look outside, raising my face to the gentle breeze. But Joel was moving toward his mother's suite and I had to go with him. He seemed to know where she would receive us and he opened the door of the Green Sitting Room.
She wasn't there and the moment of our meeting was postponed a little longer. Of all her rooms I liked this one best. No
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austere, socially elite ancestors looked down from the walls as
they did in much of the house. Not Theo's ancestors, but those who went with the house and whom she had never removed, adopting them as her own.
The pale green carpet had a woven design of yellow leaves, muted into the background. The sofa and one armchair wore slipcovers of a narrow green and rose stripe and the wallpaper was more broadly striped in gold and green. But this was a lived-in room. Here the marble mantel boasted a row of small framed pictures of Theo's family. I was not among them, but Joel's face and Peter's looked out at me, and there were old snapshots of Cabot and Iris, the two who had drowned. There were also ornaments of glowing jade and carved ivory that I knew were priceless objects from the time when Theo's ambassador father had once lived with his family in Shanghai. She was given, as a consequence, to a devotion for things Chinese. She took her treasures with her when she moved from one house to another, and I suppose they gave her a sense of being at home. A copy of The Leader lay waiting on a glass-topped table and Theo's greenrimmed glasses rested upon it.
There was a faint odor of smoke in the air, and I saw that a fire had been lighted on the hearth, though the day hardly required it. The wood had been allowed to burn down to glowing coals and gave off little heat. I dropped into an armchair and Joel went to stand before the fire with his back to me. I wondered what he saw in the coals, what he felt, what he thought. But something in me slammed a door hurriedly upon such thoughts because I wanted to face no self-reproaches of my conscience. I must be wholly occupied with the purposes before me. Joel was Theo's son before he was anything else. I must remember that.
Bruce Parry appeared and as he came to greet me and then went to stand beside Joel, I was aware once more of the contrast between the two men. It was not in Joel's favor. Bruce was only a little older, but he always seemed infinitely more mature. He was dark-browed with heavy, winged eyebrows, a strong, forceful mouth and carved nose. But his dynamic intensity came through most of all in eyes that were almost jet in their lack of color. His appraisal of me seemed sharply alert, and I wondered what he saw.
"She'll be here any minute," he said. "You're looking well, Christy."
"I'm fine," I acknowledged. "Where is Peter?"
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There seemed an unexpected flash of sympathy in those dark eyes. "He had some sort of upset yesterday. Perhaps the excitement of coming here. I'm sure she'll take you to him shortly."
I was Peter's mother. I ought to have the right to go to him at once if he had been ill, but I caught the warning glance Joel threw me. It said, "Wait, wait. Be patient."
Without patience I plucked at the crease in my white slacks and would not look at either of them. I wanted neither to be pitied nor to be warned. I would deal with Theodora Moreland in my own way.
As always, she made an entrance, sweeping into the room on a cloud of sandalwood incense because Fiona followed her bearing a brass incense burner in the form of a writhing dragon.
Theo waved her small hands as she advanced, brushing away imaginary wood smoke, jade and diamonds gleaming on her fingers.
"Whoever started the fire forgot to open the draft until after it was lit, the fool!" she cried. "I cannot stand fools. I cannot bear them. Clear out the smell, Fiona."
We all stood silent while Fiona twirled incense aloft until I felt ready to choke on sandalwood. Theo took the center of the room and seemed to be studying every inch of it-except the part occupied by us. She seemed not to notice any presence except Fiona's, busying herself in directing her secretary's spreading of blue incense smoke about the room. I was glad that her immediate focus was not upon me, and I had a chance to study this woman who was once more going to be my adversaryonly now more than ever.
She was tiny-perhaps an inch shorter than I was-with a tendency to plumpness kept ruthlessly in check, and she could give an impression of height with the dignity of her bearing. At the moment she was wearing a cheong-sam, one of those Hong Kong sheaths that come with a high collar and a slit to the knees. It was of jade green satin and it flattered a figure that had never been allowed to sag or bulge too recklessly. She wore her red hair in a high-swept pile on her head, lending to the illusion of height, and it was to the credit of her hairdresser that the color had muted with her age and was completely believable. Her skin was still fine-grained and it was well cared for. The only thing about her to betray her age was her hands, with their raised veins and liver spots.
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i
"That's enough-you're smothering me!" she cried to Fiona,
who glanced wryly at me behind her back and lowered one eyelid. "Set it down-set it down! Now then, Christy-let me have a look at you."
She seated herself in a straight chair that allowed for no slumping and beckoned to me commandingly. I knew of old the force of any command she issued, and found it impossible to disobey. I left my chair and went to stand before her, where the rosy glow from the coals tinted my white trousers. She considered me for a tormentingly long time and I tried to stare her down-not very successfully.
"You don't look bad," she said at last. "Better than I expected. And your hair is beginning to grow. The sea air at Spindrift will be good for you. Are you eating well?"
I'd had enough. "I want to see Peter," I told her. "I understand he's been sick."
"A small stomach upset. Nothing, nothing. But it's better not to disturb him till he's fully recovered."
"Seeing his mother shouldn't disturb him," I said, and heard Joel make a slight sound behind me-warning me again, I supposed.
She smiled at me-that dazzlingly beautiful smile that always came as a surprise-because she was rather a plain woman. It lifted the lines of her face, brightened those intense green eyes. Joel too used to smile like that.
"My dear. Of course it will be good for Peter to have his mother here with him. I'm glad you were willing to come. I'll take you to him as soon as I feel he's ready. In the meantime, are you comfortable? Do you like your room?"
"It's a bit grand," I said. "But if it's close to Peter's it will be fine."
She did not answer that. "I hope the house won't disturb you, Christy. I hope you'll be well here."