"Phyllis_A._Whitney_-_Feather_On_The_Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Whitney Phyllis A)

She turned her stiff young back on me and walked out of the room. I heard her laughing, and the sound had an eerie ring in the empty hall. It was hardly the laughter of a happy child.
As I got ready for bed, all the old despair washed through
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me. I must go home soon. There was no longer any point in my staying.
Still on Connecticut time, I woke up too early the next morning and couldn't get to sleep again. Since I'd left my flight arrangements open, I would call later today and make a reservation for home.
Right now I had no inclination to do much of anything. I still felt sore from my encounter with Alice last night, both because of the disappointment that I'd feared and also because of an unwanted tug of sympathy for the child herself. There seemed no point now in meeting her mother or stepfather. Whether or not the Corwins' story of Alice being Edward Aries's daughter was true, it still had nothing to do with me, nor was there any way in which I could affect the future for any of them. I could only hope that Mrs. Aries would take the child and remove her from those who had treated her roughly. Though I wasn't all that sure Cormthea Aries had much love in her to give a child either. There seemed to be a good many reasons for Alice to be unlovable.
Today I must tell Mrs. Aries that the girl was not my lost daughter. This, really, was what she wanted to hear, so that one doubt would be taken care of.
Since I was wide awake by this time I got out of bed and looked into the hall. No one seemed to be about, and I had no idea where Alice's room was, or that of the Corwins. When I'd showered and dressed in slacks and a cardigan, I went downstairs. Dark red carpeting softened the sound of my steps. The empty hall below was gloomy with the wood paneling that had been prevalent when this house was built, the only light filtering through stained glass windows on each side of the front door.
The lower hall that ran back from the foyer and behind the stairs was narrow and allowed for spacious rooms on either hand. Idly curious, I stepped into an enormous living room that would have been called a parlor, or perhaps a
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drawing room, in the great days of this house. A discreetly faded Chinese rug, fawn-colored, with a scattering of blue flowers around the border, stretched almost the length of the room, leaving well-polished dark flooring to show around it.
The furniture was old and worn, though not to the point of fraying. It was a room with character but no particular planned style. Chairs and sofas and small tables mingled Chippendale and Queen Anne, with a few pieces of homely Hepplewhite thrown in. Several lamps belonged to the artdeco period of the twenties. Again, stained glass had been set beside and above tall windows. Some of the patterns were geometric, while others presented designs of leaves or flowers or birds. In one corner stood an upright piano of no special distinction, its lid down over the keys, and no music sheets gracing the rack. Once this long, silent room, swimming now in jeweled light, must have known music and dancing and parties. Had Corinthea Aries grown up in this house, danced at such parties-and then forgotten what it was like to be young?
At the far end sliding double doors opened into the dining room I'd glimpsed last night. This morning the long table was laid with four place mats, china, and silverware-set probably for Alice, the Corwins, and me. The sideboard held electric plates for keeping food hot, but no dishes had been placed there yet.
Tall windows looked out upon shrubbery, rosebushes, flower beds, and hedges. Again, panes of stained glass filtered light through amber, peacock green, fiery red, and the special blue of a dark sea.
"Would you like breakfast now, Mrs. Thorne?" Dillow spoke from the doorway behind me.
He looked even smaller than he had last night, as though he'd shrunk in his black suit, though he seemed every bit as dignified and proper as before. His fringe of gray hair had been smoothed down damply around his head, and it was
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possible that his bald pate had been touched with talcum powder to cut down its shine. I liked the hint of vanity-it made him seem more human.
"Thank you, Dillow," I said. "I'll have breakfast later. I thought I might go for a walk first."
"Very good, madam. The garden out in back is pleasant with the sun coming up, though the grass will be wet from rain during the night. The rear door down the hall will take you out to the terrace."
He stood back to let me pass, and then followed me. "I'm sorry if the child bothered you last night, madam."
Clearly, Dillow knew everything that went on about the house. In his dark suit he could flit through prevailing shadows and lose himself discreetly. His ears, a bit large for his small head, were set neatly for listening. Nor was he as meekly servile as he sometimes pretended. The look I had caught last night between him and Mrs. Aries had told me that.
"Alice didn't bother me," I said.
"She can be-" He shook his head, not finishing, and I suspected that he would make a perfect target for Alice, who had never been taught to be kind.
Not only had she spilled my hand lotion on the floor, but she'd smeared some of it on the mirror as well, so I'd had to clean up the bathroom this morning. I remembered Debbie's love of fun and mischief, but this child was older, and her mischief was malicious.
I went out the rear door and down to a flagged terrace, where several mallard ducks were feeding on grain that had been tossed out for them. The birds seemed tame and unafraid of my presence. On a lower level a small pond had been set among rocks, its water shining in early sunlight, with more ducks paddling about on the surface.
From the rear of the house I could look north to where a lone mountain would probably be Mount Tolmie, Victoria's own nearby mountain that I'd seen on a map.
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Now, however, it was the near vista that held my attention. An enchanting garden dropped away from the terrace and ran along below the pond. The hilltop's granite outcroppings had been tamed and used affectively, so that great lawns were cradled in rock that was itself contoured by plantings. Moss and pink heather, broom and fern crept over hard gray surfaces, blending their soft colors.
I followed winding stone steps down past the pond to a lower level of unbelievably green lawn. Victoria's climate is moderate and moist, rather like that of England, so that plant life thrives. Wide spreads of green curved around the base of rocky mounds, offering turns that led to continued pleasant surprises. The air had a fresh morning scent that mingled flowers and sea air.
Circling this secret world, and protecting it, rhododendrons grew tall, and other green shrubbery and trees hid lower houses and streets, so that this was a space set apart. Even the sound of the city seemed distant in so secluded a spot, and I thought of how much my father would love this beautiful garden.
The lawn flowed like a green stream, lapping rocks that accommodated its width. Clipped green edges might have been cut with a child's shears to form interesting patterns around the base of granite mounds, and two tall oak trees cast lacy shadows over lawns and upon cedar stepping blocks. I found that I could follow the rounds of cedar without wetting my feet, though everything around me was moist to the touch. Raindrops still glistened in early sunlight, lending their own jeweled touch, and I heard the gentle sound of dripping everywhere.
All of this must bloom riotously with azaleas and rhododendrons in the spring. Now the dark red of Japanese maple contrasted with borders of winter-blooming heather and the gray-green of mosses. These must seem peaceful colors, after the intensity of earlier seasons. In rocky grottoes maiden-
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hair fern coiled its delicate tendrils, and the whole effect was wild, natural, soothing to my all too troubled spirit.
I walked on around a mass of creeping broom that edged another drainage pond, where phlox and marigolds bloomed. The house, high on its summit, was no more than a ghostly presence, and I could almost forget about its disturbing occupants. Almost.
As I came around a curve of lawn, the sense of peace vanished. The chauffeur-Kirk whatever-his-name-was-sat smoking on a rustic wooden bench. I promptly sneezed, as I often did at any whiff of tobacco smoke. This early in the day, he hadn't put on his uniform and billed cap, and no longer wore dark glasses, so that for the first time I saw how deep a blue his eyes were-almost a navy blue. Again, I was aware of his interest in me as he stood up and took the cigarette from his mouth. He looked even more muscular and broad-shouldered in a turtleneck sweater and the jeans that fitted his legs snugly. The mustache with the moviepirate droop was one of the things I disliked about him. It hid his mouth, and mouths were always an indication of what lay behind.
He rose courteously enough to greet me. "Good morning, Mrs. Thorne. You're up earlier than the rest of the house."
I sneezed again and he grimaced. "Sorry. Smoking's a filthy habit, even outdoors. I've been promising myself I'd quit. So now I will."
He didn't throw the cigarette away but bent to bury it carefully under an azalea bush.
"There," he said, "no desecration. Would you like to sit down, Mrs. Thorne?"
He was not only out of uniform but out of the role he seemed to play as the Radburn House chauffeur. I sat down uncomfortably, my moments of enjoying the lovely garden gone. This man left me with a feeling of uncertainty that I disliked. I never worried about conventions and what was considered "proper," but I was a guest of Corinthea Aries,
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and I didn't entirely trust her chauffeur's behavior. Perhaps I would ask Dillow about him later, but for now I'd play this by ear.