Down the Garden Path by Dorothy Cannell Read Free Book Online

honeysuckle hedges burgeoning on each side. Something else burgeoned over my right shoulder with heart-stopping suddenness; the head of a very large horse shaking out yards of tongue.
    Gulping down a scream I whispered, “Nice horsie.” Blackie must be a clue that I was close to my destination. A sign cutely marked “Private—Trespassers will be Persecuted” appeared. And I beheld a vista of field inhabited by groupings of horses—russet, cream, and black—shading themselves from the midday sun under gently spreading oak trees.
    Harry’s house stood on a small knoll. It was a converted labourer’s cottage with an ornate brass plate on the black-hinged white front door saying, “Tradesman’s Entrance— Others Round Back.” After a friendly rap or two fetched no response, I opened the door and stepped inside. Vera and Harry had never stood on ceremony in the old days and I had to psych myself into believing the old days could be resurrected. I called out to Harry but there was no answer. The house, being small, had no hall. I found myself in a pleasant sitting room, a good portion taken up with a corner staircase and long stone fireplace. The room did not appear cramped because the walls and woodwork were painted white and the furniture was of natural pine or upholstered in oatmeal and sage-green tweeds. For several minutes I wandered about the room, peering out the windows at the front and the back. Harry must be with his horses, feeding them probably. The thought of even a bag of hay made me feel ravenous.
    I opened a door next to the sideboard, leading, I hoped, to the kitchen. I wondered if preparing lunch for Harry might not be an ideal way of breaking the ice between us and getting back on the old footing. I had received the worst marks in the history of my school in domestic science but I could certainly butter bread and open a can of corned beef.
    I was right. That door did lead to the kitchen, but as I entered my plans received a check. On the kitchen counter, next to a bottle of sherry and a bowl of fruit, stood a golden-crusted meat pie covered in plastic wrap. My, my! How the landed gentry do live. Harry must have a woman come in mornings to do for him. I filled the kettle, went to get out some crockery from the cupboards, and then noticed that some had been left out on the pale orange Formica. I took a glimpse at Mr. Hunt’s watch, strung true governess fashion from my belt and tucked into my skirt pocket. I wished Harry would come.
    Some of my bravado was deserting me, but he was so necessary to my plans. I could not let the memory of that terrible last meeting completely intimidate me. My hands felt sticky and I had to fight the urge to bite my nails. I drew a deep breath, causing a slight rip in one of the side seams of my bodice, but otherwise I felt better. Hmm! Perhaps a quick poke around the house ... Unwise. It was often unwise to ignore Fergy’s golden rules. “Don’t poke your nose through other people’s keyholes. You may get it stuck.”
    Facing me as I reached the top of the staircase was a closed door. And, as my hand turned the knob and thrust it open an awareness came that I was making a mistake. A look at the rumpled bed confirmed the feeling. It sprang, not from the fact that tidy Harry had not made his bed, but that the mound of green candlewick bedspread was moving. Something below its surface squirmed like an underwater swimmer, wriggled, kicked, and came up gasping, laughing for air.
    “Harry, I’m sorry I fell asleep. You did say you wouldn’t be long ...” it breathed huskily, and then stopped. All I could see was a stormy mass of black hair and a flash of large dark eyes. The sheet was covering up her mouth. But I could see enough. This ... this creature personified my idea of female beauty.
    Taking quick shallow breaths and with my eyes locked with those of the lady of the harem I told myself there was a bright side to this—Harry could have been in bed with her.