Green Darkness by Anya Seton Read Free Book Online Page A

crest—was embossed in tarnished gold on the cover.
    “Could I see the book?” she asked. “See what interests you so?”
    For an instant she thought he was going to refuse, then he laughed curtly. “By all means. It’s the Marsdon Chronicle, covers over five hundred years of family history.” He made a gesture and stood back.
    She opened the book at random and peered with dismay at a page of crabbed antique writing, a maze of hen-scratching and curlicues; here and there a blot. The faded ink alone was hard to see in the wavering, colored light.
    “I can’t read this,” she said squinting at what might be a date. It appeared to be “viij jun.”
    “I didn’t think you could.” He shut the book and placed it high on a shelf next to a row of squat parchment volumes.
    “But
you
can.” She put her hand on his. “Richard, is there something in that family chronicle which you feel gives the past a bearing on the future?”
    There was a silent second, she wasn’t sure of his expression, but she thought his pupils widened, then he shrugged.
    “It would be rather silly if I did, wouldn’t it? Isn’t the past finished forever?” He glanced down at her hand on his arm; at the gold wedding band and the heavy Marsdon ring, and though he did not move, she felt a chill, a withdrawal.
    “Richard, for God’s sake, what
is
wrong? We were so happy in Portugal. So close. And even here when we got back—even after your father died. Life with you was fun. It was heaven. What’s happened? I don’t think it’s another woman, but then wives often are fooled.”
    Richard’s shoulders twitched as though to shake off a burden. His eyes softened and he spoke with the teasing tenderness she had not heard in all these months. “No, poppet, no other woman. One’s quite enough. You’ve married a bloody-tempered bloke is all. Nor does he understand himself.” He kissed her hard and quickly, in the old way, his hand gently cupping her left breast. “Go put some clothes on, you’re scandalizing this library.”
    She looked down and realized that her gold lounging robe was open, exposing her turquoise bikini and a good deal of slim, tanned nakedness.
    “Sorry,” she said, laughing with a wild note of relief. She snatched the robe together.
    “I’m off,” said Richard. “By the bye, is it the Bent-Warners for dinner tonight?”
    “Yes, you suggested them. Will they fit?”
    “Nobody,” said Richard smiling, “would fit this extraordinary house party. The Simpson woman is a disaster, and probably a secret toper as well, according to the horrified Dodge, who had it from the new housemaid.”
    “Heavens,” said Celia, “I suppose that explains her baleful glares. Poor woman.”
    “You’re a nice child,” said Richard. “Charity for all, but I feel that the female is sinister.”
    Celia scarcely noted the rather startling adjective, under the rush of hope. She looked up at the Marsdon Chronicle, high on the top shelf in the gloom, and made a face at it.
    She ran blithely upstairs to her room, humming “La Vie en Rose.”

Two
    C ELIA AND MOST of the Marsdon house party set out for Kent at half-past three.
    Edna and George Simpson did not go. Edna had her headache, and she gave George his orders privately.
    “You’ll stay here, too, of course. Sir Richard might want to discuss business with you when he gets back from the farm, and anyway, we don’t have to cater to those American women’s every whim.”
    George sighed. He had been looking forward to the jaunt, but he knew better than to oppose her when her face was flushed, her eyes glittering, and she smelled strongly of peppermint. “Lady Marsdon seems very pleasant,” he said. “I can see you don’t like her, though can’t see why, and a young bride’s bound to influence her husband. ’Twould be a pity to threaten the Marsdon business, it’s been with Simpson’s since eighteen-eighty.”
    Edna snorted, and lying down on the bed shut her eyes.