Green Darkness by Anya Seton Read Free Book Online Page B

“You’re a spineless worm, George, allus have been. I troost I know how to behave civilly, but I’ll not toady to vulgar Yanks for anybody, and mind you don’t go to that Ightham Mote. I don’t laike the sound of it.”
    As George went out, shutting the door softly behind him, Edna’s annoyance shifted to puzzled questioning. She was aware that there was no reason to dislike the very name of a place she had never heard of before lunchtime. She also disliked the name “Celia,” let alone the young woman herself. But then, she thought, I’ve a right to my fancies, should be pampered during the “change,” and George knows it. She reached for the tincture which stood on her bedside table, poured out a quarter cupful, drank it and drifted rapidly into snorting sleep.
    Myra led the way towards Kent, Lily sat beside her with a map; Harry sat on the back seat smoking his pipe and watching Myra’s auburn head. The long hair was now arranged into a gleaming Psyche knot which nicely balanced her long-nosed but beautiful profile. From time to time she turned to give him a small enigmatic smile over her shoulder. There was promise, surely, in those green glances, and Harry grew hopeful again.
    Maybe tonight? He had noted the thoughtful bedroom assignments, and blessed Celia Marsdon who must have heard rumors. I wish they were true, he thought, haven’t felt like this about a woman since Denise de Caron, ten, no twelve years ago. The others’ve been too easy. No sport. Which diverted him into wishing it were the hunting season—a good run with the hounds. He puffed on his pipe and resumed watching Myra, though it occurred to him that Mrs. Taylor was not unattractive herself. A bit long in the tooth—about his own age, actually—yet still pretty in a plump, blond way, but no spark, no sex appeal; something like his ex-wife, Peggy, a cosy little woman. She had divorced him without rancor, and still wrote friendly notes to him from their daughter’s home in Cornwall.
    In the Jaguar, following Myra’s Bentley, Igor was driving. Celia had asked him to, partly because it obviously pleased him, and partly because she had begun to feel nervous when she drove herself—a condition which she understood no more than the other distressing new symptoms. She had been expertly driving since she was sixteen and she had, by now, driven all kinds of cars; until last month she had loved driving the Jag. And now, she didn’t. But, Celia thought, still glowing from the relief of Richard’s warmth in the library, I’ll feel better now, I’ll dare tell Richard of my jittery nonsense.
    Sue Blake sat beside Igor in front and kept up a babble of excitement, directed mostly back to Celia, for Igor was intent on the road.
    “Oh, Cousin Celia, England’s so sweet, so green, and those thatched cottages, just like a calendar we had in the kitchen at home! I’ve never seen this many sheep before; the baby lambs are so cute, and
what
are those funny-looking pointed things in the field?”
    “Oast-houses,” answered Celia smiling, and explained something about hops and the making of beer.
    Celia noted absently that the Hindu beside her was very quiet, that his eyes were half shut, and that there was an inward listening expression on his lean, bronze face.
    “Forgive Sue’s raptures, Dr. Akananda,” she said, laughing. “England must be a very old story to you.”
    He turned and looked at her with a brief, compassionate gaze. Not exactly compassion, she thought startled—more like pity, which would be as annoying as it was uncalled for.
    “Why do you look at me like that?” she cried involuntarily.
    Jiddu Akananda smiled apology. “I’m sorry, Lady Marsdon, I’d like to convey to you my sympathy and offer what help I can give during the trials that may await you. I tried to stop your going here today, but you didn’t hear me.”
    “Trials?” she repeated sharply. “What do you mean?”
    He raised his slim hand and touched her