Hotel de Dream by Emma Tennant Read Free Book Online Page B

the thought of his wife—and the unpleasant sandy marks on the lawn and the drawing room carpet, too—filled him with displeasure and disgust. The only hope was to try and speed the thing up—or it would be lunchtime and still no glimpse of Mrs Houghton at all. He raced through the early morning’s events in his head, deciding to cut out Mrs Poynter’s expressions of astonishment and grief.
    The first part of the scene did indeed seem to go more quickly. Poynter went through the sprinklers at double speed, so that he emerged at the front steps of his house only slightly damp; and this time, keeping his eyes carefully averted from the lawn, he managed to miss out the muddy trail which had proved so unpleasant a part of the early morning dream. He went through the blue hall at a gallop, and arrived in the heavenly drawing room hand held out in front of him in the effort to stall the breakdown and recovery sequence on the part of his wife. His heart was racing; but he felt it was only a matter of seconds before he was back in the car again, the sun mounting the sky to the meridian, and Cecilia captured. What met his gaze, instead of bringing him to the standstill so common in his City (he wondered sometimes if these stoppages were due to a missed heartbeat while sleeping) led him to increase his velocity—and it was only by flinging himself at the trunk of the ancient oak on the sward beyond the French windows that he was able to come to a halt at all. The bump against the knotted oak shook him considerably, and he stood dazed for a moment, spread-eagled on the solid expanse of his famous heritage.
    The drawing room, through which Mr Poynter had shotat a speed that must surely have rendered him invisible to its occupants, was littered with the forms of huge, sated and sleeping women. Their sandy buttocks made an undulating mound of pale flesh. Their hair, stiff with salt and mud, lay like twisted rope on the pile carpets, their great arms were intertwined and their brown eyes were lazily open, lying like puddles of forgotten water when the tide has left the beach. In his race over their recumbent bodies, Poynter had seen his wife—brown-eyed too now, and as naked as the rest—and, to his particular horror, what appeared to be Miss Scranton, small and scrawny but bearing nevertheless the same marks of recent and passionate lovemaking. Piles of soldiers’ uniforms stood up against the walls of the drawing room, obscuring Old Masters and vases of herbaceous flowers on the gilt and marble consoles. The uniforms belonged to the Forty-Five, his most reliable battalion. Poynter closed his eyes and felt in the pocket of his breeches for a handkerchief.
    â€œMy dear Lieutenant-colonel.” A soft, already beloved voice sounded in his ear but he kept his eyes closed, not believing.
    â€œI came out here to find you. As I so much looked forward to meeting your wife. There seems to have been some kind of mishap. May I give you the advice my uncle the Field-marshal once gave me?”
    Poynter opened his eyes and despite the tragedy in his Residence found himself smiling in welcome. Cecilia Houghton stood before him. She was wearing a crushed-pink taffeta dress and matching hat, and from her pale wrists a pair of elbow-length, white kid gloves dangled elegantly.
    â€œCecilia! I don’t know what to say …”
    â€œWe must repair the damage, Arthur. These … these Amazons have raped and looted. I took the liberty of calling HQ and ordering the Special Police to come up here forthwith. As my uncle said, it’s never as late as you think.”
    Poynter rubbed at his eyes and wished they were closedagain. He wondered if the famous lady writer was aware that his wife was amongst the pile of hideous flesh. And had she recognised Miss Scranton, from the short meeting at early morning tea? She would be bound to leave the Westringham now, to relegate their meetings to the regions of sleep