Mum's the Word by Dorothy Cannell Read Free Book Online Page A

breathed in his aftershave, felt his sensitive knowing hands moving to my shoulders …
    â€œBlue skies are here again,” said the oriental gentleman.
    â€œHe means we are about to land,” Ben whispered.
    Boston’s airport provided an immediate sense of the proverbial vastness, the fabled brashness of the United States. The ebb and flow of humanity, galvanized by foghorn blasts of loudspeakers, banished any fleeting thoughts of curling up on the luggage merry-go-round for a siesta. The customs man was nice. He accepted my assurances that I did not have Swiss watches or antique jewelry stuffed in the toes of my shoes, and I invited him to come and stay next time he was in England.
    There I was, seriously considering having a good time—until I saw our luggage closing in around our ankles like a pack of stray dogs. The small bags were the puppies.
    â€œWant to give them to good homes?” I asked. But as far as Ben was concerned I might have been another blast of the loudspeaker. He was off in search of a cart, his progress closely observed by several stray females. A dire thought occurred. Could they be Mangés sent to welcome him with open arms?
    â€œAbsolutely not.” He strained to grow more arms to stack the cases. “We are to make our way to headquarters on our own. The organization doesn’t want any tenderfoots.”
    â€œGood thinking!” I certainly preferred not having Mangés underfoot while we enjoyed the few days sightseeing Ben had promised, indeed, insisted upon.
    â€œAre you feeling all right?” Buttoning my rain-or-shine jacket I strung the strap of my bag over my shoulder. Ben did look like a sickly Lord Byron, ebony curls dampened to his pallid brow.
    He managed a tubercular laugh. “Just wondering, sweetheart, whether you’ve given me your morning sickness.”
    So he had noticed that I was feeling better. Probably afraid to say anything in case it was a false alarm.
    My face pressed against his tweedy shoulder, he said, “I’m fighting fit. Let’s to the car rental place.”
    His eyes roved the LuxaLease showroom for a full one-and-a-half seconds before lighting on a voluptuous convertible, all bosom and no rear end. The agent, with his clown’s nose and yellow bow tie, put me in mind of a game show host surrounded by prizes. He assured us that our choice would cruise comfortably at one hundred miles per hour.
    â€œStarts like a dream, sir! Get your foot within an inch of the gas pedal and she’s gone—with or without you!”
    â€œLike it, Ellie?” Ben fondled the bonnet.
    â€œLove it. Black is so slimming.”
    â€œYou are slim, sweetheart.”
    He should start wearing his glasses more often. I had gained three pounds in three days. Goodness knows where they had come from. Could some evil force be polluting the Chitterton Fells water supply with calories?
    Ben was circling the car, eyeing it with the look that should have been reserved for me alone. “In your expert opinion, sir, is this the vehicle for the expectant mother? The right suspension, the right brake linings?”
    â€œDarling,” I cringed, “can’t we go native with buses and taxis? There’s so much to see and do in the city, we may not have time to go far afield.”
    I couldn’t get him to look at me, let alone convince him the Mangés might consider his pioneer spirit was not being sufficiently tested.
    But fifteen minutes later, when we were tooling down the wide open streets with the top down under a canopied blue sky, I experienced an exuberant urge to shake my hair loose from its knot and let the breeze take it. Whatever the meteorologists might say, that big orange sun was not the same one that rises daily in our English skies. For the first time in my life I felt properly aired out, and not the least tired—even though it was four P.M. here, which translated into nine P.M. at