Rolling Stone by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online

said in a slow, almost inaudible voice,
    â€œWhat do you expect me to say—that I wanted him to survive and come home, and go out to supper with you on Sunday evenings for the rest of his life?”
    Terry’s grey eyes acquired a sparkle.
    â€œAnd why not?”
    â€œDo you really want me to tell you—here and now?”
    The sparkle became an angry one. It threatened and commanded. Fabian met it mildly. He said,
    â€œI will if you like. I don’t mind who knows as far as I am concerned.”
    Terry’s chin came up. She opened her mouth to speak, but the movement of Emily Cresswell’s chair checked whatever it was she had been going to say. Everyone stopped talking at once. Emily’s fluttered voice was heard in an indistinguishable murmur, and eight people got to their feet.
    â€œJust as well,” thought Terry to herself, as she followed the other three women out of the room. “Because it cramps one’s style quite frightfully being under Uncle Basil’s eye, and a host on one side and a hostess on the other. But just you wait!”

CHAPTER VIII
    The drawing-room at Heathacres is a long room facing south with windows almost to the floor and a glass door opening upon the terrace. All were curtained now with heavy hand-woven linen. The deep couches and the many chairs were covered with the same weave. There was very little colour. The linen was of the palest shade of green, the carpet a pearly grey, the cushions faint blue, pale straw-colour and the shade which used to be called philamot— feuille morte —dead leaf.
    The Blue Lady gazed down the length of the room at a quite authentic Lely on the opposite wall. Even a spurious Reynolds may look haughtily at a Restoration beauty. The Blue Lady had an extremely haughty look. In her heart of hearts Emily Cresswell sympathized with her. Over the light stone mantelpiece hung the Turner. It was a cherished belief that the picture had been painted from the very spot on which this room now stood—that here Turner had planted his easel and set thumb to palette. No evidence could be adduced to substantiate or deny the claim, since the painter had seen and transferred to his canvas not the earthly beauty of hill and sky, but some strange apocalypse of his own.
    In this pale room, under this presentment of a burning glory, Emily Cresswell, faded and angular in black, had the air of an incongruous visitor. She drew Terry to the fire and cast a worried look at the other two. She ought perhaps to be talking to Pearla Yorke or to Norah Margesson, but Pearla always gazed past her as if she wasn’t there, and Norah—no, she couldn’t, she really couldn’t think of anything safe to talk about. And Norah wouldn’t want to either—She gave a sigh of relief, because they had crossed to the other side of the room and were talking to each other.
    She turned with gratitude to Terry, whom she loved.
    â€œDo you know Miss Margesson well?”
    â€œUncle Basil has known her a long time,” said Terry soberly.
    Mrs. Cresswell’s voice hesitated, and went on only just audibly.
    â€œHe doesn’t like her very much, does he? I thought at dinner—oh, I am afraid he hurt her feelings.”
    â€œWhat he said was a compliment.”
    Emily shook her head.
    â€œYou didn’t really think so, nor did she. And I am sure he did not mean it that way—you can always tell.”
    Terry nodded.
    â€œI know what you mean. He doesn’t like her, I don’t know why.”
    â€œOh dear,” said Emily—“and that does spoil a party so.”
    Terry said, a little warmly. “He hasn’t any business to spoil your party. I’ll tell him so. But I think he was just teasing.”
    Emily flushed.
    â€œOh, my dear, if you could. I mean, I’m so anxious that there shouldn’t be anything to upset her, because—well, it doesn’t matter what I say to you, does