The House of Seven Fountains by Anne Weale Read Free Book Online

“She does not speak much English, but if you have difficu l ty in conveying your wishes you must ring the bell and I will come.”
    When he had gone Ah Kim opened a door and beckoned Vivien to follow her. They passed through an anteroom and int o a much larger apartment where the atmosphere was surprisingly cool. Later, Vivien discovered that part of the house was air-conditioned. The windows were shielded by pale green Venetian blinds through which the sun filtered in a pleasant golden glow. Facing her was an enormous bed with an elaborate headboard inlaid with mother-of-pearl and a bedspread of ivory silk embroidered with crimson flowers. A low couch piled with brocade cushions, a massive carved wardrobe and a crimson lacquer bureau were the principal furnishings. The floor was laid with pale green tiles and there were several handsome Bokhara rugs. Adjoining the bedroom was a tiled bathroom, and while Vivien was taking a shower she heard her luggage being carried in next door. By the time she emerged Ah Kim had laid out fresh underclothes and a clean blouse.
    When she had dressed and combed her hair Ah Kim led the way back to the hall and out onto the veranda where a tea cart had been placed beside a deep cane chair. Although she was still unused to the flavor of canned milk, Vivien drank two cups of tea and ate several wafer-thin cucumber sandwiches.
    She had just finished when Chen reappeared and said, “Is it your wish that I show you the house now?”
    “Oh, yes, please.” Vivien jumped up. “Did Mr. Cunningham have the room I am in, Chen?”
    “No, mem. His room is on the other side of the courtyard.” Vivien felt that she would never forget that first conducted tour of the house. Each room seemed to be more beautiful than the last. As Chen explained to her, the house was built in a rectangle surrounding an inner courtyard so that every room had windows on both sides. During the hottest part of the day the blinds were drawn, but the diffused light was restful rather than gloomy.
    When they came to the drawing room Vivien gave an involuntary cry of pleasure. Here everything was in varying shades of gray, from the dove-gray walls to the dark gray linen covers on the chairs and sofas. In England, such a color scheme would have been chilly and depressing, but in the tropics the effect was cool and spacious.
    “This is my master’s famous collection of jade. It is very valuable and took him many years to assemble,” Chen said, leading her toward a large glass-fronted cabinet that was filled with strangely shaped bowls and carved figurines. Vivien listened with interest as he pointed out the most treasured pieces and told her their age and history.
    They were about to leave the room when a painting, hung in an alcove, caught her eye. It was a picture of a white house overlooking a beach. Feeling some vague sense of recognition she moved closer and saw that it was signed in the lower left-hand corner . M. Connell. No wonder it had stirred a memory. Here, on the wall of her godfather’s drawing room, was an enduring reminder of the lost haven of her childhood.
    “The mem feels unwell?”
    “No, no. I’m all right, Chen.” She blinked back the sudden tears that pricked her eyelids. “This is a picture of the house where I was bo rn . It was painted by my father. He died many years ago,” she said softly.
    Chen made no comment, but a curious expression flickered in his black eyes for a moment.
    “You wish to see the courtyard?” he suggested after a moment.
    “Yes, of course.”
    “This way, please.”
    He drew up the blinds screening a glass door in the inner wall and unlocked it, standing aside for her to pass.
    Momentarily dazzled by the unrelieved glare of the sun, Vivien preceded him through the door and found herself in a kind of walled garden. To her surprise there was a large tree bearing a mass of white blossoms in the center and, beneath it, a canopied swing couch. Beyond the tree was a sunken