The Quiet Heart by Susan Barrie Read Free Book Online

the dresser, and made for the door.
    She tapped on the door of the library, received permission to enter, and found Mr. Leydon the only occupant of the shabby, book-lined room that smelled of musty bindings and burning apple logs. Mr. Minty had apparently taken his departure and his client was stretched comfortably in one of the deepest of the leather chairs, and he had plainly been examining some of the books on the shelves, for he held one of them in his hands.
    “Sit down, Mrs. Fairlie.” He did not rise when she entered, but he nodded at the chair facing him—the one vacated recently by the solicitor. “Would you like something to drink? There’s some sherry over there in that corner cupboard.”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Would you like some brandy?”
    “I’ve never drunk brandy in my life.”
    “There always has to be a first time.” There were spare glasses on the tray because she had not been certain whether he wanted ordinary liqueur glasses or the big, bulbous ones out of which cognac is usually drunk. He and Mr. Minty had made use of the bulbous ones, and that left a couple of unused small ones on the tray. Before she could prevent him he lifted one and poured a very small quantity of brandy into it. “Sip it,” he advised. “Inhale the bouquet. Tell yourself that it’s nectar. In a way it is.” Alison accepted the glass but regarded the contents dubiously. On an empty stomach, and with her senses reeling with tiredness and her back and legs aching with weariness, the effect was unpredictable ... But he was watching her intently on the other side of the fire, and he was plainly under the impression that his hospitality was something to be appreciated. She took her first sip while his strangely quiet grey eyes more or less compelled her, and then she felt a trickle of inner warmth that was much more pleasing than his approving nod.
    “Did you have dinner yourself?”
    “I ... wasn’t very hungry.”
    “Meaning you skipped dinner, and possibly lunch. Tell me about yourself, Mrs. Fairlie,” he commanded. “Fill in the gaps in the information I have already received about you. You have lived here for about five years, isn’t that so?”
    “Yes. My husband was a friend of the late Sir Francis, and he allowed him to occupy the flat where we still live.”
    “Your husband was, I believe, a professor of dead languages. Did he teach?”
    “No, he was writing a book. It took him a long time. He wasn’t very strong ... She sent him a covert glance. “He was a very studious man, one who lived almost entirely in the past. The present had no appeal for him.”
    “Indeed?” Once again his eyebrows ascended. “But he had three daughters, and presumably he was married before he married you. One cannot say that his interest in life was entirely academic.”
    The brandy was warming her, and the glow was spreading. But his manner of making an observation there was no disputing filled her with embarrassment. She endeavoured to explain.
    “My—my husband wasn’t really the sort of man who found marriage very much to his taste. His first was a failure, and his wife died. When I married him it was because it seemed the only thing to do, and actually it worked out. My father was a financier who got into trouble and—and shot himself...” She licked her lips. “I advertised for a job under an assumed name, and Roger—my husband—answered it. He wanted someone to teach music to his little girls, and to look after Jessamy. He had a flat in London at that time. After I’d been with them for six months he suggested that we married, because otherwise the situation was rather odd. I’d grown very fond of the girls by that time, and I agreed. It—it wasn’t altogether a—a normal marriage...”
    “No?” he said, and waited for her to continue.
    “I mean,” struggling with a blush and an absurd sensation of sleepiness that was creeping over her, “we were good friends, but nothing more! I nursed him