The Shocking Miss Anstey by Robert Neill Read Free Book Online Page A

at himself in the mirror, and saw that he was still in his frock-coat and pantaloons. They would certainly not do after dinner, and he had to change hurriedly into his evening clothes, a double-breasted tailed coat of the darkest green, white marcella waistcoat, black silk breeches, white silk stockings, and buckled shoes. He viewed himself again as he buttoned the tightly fitting coat and smoothed the white folds of his cravat, and he was modestly satisfied. Then he took the ship in its bottle, wrapped it quickly in a scarf, and was ready. A moment later he was walking down the stair, and the impassive look had returned when the porter bowed him out.
    It was scarcely five minutes’ walk, once he had found the way, and her door in Queen Street was discreetly dark. He pulled at the bell and stood waiting, the ship tucked under his arm while his free hand toyed with his cravat, nervously smoothing it a little further. He was not used to this sort of thing, and he had no notion how she would behave. But he wanted her, and his mouth was feeling dry. Then the door swung open, disclosing a softly lighted hall and a carpeted stair in white-and-gold. The footman, in primrose and lavender, had evidently expected him.
    ‘Captain Grant, sir? Pray come in, sir. I will inform Miss Anstey.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    He was steady and controlled again as he gave the man his hat. Then he walked to the hearth, where a fire was bright and welcoming, and his thoughts were rushing wildly now, wondering what to say to her, and how to begin. He saw his hat put on an inlaid table that was surely Hepplewhite, and then, while he stood silently by the fire, her voice broke in.
    ‘Oh, it’s you, is it? I thought you’d forgotten me--gone to someone else.’
    ‘I don’t forget you.’
    He said it quickly as he jerked convulsively away from the fireplace, spinning round to look up the stair. Its white-and-gold was dimly lighted, made softer by the carpet of deep maroon, but on the landing above there was a chandelier of crystal glass, and she was standing artlessly under it, full in its golden light. It gave a deeper glow to her hair, showed him the twinkling blue of her eyes, and lighted her shoulders, left bare by a dress that seemed to hang precariously from the tops of her arms. It was of satin, sleek and shining, of the palest primrose, with just enough colour to take the cold from ivory. It brought a memory to him, and a darting thought that this might have been intended.
    He went slowly up the stair, drawn up it by the sheer presence of her, and a quick thought came of a moth and a candle. Then he was wondering what he should say to her. Something proper was needed, something mannered, perhaps about being honoured . . .
    ‘I’m glad you’ve come. I’ve been all by myself. No one to talk to.’
    She had spoken first, with the pout and the child-like tone that he remembered, and suddenly he was irritated. He was at the top of the stair, level with her, looking into her eyes, and he had known her for years, for as long as he could remember. He was sure he had, and he could bear no pretences. He did not believe she was a child.
    ‘How old are you?’
    ‘Twen---’
    He had almost snapped his question, all thoughts of politeness gone, and she had begun to answer, begun in a different tone. Then she had stopped, cutting off short while her eyes widened in surprise. They were staring at each other, as if neither knew what to say, and then he tried to get a grip on it, tried to say what he ought to say.
    ‘I’m sorry. I---’
    ‘No.’
    She spoke quickly, telling him in one urgent word that she, too, was finding it beyond her, that she too could have no pretence. They stood silent while he moved a little closer, and then impulsively, as if she could not help it, she held out her hands. He grasped them, drawing her to him while the ship in its bottle fell forgotten to the floor, still folded in the scarf. Then he had her in his arms, pressing her