The Truant Spirit by Sara Seale Read Free Book Online Page A

to have Miss Lamb here,” said Bunny unexpectedly. “And it is a misfortune rather than a crime to lose one’s ticket and one’s luggage.”
    Sabina shot her a surprised look of gratitude, but Marthe was not pleased.
    “You are too amiable, madame,” she said, without appreciation. “But Mademoiselle knows well her obligations. It is
    a matter which will displease Madame, her aunt, very deeply. You have forgotten, perhaps, mam’zelle, the sacrifices that have been made for you—the care that has been exercised for your future? You have, after all, the English ingratitude at heart and think only of yourself.”
    “No,” said Sabina, and looked as if she were going to cry. “I did nothing wrong, Marthe ... I only wanted to see my house ... I didn’t know that one could not stay at every village inn ... if I had not lost my ticket ...”
    “If you had not lost your ticket, where in this uncivilised countryside would you have stayed?”
    “I don’t know,” said Sabina wearily, and Bunny observed: “Well, you are safe here at the rectory, so neither of you need speculate as to what might have happened. Marthe, Miss Lamb should settle down for the night, soon. Her temperature is still up and talking is not advised by the doctor.”
    Marthe turned to look at her. Removed from that shabbily dressed but disconcerting person downstairs, she was easily recognisable for what she was, and Marthe had no intention of relinquishing her supremacy in the sick room.
    “Thank you madame, I do not need to be told the obvious,” she said, her small eyes snapping. “Now, if you will please to leave us I will see that Mademoiselle has all she requires, after which I shall go to my own room if you will be so civil as to acquaint me of its direction. I shall need hot-water bottles and a tisane, for this house is cold and you do not, I observe, have the central heating.”
    “You will find what you need in the kitchen,” Bunny said a little sharply, and with a brief good night to Sabina, left the room.
    Alone with Marthe, Sabina let her heavy lids fall, hoping to postpone the catechism that must follow, but Marthe would not leave her to sleep until she was fully satisfied.
    “Who is this man?” she demanded. “And why is he here?”
    “Mr. Brockman?” asked Sabina with surprise. “This is his home when he’s on holiday.”
    “On holiday from what? What is his business?”
    “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him since last night.”
    “Last night—when you allowed a stranger to bring you home—like any demi-mondaine. ”
    “Oh, Marthe, it wasn’t like that at all. He was only kind, as he would have been to any stray cat. He didn’t even like me very much—neither does his governess.”
    “His governess!”
    “Bunny—Mrs. Fennell—was once his governess. I think he spends his holidays with her.”
    Marthe began to laugh, relieved, but a little contemptuous. They did not know how to snatch the opportunities, these English demoiselles.
    “As I thought,” she said. “No background—no panache —the bourgeois young man who stays with the governess because, doubtless, he can afford nothing better. I can picture Madame’s scorn; for a country gentleman, look you, has the tweeds most expensive and the handsome shoes and linen of the most impeccable. A country gentleman of wealth, she always says, you will know immediately by his clothes, for it is a fad of the British to affect the sporting at all times. And Madame, the governess—one can see at a glance that she has married above her station and too late in life. I have told them, of course, mam’zelle, that you are already promised.”
    Sabina opened her eyes. She thought that Marthe was probably talking a great deal of nonsense, but it was, she supposed, her method of warning Sabina to behave circumspectly until her future was resolved.
    “I told them, too,” she said. “Mr. Brockman seems to know or know of M. Bergerac.”
    Marthe frowned,