Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand by Susan Green Read Free Book Online Page A

so pale that she reminded me of one of those white marble statues (they were Classical, according to Papa, so their lack of clothes wasn’t rude) dotted around Alhambra’s conservatory. Holding herself as stiff as a poker, she offered her hand to Papa. Papa took off his hat and, bowing from the waist, kissed her hand.
    “My dear lady,” he said. “What a pleasure to meet you at last.”
    “I’m glad you were able to come.”
    She sounded more like a schoolgirl reciting a lesson than a rich man’s wife. I felt a quick rush of sympathy. Having married her employer and gone up in the world, she must sometimes feel like a fish out of water. It was that way for me too when I first went to live with the Plushes. I was never quite sure what to do and say. It was a while before I felt I belonged upstairs with the family instead of below stairs with the servants.
    “Here’s George to get your bags,” she said, motioning to a wizened elderly fellow, as small as a jockey, who appeared from around the side of the house. “And I hope you will enjoy your stay with us at Shantigar.”
    “Shanti-what?” said Poppy.
    “Shantigar is a word in an ancient Indian language,” said Mr Petrov. “It means ‘peaceful home’.”
    The peace was shattered when, with a shriek and a flash of blue and brown feathers, two large fowl came around the corner, shot past us and disappeared into the shrubbery.
    “Bloody ’ell!” yelped Poppy.
    “My peacocks,” said Mr Petrov. “Peafowl, I should say; the brown bird was a hen. It is the male that has the fine feathers.”
    Mrs Petrov bobbed down, put her arm around Poppy’s waist and drew her close. “They won’t hurt you, dear.”
    Poppy looked at her and smiled. As she’d lost her front teeth her smile was rather gummy at present, but somehow that made her very appealing. Mrs Petrov seemed to think so, anyway, for her cheeks turned a faint pink. Suddenly she sounded warm and friendly. “I’ve been so looking forward to having children around the house. Come with me, girls, and I’ll show you to your room.”
    She led us to a large room furnished with a double and a single bed, a wardrobe, a dressing table and a bureau. George, the Petrovs’ odd-job man, had already brought our bags in. I looked around, noticing how bright and dainty everything was. The pillowcases were embroidered with pink roses, and so were the hand towels that sat on the washstand. A posy in a jug stood on the mantelpiece and there was a pile of picture books, a rubber ball and a doll on the end of one of the beds. Something told me that Helen had gone to all this trouble herself.
    “It’s lovely,” I said.
    “Thank you, Mrs Petrov,” added Connie.
    “Mrs Petrov – that sounds so stuffy! You must call me Helen,” she said.
    “Helen!” Poppy had scrambled up onto the double bed. Now she was bouncing up and down. Why did she have to mislay her manners right now? She bounced higher. “Look at me, Helen! Look at me!”
    I thought Helen might tell her off but instead she swept Poppy into her arms. “Oh, you little darling!”
    Now, Poppy could dish out the hugs and kisses, but she didn’t always like to be on the receiving end. Would she try to wriggle out of Helen’s arms? Not this time. She submitted patiently, but eventually she said, “Only, could you ease up a bit now? I can’t ’ardly breathe.”
    “And you must all be hungry,” said Helen with a laugh. “You can unpack later. Let’s go out onto the verandah and see what Hannah has for us.”

    Hannah, the cook-housekeeper, was what I’d imagined Mr Petrov’s wife would be. She was sixtyish and sturdily built with white hair and a no-nonsense manner. Her dark eyes, as bright as a robin’s, darted here and there and gave us all the once-over as she poured tea for Papa and Mr Petrov. They were already settled on the verandah among the potted palms. Tiny green birds hopped and chirruped in a cage and I hoped Poppy wasn’t going to be upset