Voices in Summer by Rosamunde Pilcher Read Free Book Online Page B

long-forgotten birthday and gold bracelets on her slender brown wrists. She looked amazingly young this evening. Her face still beautiful, her jawline firm, her hair without a thread of grey. Of all of them, he decided, she had aged and changed the least. Because, although not old, not even middle-aged, they, who had all been young together, no longer were.
    He wondered what Strickland thought of them all. What was his impression of them, as they sat there, dressed up and festive, around the formal dinner table? They were Alec's oldest friends; he had known them for so long that their individual appearances he took totally for granted. But now he let his eyes move around the table deliberately observing each of his guests with the eyes of the stranger who sat in Erica's chair. Daphne, tiny and slender as ever, but with her blond hair now silvery white. George Anstey ponderous and red-faced, his shirt buttons straining over his considerable waistline. Marjorie, who of all of them seemed happy to mature into full solid middle age, without any tiresome backward glances over her ample shoulder.
    And Tom. Tom Boulderstone. Affection filled Alec's heart for the man who had been his closest friend for so many years. But this was an objective appraisal, not a sentimental one. So what did Alec see? A man of forty-three, balding, bespectacled, pale, clever. A man who looked more like a priest than a banker. A man whose sombre expression could gleam with hidden laughter. A man who, when called upon, could make an after-dinner speech so witty that it would be quoted in the City for months to come.
    Daphne ran out of words at last, and George Anstey took advantage of the subsequent lull to lean forward and ask Strickland what had decided him to come to this country.
    'Well' – the American glanced around the table and grinned depreciatingly – ‘I seem to have done most everything I could in the States, and I felt there was real new challenge over here.'
    'It must have meant the most awful lot of organization,' Marjorie remarked. She was interested in organization. She organized her local Meals on Wheels. ‘I mean, renting a house for yourself and getting your horses over . . . what do you do for grooms?'
    ‘I flew them over as well, and a couple of stable lads.'
    'Are they black or white?' Daphne wanted to know.
    Strickland grinned. 'Both.'
    'And what about a housekeeper?' Marjorie persisted. 'Don't say you flew a housekeeper over as well?'
    'Yes, I did. There wasn't any point taking Tickleigh Manor if I didn't have some person to look after me.'
    Marjorie sat back with a sigh. 'Well, I don't know, but it all sounds like pure heaven to me. I've only got a daily two mornings a week, and she's never even been in an aeroplane.'
    'For that you should be thankful,' said Tom dryly. 'Ours flew to Majorca for a holiday and married a waiter and never came back.'
    Everybody laughed, but Tom did not even smile. Alec wondered what Tom was making of Strickland Whiteside, but that pale and clever face gave nothing away.
    The American had arrived after they were all gathered with their drinks, bathed and shaved and changed and scented and expectant. When they heard the sound of his car drawing up outside the house, Erica went to greet him, and bring him indoors. They returned together, and there was no reason to imagine that they had embraced, but Erica brought with her, out of the fragrant evening, a nervous glitter, like a nimbus of light. Formally she introduced Strickland Whiteside to her husband and her friends. He did not seem in the least put out by being suddenly faced with a roomful of people he had never met before, and all of whom, obviously, knew one another very well. On the contrary, his manner was almost benign, satisfied, as though he knew that the boot was on the other foot, and it was he who must put them at their ease.
    He had, Alec guessed, taken some trouble with his dress. He wore a maroon gabardine jacket, brass buttoned,