Winterwood by Dorothy Eden Read Free Book Online Page A

well,” Lavinia said in a low, determined voice. “I’ll come. If your wife will agree.”
    “I will agree, Miss Hurst.”
    Then, with his unpredictable disturbing behavior, he lifted one of her hands and put his lips to it.
    “The gondolier expects us to be a little romantic,” he said calmly. “Don’t let us disappoint him. Besides, that is only part of my gratitude.”
    “Then pray don’t show the rest of it,” she said tartly.
    He laughed with enjoyment. It was a pity it was too dark to see his face. She would like to have seen it when it was full of pleasure, no matter what the reason for the pleasure. She had a feeling it was not often like that. At least the dark safely permitted her a smile of sheer relief, and a growing delight. Practical considerations surged through her head. She would have some more precious days in Venice. She would insist on taking sole charge of Flora, and begin earnestly to like the child. The Monks would have to be told, of course. But their dull, petulant old faces had got past feeling much of either pleasure or disappointment. They would have to delay their journey for a day, and find some other companion much more suitable than herself. Which would be all to the good as, in the height of frustration and despair, she might have yielded to the temptation to push them off the appallingly slow train that bumped and rocked its way across Italy!
    She suppressed a small gurgle of amusement, and her companion looked enquiringly at her.
    “Would you have tipped me overboard, Mr. Meryon, if I hadn’t finally agreed to your request? Is that why you inveigled me into a gondola?”
    “Perhaps.”
    “You don’t know who I am. You’re trusting your daughter to a complete stranger.”
    “I know that you enjoy the opera; I know that you speak like a lady; I know that you have come to your present situation through bad fortune.”
    “Bad fortune! Yes. How do you know that?”
    “I expect your parents died and there was less money than you had anticipated. Probably your father was a spendthrift and left you forced to keep yourself. I only make a guess, but obviously you have been well-educated. And—forgive me for saying so—you must have found your cousin less than stimulating company.”
    It was all so harmless, and so exactly what she had already planned to tell his wife.
    “You are very perceptive, Mr. Meryon.”
    “So is my wife.”
    Was he hinting that she must be careful—supposing that innocuous story were not the true one?
    But it turned out that he was thinking of something else entirely.
    “It might be just as well not to mention my method of persuasion. Charlotte regards riding in gondolas at night a highly frivolous pursuit.”
    And was accustomed to not trusting her husband? Since she couldn’t ask that question, Lavinia fell silent.
    They were slowly getting nearer to the San Marco water stop, the lights of the hotel, and yet another beginning to her life. The little red light bobbing on the prow was pretty, but much too dim to show the way.

Chapter 4
    I N HIGH DUDGEON COUSIN Marion, with Gianetta, departed for Florence. She had washed her hands of Lavinia forever, she said. That elderly nondescript couple, the Monks, who should never have left the safety of their fireside, decided that Lavinia was much too flighty for their taste, and also departed, thanking their lucky stars that they were spared such an unreliable traveling companion.
    So the die was cast.
    A little later Charlotte Meryon sent for Lavinia to come to her bedroom.
    This time Charlotte was alone. It was impossible to know whether she was pleased or displeased. Her huge eyes rested speculatively on Lavinia. She was holding a fan, which she moved languidly now and then. It was a hot morning and the heat evidently made her limp and tired. There was no vestige of color in her face, though this seemed to add to her strange attraction. She was still in a negligee and her heavy black hair was tied back