Winterwood by Dorothy Eden Read Free Book Online Page B

loosely as if she hadn’t had the energy to put it up.
    “My husband tells me that you have been persuaded to change your mind, Miss Hurst. May I ask why?”
    Lavinia decided on frankness.
    “I have fallen in love with Venice and would dearly like a few more days here. That, and the prospect of traveling with two elderly very dull people, made me regret my rather hasty decision yesterday.”
    “You think we will make more amusing traveling companions?”
    “I wasn’t thinking in terms of amusement, Mrs. Meryon.”
    Charlotte moved her fan rapidly.
    “Perhaps you were overcome with pity for our daughter?”
    “Yes, I feel great pity for her. Though, if you will forgive me saying so, I don’t think it’s good for her to make a weapon of her helplessness. I should like to treat her as a person who is normal in every way.”
    “Have you expressed this opinion to her father?”
    “No, not yet.”
    “I expect you will. You seem to be a very opinionated young woman.”
    Lavinia bit her lip and said nothing.
    Charlotte’s great eyes looked over her fan.
    “I will warn you at once that my husband doesn’t enjoy gratuitous advice any more than I do. However, let us keep to essentials. I must know something about your background. Who were your family? What education have you had? Why are you in the position of having to support yourself?”
    The story Lavinia had rehearsed came easily. She had so quickly become an accomplished liar.
    “I was brought up in Somerset, Mrs. Meryon. My father had a small estate. I had a governess and was taught all the usual things, music, sketching, French and a little German, the English poets, dancing, of course, and riding. Then, just before I was to come out, my parents were killed in an accident. The dogcart they were driving in overturned. Papa liked fast horses, and—” It was still too painful to talk about, the frantic shock and disbelief, Papa dead, and Mamma dying, beautiful black Caesar with a broken foreleg, shot.
    “He sounds like my husband,” Charlotte commented. “This passion Englishmen have for horses. Well, go on. Wasn’t there some other member of your family who could take over bringing you out? Were you an only child?”
    “Yes.” Forgive me, Robin, she thought, but it’s safer this way. “The reason I couldn’t come out was that it was discovered after my father’s death, that he had a great many debts. There was nothing left for me. So my Cousin Marion offered to have me as her companion. I’m afraid we finally found each other quite incompatible. It was mostly my fault, I admit. I hadn’t been brought up for that sort of life.”
    “Have you any reason to think you will be more successful in our employ?” Charlotte asked.
    “I shall do my best, Mrs. Meryon.”
    “Your position won’t include wearing fine clothes to the opera.”
    “That was foolish of me,” Lavinia admitted.
    “Yes, it was.” Charlotte seemed to be summing up Lavinia’s appearance, perhaps reflecting on her youth, for the daylight showed faint lines about her own eyes, and for all its perfection her face had a lack of freshness, a worn and delicate look, as if the heat or the traveling, or anxiety, had drained her. Already she seemed exhausted by this interview. She pressed her fingers to her temples.
    “I am a martyr to headaches. Only someone who suffers similarly can understand how I feel.”
    “I’m sorry, Mrs. Meryon,” Lavinia murmured, the thought coming that Daniel must show insufficient sympathy.
    “I am forced to spend half my life on a sofa. I can’t describe the effort this trip has been. But it was absolutely essential to make it for my poor aunt’s sake. She wrote to me expressing her wish to die in her native country, so what could I do but regard it as a sacred trust. Have you had an experience of nursing, Miss Hurst?”
    “A little,” Lavinia answered.
    “Well, that’s a blessing, at least. As my husband has told you, we have been left entirely in