Melting Fire. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
and well-developed, and her waist was small, and long shapely legs drew attention to narrow ankles. An appealing combination, no doubt, but Olivia was not impressed by her attributes. She had viewed them too many times to feel any sense of accomplishment in her appearance, and her greatest concern at the moment was how best to explain to Bella—and Richard—that she wanted to get a job. She hadn’t yet decided what kind of job she wanted. Office work of some kind, she supposed, or maybe as she was good at languages, she could get a job as an interpreter. But where? Not in Chelmsbury, she realised. London was the only likely place, which would mean either travelling the forty or so miles every day to the city, or getting accommodation in town.
She sighed, turning away to rummage through her dressing table drawers for clean underwear. Richard travelled every day, when he was at home. He drove to Chelmsbury, and caught the early morning commuter train into the city. So long as he was at home, she might travel with him. He did keep an apartment in town, but it was for entertainment purposes mostly, and almost every evening when he was at home he returned to Copley. But when he was away …
Frowning, she stepped into bikini briefs, and followed them with a pair of cream-coloured Levis. Then she knotted a sleeveless shirt beneath her breasts, and began to pull her hairbrush through the tangled weight of hair. It was much too long, she thought, tugging viciously at a recalcitrant strand, and she would certainly have it cut before she took up any employment. Why couldn’t it have been straight, like Richard’s hair? she wondered impatiently, and flung the brush down in disgust as it refused to respond to such rough treatment.
A tentative knock at her bedroom door dissipated her annoyance, and she called: ‘Who is it?’ smiling affectionately when Bella’s grey head appeared.
‘Oh, you are up,’ she said, coming right into the room. ‘I sent Eliza up with your breakfast, just in case you wanted to spend the morning in bed.’
‘On a day like this!’ Olivia indicated the cloudless sky beyond her open windows. ‘I can’t wait to get outside. I intend to get really brown before——’
She broke off abruptly, half expecting Bella to take her up on it, but the older woman was busy straightening the pale green undersheet on the bed, plumping the lace-edged pillows.
‘I’m going to cycle into West Cross this morning,’ Bella declared, straightening with Olivia’s striped cotton nightshirt in her hands. ‘I promised Mrs Morrison I’d call and see old Mr Raynor. He hasn’t been at all well lately, and I thought I’d take him some of my home-made strawberry jam. I want to call at the church anyway with some flowers, so I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone, as they say. Do you want to come?’
Olivia hesitated. Mrs Morrison was the vicar’s wife, and although she was good-hearted enough, she was a terrible gossip. She would welcome Olivia’s return as a new source of conversation, and it was too nice a day to waste in idle chatter.
‘I don’t think so,’ she answered now, sorry she had to disappoint Bella. ‘I thought I might sunbathe. Can I use the pool?’
‘Considering Richard left orders for Thomas to clean it out specially before he went away, I think perhaps you might,’ retorted Bella shortly, and Olivia flushed.
‘That was kind of him,’ she offered awkwardly, and Bella sniffed.
‘Yes—well, people try to be kind to you,’ she averred, picking up Olivia’s used breakfast tray and marching towards the door. ‘They may not understand these newfangled ideas you have about independence, though,’ she added, and left the room.
Olivia watched her go with troubled eyes. She knew Bella was referring to the conversation they had had over the dinner table the previous evening. Olivia had tried, not very successfully, to persuade her old nursemaid that she couldn’t remain a drain on Richard’s resources any longer, but Bella had been obstinately stubborn. If Olivia was a drain, then what was she? she insisted, deliberately ignoring the fact that she had a job running the household, supplementing her argument with the opinion that to a man of Richard’s means, the support of his stepsister was not only his duty, but his pleasure. Olivia’s protest that Richard’s means had nothing to do with it met with blank indifference, and Bella had retired to bed soon afterwards, complaining of a severe headache.
Now Olivia left her bedroom and walked slowly along the hall to the landing. Her room was at the back of the house, overlooking the tennis courts and the stables beyond, and as she passed Richard’s door she felt her lips tighten. She guessed that he would share Bella’s opinion, and it was frustrating to realise that their feelings were justified.
On impulse she stopped, and opening Richard’s door she entered his bedroom. This was the master bedroom of the house, and overlooked the courtyard at the front of the building. Because it was occupied solely by a man, it was sombrely furnished in shades of brown and gold, but the drift of apricot silk at the windows provided a vivid splash of colour. Bella had already been into this room, Olivia guessed, noticing the open sashes, and the coolness that came from the shadow of the north side of the house. Later in the day, the room would be bathed in the afternoon rays of the sun, but presently it was chilly.
Olivia sauntered lazily round the square fourposter bed, which Richard had bought along with the house, and picked up the framed portrait of herself standing on his bedside table. She grimaced. The picture had been taken over a year ago, and to her eyes she looked terribly young and puppy-fat. It had been taken while she was still at boarding school, and although she wasn’t wearing her uniform, her hair was neatly plaited into one thick braid. She remembered he had taken it himself, in the garden here at Copley, and she was smiling that inane smile which meant he had been especially nice to her.
She thrust the picture down again, wondering how he could bear to see that every morning when he woke up, and walked across to the windows, resting her arms on the sill. From here it was possible to see the lane beyond their drive, winding away to the village, and the whole wooded sweep of the valley, lush with the ripeness of summer.
A crunching on the gravel beneath her drew her eyes to the old-fashioned bicycle Bella was wheeling round the side of the house. There was a basket set in front in which Bella had laid several jars of her famous conserve, and an armful of lupins, carnations and gladioli. Bella herself had donned the flowered straw hat she always wore for cycling, and as Olivia watched, she set her foot on the pedal and was off down the drive, wobbling as she levered herself on to the narrow seat. Watching her go, Olivia half wished she had agreed to go with her, but then she remembered Mrs Morrison and changed her mind.
With a sigh, she turned and went out of Richard’s bedroom again, and started down the stairs. The banister rail was smooth beneath her fingers, and below her in the hall, the wolfhound watched her approach with lazy eyes. Even as she wondered if she had the house to herself, Eliza, the parlourmaid, came out of the morning room and gave her a shy admiring stare. Eliza came from the village, and unlike many of her contemporaries was quite content to work at the big house. She was engaged to the gardener’s son, Peter, and Bella had confided that after they were married Richard intended to give them a cottage on the estate. Between them she and Bella managed to cope with the housework, and on special occasions, her mother also came to help out. Copley wasn’t overly large. It had four bedrooms and three bathrooms, as well as the staff flat Bella occupied, with its own bathroom and kitchen, and Richard provided every labour-saving device to make their task easier.
‘Miss Ponsonby’s gone to the village,’ Eliza said now, as the other girl reached the bottom of the stairs, and Olivia nodded.
‘Yes, I know. I saw her leave a few minutes ago, from Richard’s bedroom window.’ Eliza nodded, and in case she should wonder what she was doing in her stepbrother’s bedroom, Olivia added: ‘I was just looking around, renewing my acquaintance with the place, so to speak.’ She laughed. ‘It’s been a long time.’
‘Yes, it has, Miss Ross. Six months and more. Miss Ponsonby was ever so upset when you didn’t come home at Easter.’
‘Was she?’ Olivia had guessed that, but she didn’t say so. ‘Well, I’m here now, and it’s lucky that the weather is so perfect.’
Eliza