The Daughter of the Manor. Бетти НилсЧитать онлайн книгу.
making money and intent on making still more. To Leonora, who had been brought up surrounded by valuable but shabby things in an old house rapidly falling into disrepair, and who was in the habit of counting every penny twice, this seemed both clever and rather daunting, for it seemed to take up so much of Tony’s life. Even on his rare visits to her home he brought a briefcase with him and was constantly interrupted by his phone.
She had protested mildly from time to time and he had told her not to fuss, that he needed to keep in touch with the markets. ‘I’ll be a millionaire—a multimillionare,’ he told her. ‘You should be grateful, darling—think of all the lovely clothes you’ll be able to buy.’
Looking down at her tweed skirt and wellies, she supposed that her lack of pretty clothes sometimes irked him and she wondered what he saw in her to love enough to want to marry her. The family name, perhaps—they had no hereditary title but the name was old and respected—and there was still the house and the land around it. Her father would never part with either.
It was a thought which scared her but which she quickly dismissed as nonsense. Tony loved her, she wore his ring, they would marry and set up house together. It was a bit vague at present but she hoped they wouldn’t have to live in London; he had a flat there which she had never seen but which he assured her he would give up when they married. And he had told her that when they were married he would put her home back on its original footing.
When she had protested that her father might not allow that, he had explained patiently that he would be one of the family and surely her father would permit him to see to it that the house and land were kept as their home should be. ‘After all,’ he had pointed out to her, ‘it will eventually be the home of our son—your parents’ grandson…’
She had never mentioned that to either her mother or her father. How like Tony, she thought lovingly—so generous and caring, ready to spend his money on restoring her home…
Mrs Pike’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Pink salmon or the red, Miss Leonora?’
‘Oh, the pink, Mrs Pike—fishcakes, you know.’
Mrs Pike nodded. ‘Very tasty they are too.’ Like the rest of the village she knew how hard up the Crosby family were. There never had been much money and Sir William had lost almost all of what had been left in some City financial disaster. A crying shame, but what a good thing that Miss Leonora’s young man had plenty of money.
She put the groceries into a carrier bag and watched Leonora make her way down the icy street. She had pushed her hair back under her cap and really, from the back, she looked like a tramp. Only when you could see her face, thought Mrs Pike, did you know she wasn’t anything of the sort.
Leonora went into the house through one of the side doors. There were several of these; the house, its oldest part very old indeed, had been added to in more prosperous times and, although from the front it presented a solid Georgian fa
The door Leonora entered led through to a gloomy, rather damp passage to the kitchen—a vast room housing a dresser of gigantic proportions, a scrubbed table capable of seating a dozen persons, an assortment of cupboards, and rows of shelves carrying pots and pans. There was a dog snoozing before the Aga stove but he got up, shook himself and came to meet her as she put her bag on the table.
She bent to fondle him, assuring him that no doubt the butcher’s van would be round and there would be a bone for him. ‘And as soon as it’s a bit warmer we’ll go for a real walk,’ she promised him. He was an old dog, a Labrador, and a quick walk in the small park at the back of the house was all that he could manage in bad weather.
The door on the other side of the kitchen opened and a short, stout woman came in, followed by a tabby cat, and Leonora turned to smile at her.
‘It’s beastly out, Nanny. I’ll take Wilkins into the garden for a quick run.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘I’ll see to lunch when I get back.’
Nanny nodded. She had a nice cosy face, pink-cheeked and wrinkled, and grey hair in a tidy bun. ‘I’ll finish upstairs. I’ve taken in the coffee—it’s hot on the Aga when you get in.’
Wilkins didn’t much care for the weather but he trotted obediently down one of the paths to where a door in the brick wall opened onto the park—quite a modest park with a small stream running along its boundary and clumps of trees here and there. They went as far as the stream and then turned thankfully for home.
The house was a hotchpotch of uneven roofs and unmatched windows at the back but it had a certain charm, even in winter months. Of course many of its rooms were shut up now, but Leonora conceded that if you didn’t look too closely at peeled paint and cracks it was quite imposing. She loved it, every crack and broken tile, every damp wall and creaking floorboard.
Back in the kitchen once more, Wilkins, paws wiped and his elderly person towelled warm, subsided before the Aga again, and Leonora hung her coat on a hook near the door, exchanged her wellies for a pair of scuffed slippers and set about getting lunch—soup, already simmering on the stove, a cheese soufflé and cheese and biscuits.
Carrying a tray of china and silver to the dining room, she shivered as she went along the passage from the kitchen. It would be sensible to have their meals in the kitchen, but her mother and father wouldn’t hear of it even though the dining room was as cold as the passage, if not colder.
‘Mustn’t lower our standards,’ her father had said when she had suggested it. So presently they sat down to lunch at an elegantly laid table, supping soup which had already been cooling by the time it got to the dining room. As for the soufflé, Leonora ran from the oven to the table, remembering to slow down at the dining-room door, and set it gently on the table for her mother to serve, thankful that it hadn’t sunk in its dish.
‘Delicious,’ pronounced Lady Crosby. ‘You are such a good cook, darling.’ She sighed faintly, remembering the days when there had been a cook in the kitchen and a manservant to wait at table. What a blessing it was that Leonora was so splendid at organising the household and keeping things running smoothly.
Lady Crosby, a charming and sweet-tempered woman who managed to avoid doing anything as long as there was someone else to do it, reflected comfortably that her daughter would make a good wife for Tony—such a good man, who had already hinted that once they were married he would see to it that there would be someone to take Leonora’s place in the house. She was a lucky girl.
She glanced at her daughter and frowned; it was unfortunate, but Leonora was looking shabby.
‘Haven’t you got anything else to wear other than that skirt and sweater, dear?’ she asked.
‘Well, Mother, it’s awful outside—no weather to dress up. Besides, I promised Nanny I’d help her with the kitchen cupboards this afternoon.’
Her father looked up. ‘Why can’t that woman who comes up from the village see to them?’
Leonora forbore from telling him that Mrs Pinch hadn’t been coming for a month or more. Her wages had been a constant if small drain on the household purse, and when her husband had broken an arm at work she had decided to give up her charring and Leonora had seen the chance to save a pound or two by working a bit harder herself.
She said now, ‘Well, Father, I like to go through the stores myself once in a while.’ A remark which dispelled any faint doubts her parents might have had.
‘Do wear gloves, dear,’ observed her mother. ‘Remember it’s the Willoughbys’ dinner party this evening—your hands, you know!’
The Willoughbys lived just outside the village in a small Georgian house in beautiful grounds, and since they had plenty of money it was beautifully maintained. They were elderly, good-natured