Bloodline. Сидни Шелдон
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Название: Bloodline
Автор: Сидни Шелдон
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Приключения: прочее
isbn: 9780007380893
isbn:
The feature of the house that Elizabeth loved most was the tower room, under the sloping tile roof. It was reached by a narrow staircase from the second floor, and Sam Roffe used it as his study. It contained a large work desk and a comfortable, padded swivel chair. The walls were lined with bookcases and maps, most of them pertaining to the Roffe empire. French windows led to a small balcony built over a sheer cliff, and the view from there was heart-stopping.
It was in this house, when she was thirteen years old, that Elizabeth discovered the origins of her family, and for the first time in her life felt that she belonged, that she was part of something.
It began the day she found the Book. Elizabeth’s father had driven to Olbia, and Elizabeth had wandered upstairs to the tower room. She was not interested in the books on the shelves, for she had long since learned that they were technical volumes on pharmacology and pharmacognosy, and on multinational corporations and international law. Dull and boring. Some of the manuscripts were rare, and these were kept in glass cases. There was a medical volume in Latin called Circa Instans, written in the Middle Ages, and another called De Materia Medica. It was because Elizabeth was studying Latin and was curious to see one of the old volumes that she opened the glass case to take it out. Behind it, tucked away out of sight, she saw another volume. Elizabeth picked it up. It was thick, bound in leather, and had no title.
Intrigued, Elizabeth opened it. It was like opening the door to another world. It was a biography of her great-great-grandfather, Samuel Roffe, in English, privately printed on vellum. There was no author given, and no date, but Elizabeth was sure that it was more than one hundred years old, for most of the pages were faded, and others were yellowed and flaking with age. But none of this was important. It was the story that mattered, a story that brought life to the portraits hanging on the wall downstairs. Elizabeth had seen the pictures of her great-great-grandparents a hundred times: paintings of an old-fashioned man and woman, dressed in unfamiliar clothes. The man was not handsome, but there was great strength and intelligence in his face. He had fair hair, high Slavic cheekbones and keen, bright blue eyes. The woman was a beauty. Dark hair, a flawless complexion and eyes as black as coal. She wore a white silk dress with a tabard over the top, and a bodice made of brocade. Two strangers who meant nothing to Elizabeth.
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