Dark Road to Darjeeling. Deanna Raybourn

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ stepped smoothly into the breach. “How kind of you, Mrs. Pennyfeather, er, Cassandra,” I amended hastily at a gently reproving glance from the lady. “I know I speak for my sister when I say it would be a pleasure and a delight. Perhaps in a week or so when we have had a chance to recover from the fatigue of our travels?”

      I ignored the fact that Portia had pinched me, hard, just above the waist. “I hope it bruises,” she hissed as she moved away.

      Cassandra puffed a little sigh. “I suppose if I must be delayed.” She made an impatient gesture with her head, and just then one of her little coils seemed to detach itself.

      “Cassandra,” I said, my voice shaking only slightly, “I do not like to seem critical, but is that—”

      “It is only Percival. Come along, darling,” she urged. As if to acknowledge the introduction, the little snake curved itself down around her ear and leaned toward me, flicking its tongue in and out in rapid succession as if to taste the air.

      “You needn’t be afraid,” said a small voice at my elbow. I looked down to see the Pennyfeather boy regarding me thoughtfully. “Percival is a green whip snake, almost entirely harmless.”

      “Almost?” I said faintly, but he did not elaborate.

      Cassandra excused herself to coax the curious Percival back into her braids, so I took the opportunity to complete the introduction. “You are Robin, are you not?” I asked, extending my gloved hand.

      He bowed over it very correctly and straightened with a serious expression. “Did I do that well? Mother doesn’t care much for formalities, you know, but Father says one must learn manners before one can ignore them.”

      His father gave a chuckle and I saw that he was looking indulgently at the boy. Robin was an earnest child, with sober dark eyes and a mop of curls that someone had attempted—unsuccessfully—to subdue with a dampened hairbrush. “You did very well, Master Robin.”

      “I have not met an earl’s daughter before. I rather thought you would be grander,” he observed.

      “Robin!” his father interjected, but I waved him off with a smile.

      “That is quite all right, Reverend.” I returned my attention to Robin. “I never mastered the trick of being grand. If it’s all the same to you, I will just be myself.”

      “I would like to be myself,” Robin said, pulling at his tight collar and neatly-tied neckcloth, “but it’s rather difficult at present.”

      “And what do you do when you’re being yourself? Do you have lessons?”

      “Of a sort,” Reverend Pennyfeather put in with a smile. “I do the best I can to make certain he has his history and mathematics and modern languages, but I admit, keeping his attention upon his books is a task for a harsher master than I.” He looked at his son fondly, and it was apparent that the good Reverend was a kindly and tolerant father. “More often, he escapes the schoolroom and roams the countryside with his cages and nets.”

      “A budding naturalist then?” I asked.

      Robin nodded, his eyes alight with enthusiasm. “I mean to be a great natural historian, like Charles Darwin, and make tremendous discoveries. I have already begun my book upon Himalayan fauna,” he said, withdrawing a disreputable-looking notebook from his pocket. It was stained with a variety of nasty substances, one of which looked alarmingly like blood, and it smelled vile. But it was thick with notes and specimens, and I had little doubt Master Robin would make a name for himself in the scientific world.

      And it occurred to me that an observant child might prove an excellent source of information, as well as a perfect excuse for poking about the countryside in search of information. Only later did I reflect that another person might have thought it ruthless to make use of a child, but in that moment, I merely seized the opportunity before me. “I should like to see something of the valley whilst I am here,” I told him. “And I think you are just the person to show me. Perhaps you will have time to guide me.”

      He tipped his head to one side, and as his curls parted I saw his ears were slightly pointed at the tips, like a faun’s. “Of course, but if we see something important, you must promise to be very quiet. That’s the only way you see things, you know. If you make noise, you never observe anything,” he added, rolling his eyes toward his sister.

      The Reverend caught the gesture and drew his daughter forward. “Ah, you have not met my eldest, Lady Julia. This is Primrose.”

      She sketched an awkward curtsey, and I offered her my hand. “How kind of you, my dear, but that is not necessary at all. Shake hands with me instead.”

      To my surprise, the sulky mouth drew even farther down, and I thought it was a pity. She might have been a pretty girl were it not for that mouth. Her eyes were a medium, muddy colour, with nothing of the dark charm of her brother’s, but they were wide and well-shaped under gracefully winged brows, and her complexion was unblemished. Her hair might have been her real beauty, but the thick mass of it was plaited unbecomingly into two long hanks that hung down her back, and her dress was frightful, a girlish mass of ruffles and embellishments that strained at hip and bosom. Something simple and plainly cut would have suited her better, for the childish furbelows only served to underscore her age, whereas a well-cut costume would have lent her dignity and poise. I could not imagine the girl had chosen the dress for herself, for she tugged and fidgeted with it constantly, and more than once I caught her eyes lingering covetously upon my severely-tailored silk.

      She slipped away as soon as she had shaken my hand, mumbling something as she fled toward the table of cakes and pastries—a mistake, I thought, given her rounded figure.

      “Primrose is a little shy,” the Reverend offered by way of apology for his daughter’s churlishness. He gave me a small smile, and I warmed to him. He seemed a genuinely pleasant fellow, and I quite liked his son, even if his wife and daughter were a little curious.

      “Never mind, Reverend. I was a girl once. I remember how dreadful I was. We all grow out of it, I promise you.”

      The smile deepened. “You are very kind.”

      We fell silent and I realised this was the moment to open my interrogations, however pleasant and innocuous they might seem.

      “We are newly come into your valley, Reverend. You must tell us about the place. We have not yet ventured out to make the acquaintance of our neighbours.”

      His brow furrowed as he thought. “You will know the ladies of Pine Cottage, of course, for I hear they are connections of yours.”

      “Indeed. I am rather surprised they have not come,” I said, glancing around the garden and widening my eyes innocently. I was not the least surprised, of course. Lucy was doubtless still smarting from the awkwardness of our last parting and Emma would fear the worst—exposure as a murderess.

      But the good Reverend was shaking his head, his expression mournful. “Oh, no. They do not venture out upon any occasion. The world must come to Pine Cottage, I am afraid, for the ladies are almost perfect recluses.”

      This was interesting intelligence, for Emma was driven by her longing for independence, a need to be her own mistress and to travel and order her own affairs. If she had indeed withdrawn with Lucy into Pine Cottage, then the mystery surrounding them thickened.

      “I shall have to pay СКАЧАТЬ