Free Taken at the Flood by Agatha Christie Page A

more money than Rowley could ever have imagined possible.
    Up to now he had always seen her dressed in expensive and somewhat towny clothes which she wore with an artificial air - much, he had thought, as a mannequin might display dresses that did not belong to her but to the firm who employed her.
    This afternoon in the broad peasant stripes of gay colour, he seemed to see a new Rosaleen Cloade. Her Irish origin was more noticeable, the dark curling hair and the lovely blue eyes put in with the smutty finger. Her voice, too, had a softer Irish sound instead of the careful rather mincing tones in which she usually spoke.
    “It's such a lovely afternoon,” she said. “So I came for a walk.”
    She added:
    “David's gone to London.”
    She said it almost guiltily, then flushed and took a cigarette case out of her bag.
    She offered one to Rowley, who shook his head, then looked round for a match to light Rosaleen's cigarette. But she was flicking unsuccessfully at an expensive-looking small gold lighter. Rowley took it from her and with one sharp movement it lit. As she bent her head towards him to light her cigarette he noticed how long and dark the lashes were that lay on her cheek and he thought to himself:
    “Old Gordon knew what he was doing...”
    Rosaleen stepped back a pace and said admiringly:
    “That's a lovely little heifer you've got in the top field.”
    Astonished by her interest, Rowley began to talk to her about the farm. Her interest surprised him, but it was obviously genuine and not put on, and to his surprise he found that she was quite knowledgeable on farm matters. Butter-making and dairy produce she spoke of with familiarity.
    “Why, you might be a farmer's wife, Rosaleen,” he said smiling.
    The animation went out of her face.
    She said:
    “We had a farm - in Ireland - before I came over here - before -”
    “Before you went on the stage?”
    She said wistfully and a trifle, it seemed to him, guiltily:
    “It's not so very long ago... I remember it all very well.” She added with a flash of spirit, “I could milk your cows for you, Rowley, now.”
    This was quite a new Rosaleen. Would David Hunter have approved these casual references to a farming past? Rowley thought not. Old Irish landed gentry, that was the impression David tried to put over. Rosaleen's version, he thought, was nearer the truth. Primitive farm life, then the lure of the stage, the touring company to South Africa, marriage - isolation in Central Africa - escape - hiatus - and finally marriage to a millionaire in New York...
    Yes, Rosaleen Hunter had travelled a long way since milking a Kerry cow. Yet looking at her, he found it hard to believe that she had ever started. Her face had that innocent, slightly half-witted expression, the face of one who has no history. And she looked so young - much younger than her twenty-six years.
    There was something appealing about her, she had the same pathetic quality as the little calves he had driven to the butcher that morning. He looked at her as he had looked at them. Poor little devils, he had thought, a pity that they had to be killed...
    A look of alarm came into Rosaleen's eyes. She asked uneasily: “What are you thinking of, Rowley?”
    “Would you like to see over the farm and the dairy?”
    “Oh, indeed, I would.”
    Amused by her interest he took her all over the farm. But when he finally suggested making her a cup of tea, an alarmed expression came into her eyes.
    “Oh, no - thank you, Rowley - I'd best be getting home.” She looked down at her watch. “Oh! how late it is! David will be back by the 5.20 train. He'll wonder where I am. I - I must hurry.” She added shyly: “I have enjoyed myself, Rowley.”
    And that, he thought, was true. She had enjoyed herself. She had been able to be natural - to be her own raw unsophisticated self. She was afraid of her brother David, that was clear. David was the brains of the family. Well, for once, she'd had an afternoon out -