Free The Silent Tide by Rachel Hore

skirt, flowery blouse and jumper. Taking up a thick cloth, she opened one of the doors of the stove, inspected the contents of a pot and gave it a stir. ‘That’s all right,’ she said, pushing it back. ‘Let me have your coat. I’ll take you through.’
    The kitchen must have been Lorna’s domain, for in it she was a different person from the nervous chauffeur, more relaxed, the evidence of domestic interests all around. She changed again, however, as they passed into the main part of the house. She trod softly and wore a furtive look. Emily sensed why. This big light hall belonged to someone else. It was colder than the kitchen and painted white and pale blue.
    Lorna tapped on a door at the far end of the hall and waited. At the sound of a voice, they entered a spacious drawing room with book-lined walls.
    ‘Emily’s here, Mother,’ Lorna Morton announced. Emily walked across an acre of blue carpet to where an old lady was rising with effort from a chair by the fire.
    ‘How do you do?’ Jacqueline Morton said.
    ‘Very pleased to meet you.’ Emily took the outstretched hand, which felt as light and strong as a bird’s wing. She thought how regal and commanding the woman was in her navy-blue suit, the gold buttons of the jacket complementing her earrings and necklace, how composed. Her hair, scooped into a pleat behind, gleamed an expensive creamy white. Wide-spaced eyes of faded blue examined Emily. Finally her thin lips curved in a smile. genuinely bi‘
    ‘Do you know Joel Richards?’ she said, indicating the young man who’d stood up from the sofa. He looked oddly familiar, though she couldn’t think from where.
    ‘I don’t think so,’ Emily said brightly, as he came forward. ‘Hello.’
    Joel Richards was tallish and broad-shouldered. His reddish-brown hair, though long, was neatly trimmed, as was the trace of a beard. Hazel eyes met hers and there was warmth in them. He was smartly dressed in a soft-brown suit and collarless shirt.
    ‘Hi, Emily,’ he murmured with an easy charm. His accent had a northern tinge, pleasing to the ear. A firm hand enveloped hers. His eyes said, Do I know you?
    ‘Joel,’ said Mrs Morton, ‘was talking about Duke’s College in London. They hold some of Hugh’s manuscripts.’
    Duke’s, that was Matthew’s college. And Emily suddenly knew where she’d seen Joel before.
    ‘Weren’t you at the poetry launch in Frith Street last Friday?’ she asked him. She remembered how he’d stood on his own, surveying the room. How he’d given her that same small, secretive smile.
    ‘That’s it. I thought I’d seen you somewhere,’ he said, his face lighting up. ‘Tobias Berryman is a friend of mine. He took me along as we were having dinner together later.’
    ‘Oh, you know one another – how simply marvellous,’ Mrs Morton said with a touch of sarcasm, bringing everyone’s attention back to herself.
     
    ‘And this is Hugh’s study.’
    Mrs Morton opened the door off the hall with an air of reverence, as though they might be interrupting the great man at his desk. There was, of course, no one there, though the foggy daylight gave the room an eerie atmosphere. A big, leather-topped desk lay before the window, a sheaf of papers splayed across it, a fountain pen lying by the blotter.
    ‘These are all first editions.’ Mrs Morton was showing Emily the bookcase. The volumes were in many languages and the majority, Emily gauged, were The Silent Tide. She spotted a copy of the novel whose title she’d forgotten, the one her teacher had made her read, about the writers on an island retreat, then noticed one even more familiar. It was an exact copy of the little book she had in her bag: Coming Home.
    Mrs Morton was now opening the top drawer of one of several large metal filing cabinets at the back of the room to show Joel some of the files. ‘The correspondence with Kingsley Amis, yes, here . . . the letters about the honour Hugh really had to refuse . . .’ she