Free I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith Page B

different she had been in her black mood not half an hour before, and that made me remember her wishing on the devil-angel. Just then, a queer thing happened. Simon Cotton had seemed about equally fascinated by Rose and the kitchen—he kept turning from one to the other. He had taken out his torch-only he called it a flashlight-to examine the fireplace wall (i was dressed by then) and after he had shone it up at the stone head, he went to the narrow window that looks on to the moat, in the darkest corner of the kitchen. The torch went out and he turned it to see if the bulb had gone. And that second, it came on again. For an instant, the shadow of his head was thrown on the wall and, owing to the pointed heard, it was exactly like the Devil.
    Rose saw it just as I did and gave a gasp.
    He turned to her quickly, but just then Heloise walked through the green sheets and upset a clothes-horse, which created a diversion.
    I helped it on by calling, “Hcl, Hcl,” and explaining Heloise was sometimes called that for short—which went well, though a worn-out joke to the Mortmain family. But I couldn’t forget the shadow. It is nonsense, of course—I never saw anyone with kinder eyes.
    But Rose is very superstitious. I wonder if the younger brother has any money. He was as nice to Rose as Simon Cotton was. And quite a bit nice to There was one dramatic moment when Simon asked me if we owned the castle and I answered: “No—you do!”
    I hastily added that we had nearly thirty years of our lease to run.
    I wonder if leases count if you don’t pay the rent. I did not, of course, mention the rent. I felt it might be damping.
    After we had all been talking for twenty minutes or so, Topaz came down wearing her old tweed coat and skirt.
    She rarely wears tweeds even in the daytime and never, never in the evening-they make her look dreary, just washed-out instead of excitingly white so I was most astonished; particularly as the door of her room was slightly open and she must have known who had arrived.
    I have refrained from asking her why she made the worst of herself. Perhaps she thought the tweeds would give our family a county air.
    We introduced the Cottons and she talked a little but seemed very subdued—what was the matter with her last night? After a few minutes she began to make cocoa—there was no other drink to offer except water; I had even used the last of the tea for Thomas and very dusty it was.
    We never rise to cocoa in the evening unless it is a special occasion -like someone being ill, or to make up a family row-and I hated to think that Thomas and Stephen seemed likely to miss it; they were still away getting horses from Four Stones to pull the car out.
    I felt, too, that Father ought to be in on any form of nourishment that was loose in the house, but I knew it was useless to ask him to come and meet strangers—I was afraid that even if he came down for a biscuit, he would hear voices when he got as far as his bedroom and turn back. Suddenly, the back door burst open and in he came—it had started to rain heavily again and it is quicker to rush across the courtyard than go carefully along the top of the walls. He was freely damning the weather and the fact that his oil-stove had begun to smoke, and as he had his rug over his head, he didn’t see the Cottons until he was right in the midst of things.
    Topaz stopped mixing cocoa and said very distinctly and proudly: “This is my husband, James Mortmain.”
    And then a wonderful thing happened. Simon Cotton said:
    “But—oh, this is a miracle! You must be the author of Jacob Wrestling.”
    Father stared at him with a look in his eyes that I can only describe as desperate. At first I thought it was because he had been cornered by strangers. Then he said: “Why, yes . ” in a curious, tentative way and I suddenly realized that he was terribly pleased, but not quite believing. I can imagine a shipwrecked man, catching sight of a ship, looking like Father did