Free The Smile of the Stranger by Joan Aiken Page B

be ill, dead, away from home, the house empty? General Paget might have died during the year since his son had written to him. Or, on the other hand, he might be at home—indeed, a blue thread of smoke ascending from one of the chimneys certainly suggested that somebody was there—but he might be entertaining fashionable company—dozens of elegant strangers — not at all disposed to welcome the sudden arrival of his ill, weary son and dirty, travel-worn granddaughter. Or perhaps he had sold his ancestral home to strangers, on whom the travelers would not have the slightest claim ...
    The chaise pulled up beside a wide flight of shallow brick steps which led up to the main entrance—a massive oaken door set in under a round archway. To Juliana ’ s mingled relief and apprehension, a black-clad manservant appeared in the doorway, descended the steps as the carriage rolled to a stop, and came to open its door.
    “Good day. I am Sir Horace Paget ’ s granddaughter,” Juliana informed the man, in her pretty, accented English, thinking to herself how strange the words sounded. “I am come with my father—Mr. Charles Paget—we have just arrived from France. I believe my grandfather is expecting us?”
    “Yes, miss,” said the man, whose expressionless face gave no intimation as to whether he meant that Juliana and her father were indeed expected, or merely that he had heard and understood what she said.
    “My father is—is not quite well,” Juliana went on hurriedly. “The journey has fatigued him dreadfully—he is sleeping at present. I think it—it might be best if you could summon assistance—perhaps he could be carried in a chair—and taken straight to a bed?”
    “I will apprise Sir Horace of your arrival, miss, and instruct some of the footmen to assist Mr. Charles and see to the disposal of your baggage,” said the expressionless major-domo. “Would you care to step this way, miss?”
    Juliana, however, did not like to leave her father, or rouse him until more practical help was forthcoming, and so she waited beside the carriage, feeling very uncomfortable, and very conspicuous, as if all the diamond-paned windows of the house were holding her under observation. She was wretchedly conscious of her hair, which hung in rat ’ s-tails, for any order achieved with the aid of the landlady ’ s comb had long since been deranged by the jolting of the carriage. The inn mirror had told her that she was pale and hollow-eyed. As for our baggage, she thought, no doubt the revolutionary mayor of St.-Servan has long since confiscated it. I only hope that one of my grandfather ’ s housemaids is somewhere near my size, so that I can borrow a nightgown from her.
    “Papa,” she said tentatively through the open carriage door. “I—I believe this must be Grandfather coming to greet you.”
    A tall old man was slowly descending the shallow steps, with the aid of a cane. She had time to observe that his likeness to her father was very pronounced. He had the same classic regularity of feature, the same clear blue eyes. But his face lacked the gentleness and kindliness of her father ’ s: it seemed stern , set in austere and humorless lines. He wore a somewhat old-fashioned costume of black frock coat, knee breeches, silk stockings, and buckled shoes. He wore a wig, but his eyebrows were frosty white.
    Juliana walked forward to meet him and curtsied.
    “How do you do, sir?” she said. “I—I believe I cannot mistake? Are you not my grandfather?”
    He quickly withdrew his hands behind his back, looking at her without visible pleasure, and ejaculated a loud “Humph!” After a moments frowning survey of her, with his lips pressed together and jaw thrust forward, he remarked, “At all events, you don ’ t appear to favor that designing hussy. Don ’ t know who you do favor! Not anybody in my family. Well, don ’ t stand there mum, girl! Where ’ s your father?”
    “He—he has been sadly indisposed,