Free The Golden Maze by Hilary Wilde Page A

boy bringing in my luggage?"
    Peter raised an eyebrow. "You've come to stay?"
    "Of course. You'll need a woman's hand here." She looked round the lofty cold room and at the big oil paintings on the wall. "It has gone to seed, hasn't it? I can't wait to explore it." She turned swiftly to Cindy, her eyes bright with suspicion. "I suppose you've been over it from top to toe with a magnifying glass," Yvonne Todd added bitterly.
    "Naturally Cindy was interested in what she believed might be her castle," Peter said quietly.
    Cindy wondered what she should do. Her inclination was to rush out of the room, for why should she stand there to be insulted? Yet Peter was defending her ... it was puzzling. Yvonne Todd was everything
     
    Cindy wished she could be—tall, slim, those huge " dark eyes, the high cheekbones, the husky voice ...
    "Mrs. Stone will show you to a room," Peter said, turning to the tall thin silent woman who was still standing just outside the door, her eyes bright with curiosity. "I'm sorry at such short notice, Mrs. Stone, but I wasn't expecting Miss Todd."
    Cindy saw the colour flame in Yvonne's cheeks and the quick intake of breath she gave. So Yvonne Todd had come up uninvited?
    "Yvonne," Peter swung round, "if you're hungry, I'm sure Mrs. Stone would make you an omelette. I understood you were on a diet." He looked at his watch. "I must go. I have an appointment with Mr. Fairhead." He glanced at Cindy. "I'm sure you can find plenty to do and I imagine Yvonne will be busy unpacking her incredible amount of luggage, so I suggest we all meet for tea."
    He walked past Yvonne, who took a step back, showing her surprise. Cindy hurried after him, trying to get to the stairs. She was going to start packing immediately, and while Peter was with Mr. Fairhead, she could quietly slip away.
    But at the foot of the stairs, Peter caught her by the arm. "I'm sorry, Cindy, for her rudeness. Yvonne believes in calling a spade a spade."
    Cindy looked at him. "She doesn't just call a spade a spade, she ..." she stopped herself in time. What was the good of losing her temper? It wouldn't help. She looked up at him"Look, Peter, I think it would be better for us all if I go back to London. I can always sleep on the way if it gets foggy, as I did coming up."
     
    He looked at her, his thick eyebrows moving together.
    "You promised," he said gently. "I had an idea you always kept your word."
    "But . . . but you don't need me now. You have her."
    "Suppose I don't want her?"
    Cindy managed to laugh. "Please ! Look, I'm sure I'll only be in the way .. ."
    His hand tightened on her arm. "Please," he echoed.
    She sighed, "All right . . ."
    "Good girl ! See you later," Peter smiled, and hurried out of the front door while Cindy, giving a quick glance at the five enormous suitcases piled up in the hall, fled up the stairs. How long did Yvonne Todd propose to stay? she wondered. How close were Yvonne and Peter? He had been almost rude and she had been angry in a possessive way. It seemed to be a strange sort of . . . well, relationship.
    Alone in her bedroom, Cindy locked the door, got out Uncle Robert's diary, curled up on the windowsill, the electric fire switched on and a blanket round her shoulders, for the rooms were too big to heat quickley.
    She read slowly the tiny beautifully written words, because it was difficult. It seemed odd that a successful business man who was, apparently, rather a tyrant could have written with such care, obviously thinking about each word before he wrote it.
    It was sad reading. He admitted frankly that he regretted so much of his past. He wrote of his wife, `so gentle that it irritated me immensely',—of his son,
     
    `too much like me. Maybe that is why we constantly clashed.'
    Cindy was searching for the mention of his illness, of the day his son had come to see him and he had rejected him, telling Mrs. Stone to tell his son that he never wanted to see him again.
    Somehow it didn't make sense—unless