Free The Spider-Orchid by Celia Fremlin Page B

rather good, I think you said …”
    “ I said? Why, I never even …”
    “But of course,” continued Adrian smoothly, “the witch in Hansel and Gretel was also very good at making gingerbread, was she not? Is that what you had in mind?”
    Rita clenched and unclenched her white knuckles. She knew that Adrian was taking the mickey in his effortless, intellectualising way, but she couldn’t grasp his meaning sufficiently to be ready with an appropriate come-back. So she did the only other thing she could do: she burst into tears.
    *
    The reconciliation was sweet, though perhaps a little perfunctory on Adrian’s part, as he was anxious to get back to his work. He was relieved, and very pleasantly surprised, that Rita seemed unperturbed by the slightly unflattering haste with which he scrambled back into his clothes and reseated himself at the desk. She even had a little smile playing around her lips as she lay and watched him.
    “ I’ll show him! ” she was thinking. “Just let him wait! I’ll teach him!”

CHAPTER VII
    A T THE SIGHT of the careful, faded handwriting of so long ago, Amelia’s sleepiness left her, and with a little frisson of excitement she turned over the first of the fragile, whispering pages, and began to read:
    February 13th, 1854
    I, Amelia Caroline Ponsonby, aged 14 yrs and one day, am about to pen the first, momentous words of this my Journal.
    Would that I could think of words worthy of so solemn an occasion, for it is in no light spirit that I lay my hand to this task. This Journal which I begin today will be with me all my life long. Thru’ all the years to come, I shall confide to these pages all my Joys and my Sorrows, and even my Sins, and the most hidden Secrets of my Heart.
    May the Good Lord keep me from Sins that are as Scarlet, and I pray that I may never need to confide any Such to this Journal. May no eyes other than mine ever look upon these pages, save only the Eye of God Almighty.
    Mamma says that 2¾ yards of Petersham should be sufficient for the braiding of my dress, but Mrs T. declares she will need 3 at least, to allow for turnings.
    There was something distinctly reassuring about this last sentence. If the hidden secrets of Miss Amelia Ponsonby’s heart were to be of this calibre, then surely one need feel no guilt at perusing them?
    Because a few moments earlier, the Amelia of the 1970s had been feeling guilty. All that about, “No other eyes than mine…” —well, it did make you think. The long-ago Amelia could hardly have made her wishes in the matter plainer, or more emphatic.
    Still—a hundred years ! More than a hundred! The childish hand which had formed that careful copperplate had been dust these many decades; the secrets of the childish heart were gone as if they had never been, like a candle-flame long blown out.
    A hundred years! How would I feel, Amelia asked herself, ifthey were to find my diary after all that time, and read the things I’ve written about Mr Owen? About him leaning over Daphne’s shoulder, and what she said afterwards? I’d die, of course, if anyone were to read it now : but after more than a hundred years….?
    In a hundred years, Daphne, herself, and Mr Owen would all be dead and in their graves. At the thought of herself and Mr Owen (she couldn’t be bothered about Daphne) being dead and in their graves, warm, delicious tears began to trickle down Amelia’s cheeks, and she began composing epitaphs for their lonely moorland tomb:
    “Here lie two lovers, hearts entwined.”
    “Even in Death were they not divided.”
    “Amor vincit Omnia”
    —as, indeed, it would need to do if the two of them were to fetch up in the same grave despite Mr Owen being a married man.
    *
    Brushing the tears from her eyes, Amelia turned another of the brittle pages, and read on:
    February 18th
    Our new governess arrived this morning. Jevons took the carriage to meet the Coach at Penton’s Corner, and Thomas went with him to help with her boxes.