Free Winterwood by Dorothy Eden Page B

her.
    Then he was in the doorway again, not smiling, but looking at her with his too observant eyes.
    “You have streaks down your cheeks, Miss Hurst. Is it the heat?”
    Lavinia opened her eyes wide, willing the tears to be dry.
    “Yes, it’s dreadfully hot. I tried opening the shutters, but that made it worse. But I’ve got everything packed to the last handkerchief, in spite of an interruption by Mr. Peate.”
    “What did he want?” Daniel’s voice had ceased to be friendly.
    “He made a call on his aunt.”
    “Deathbeds become quite a family reunion, had you ever noticed, Miss Hurst?”
    “I am not very familiar with deathbeds, Mr. Meryon.”
    “No. Well—the old lady seems fond of Mr. Peate, or so my wife assures me, so I expect he does no harm. I wonder if I could make Fernanda understand that we would like some lemon tea. You look fatigued.”
    Lavinia was about to protest, then subsided gratefully.
    “That would be very pleasant, Mr. Meryon. I confess I do feel a little tired.”
    Again, while he was gone, she forgot to tidy herself, but sat waiting passively for him to return. He was gone for a long time and when he returned he was carrying the tea tray himself.
    “This isn’t a conventional establishment. My wife’s aunt seems to be quite eccentric. Apparently she refuses to pay servants. She imagines they rob her. Well, by tomorrow there won’t be much to rob her of.” He threw the dust sheet off a tapestry-backed chair and sat down. “It’s sad, don’t you agree, seeing a great house break up.”
    He knew that the marks on her cheeks had been made by tears. He was giving her the opportunity to attribute them to the air of pervading and haunted melancholy in this old house.
    “Yes, I wonder who will live here next. Shall I pour the tea, Mr. Meryon?”
    “Please do. A rich American, perhaps. They are beginning to discover Europe and the fascination of living in houses to which centuries have given their individual atmosphere. Winterwood is like that. Each generation has added something to it. My grandfather built the ballroom, my great-grandfather had the gardens landscaped. My father contented himself with bringing back statuary from Greece and Egypt. We have sphinxes on the terrace. My grandfather built the Temple of Virtue in the shrubbery. He was a wonderful old pagan.”
    “And what is your contribution, Mr. Meryon?”
    “So far nothing. But I have plans. My wife calls them grandiose. A new wing was always meant to be added, according to the original plans. Up to this time no one has had enough money.”
    “And you intend to be the one to do it?”
    “I hope so. Then Winterwood will be one of the most beautiful houses in England. My son Simon will inherit, and after him his son. I’ll become the ancestor who built the new wing. Which, in its way, is a form of immortality. Do you think that attitude is wrong, Miss Hurst?”
    Lavinia roused herself from watching his face and wondering if it ever grew soft like that for a woman.
    “No, I don’t think it wrong, at all.”
    “My wife thinks me a little too dedicated to a house. She thinks it a religion. I wonder if that’s such a bad thing.”
    Charlotte must be jealous of his house. She wondered if she would be, too.
    “I only look forward to seeing it.”
    “And I look forward to showing it to you.”
    Their eyes met across the dim room.
    “You must wash your face, Miss Hurst.”
    “Yes. Yes, it’s the dust. And the heat.”
    His eyes lingered.
    Then he said, “Are we working you too hard? Are you sorry you didn’t travel with that quiet elderly couple, after all?”
    She would have been safe with the Monks. Now she wasn’t safe at all. There was Jonathon Peate with his veiled threats, and this man who noticed her or ignored her as he pleased.
    “Then I would have missed Winterwood, which you make me think would be a pity.”
    “You must guard against us, Miss Hurst,” he said suddenly.
    “What do you mean?”
    “We’re