Free A Winter's Child by Brenda Jagger

notice, his rightful place beside his wife, presenting to Claire a pale, wispy, fine-boned man with an amiable smile who reminded her at once of a high-bred, high-tensioned, none too robust greyhound.
    â€˜How very nice to see you again.’
    â€˜And Nola?’
    She held out her hand to a woman who offered no more than the tips of lacquered, languid fingers in return, barely troubling to raise her painted eyelids to look the new arrival up and down, although her glance, when it came, was speculative, shrewd, rather too prolonged for good manners.
    â€˜Did we meet,’ she said, ‘when you were here before?’
    Claire smiled. ‘I think so.’ Of course they had met. They both knew it. But Claire had been a child then, of no interest to Nola either as a rival or as an ally. She was a child no longer. The lacquered hand fell idly to Nola’s side, her lean body in its narrow, grape-purple dress folded back into her chair, one leg thrown across the other, its shape perfectly visible through the thin, crepe fabric in a manner which always made Miriam uncomfortable.
    â€˜Well, well – I suppose we shall be meeting again.’
    â€˜Do come and sit by me,’ said Miriam, who had not for one moment relinquished Claire’s arm. ‘Here, dear, on this sofa, while we are waiting for Benedict. My word, how very smart you look.’
    But, had she cared to tell the truth, Claire’s dark red dress, cut like some kind of oriental tunic with a fringed sash loosely knotted around the hips was no more to her taste than it had been to Dorothy Lyall’s, or Edward’s. It was too plain, too severe, yet, at the same time, and although the word itself was in neither Miriam’s nor Dorothy’s vocabulary, too sensual; revealing not flesh as they themselves triumphantly revealed their nude arms and shoulders, but the whole of a long, supple silhouette, a new shape and concept of femininity which seemed alien to them and, therefore, dangerous.
    But Dorothy, who had long since relinquished the dream of a ringleted daughter in white organdie, had made no comment when Claire had come downstairs that evening, having taken the precaution beforehand of pointing out to Edward that, since Nola Swanfield was famous for her outlandish wardrobe, the family at High Meadows must surely be accustomed to such things – might even like them – and would not take Claire’s eccentricities amiss.
    And indeed – although it was Miriam who noticed this, not Dorothy – there was something about the way Claire’s slender body moved beneath that skimpy, Ballet Russe tunic which had a grace and softness lacking in Nola, an air of distance about her which was not cool – like Benedict – but composed of varied and subtle nuances, hints of sorrow and humour, of gentleness and firmness combined, which gave her smooth oval face a most decided fascination.
    Miriam liked the composure of Claire’s hands with their pointed, polished nails. She liked the long, jet earrings swinging from small lobes set close to the head, accentuating the elegant curve of the neck and jaw. Somewhat against her own better judgement she liked the dark, heavy hair cut in those geometric, vaguely oriental lines, woman’s ‘crowning glory’ shorn in a disturbing yet oddly piquant way.
    Certainly not the well-mannered child Miriam had remembered. Nor the biddable, deceivable, uncritical companion she had imagined. Instead fate, as always, had been kind to Miriam and, understanding her needs better than she did herself, had delivered into her hands an attractive woman, interesting, unusual, resourceful, probably entertaining, who would suit her far better than any docile, grateful girl. And it was not until she had sat Claire down beside her and thoroughly contemplated this delightful turn of events, that she remembered Jeremy.
    At once her eyes filled with tears and, her hot pink cheek coming rather