there’s something I think you should know.”
His voice was as snuffly as ever, but lacked the normal lighthearted overtones.
“It’s about Juliet, old boy.”
CHAPTER 5
W hat about Juliet?”
“I expect she’d tell you herself, if she hasn’t done so already. I suppose she hasn’t?”
“Hasn’t told me what, for heaven’s sake? How do I know?” I asked, and couldn’t keep the irritation out of my voice.
It was late, and I know now that subconsciously I was beginning to worry about Juliet’s attitude.
“I can’t tell you whether she has or whether she hasn’t, unless you tell what she might or might not have told me, or be about to tell me, can I? Well, can I?”
He turned round from the mantelpiece and gawked down at me, tall and spindly, and I noticed that his tow-coloured moustache had not turned as grey as his thin hair. He looked, as he sometimes implied to other people that he was, like a former member of a crack cavalry regiment officered by rich young men, though I knew from Elaine Bristow that in fact he had been in the Pay Corps during the last war.
“Well, it’s only fair you should know, old boy—in point of fact, Juliet is not really our daughter. She’s an adopted child.”
He looked anxiously at me, swirling his whisky in his glass. He looked really worried. I could have laughed in his face.
So far from feeling dismay, I was aware of a surge of relief that Juliet was not the result of the marriage of this uninteresting couple; and mingled with the relief, piercing through it, here and there, I began to ponder certain things, such as her dark, withdrawn attractiveness, her mixture of gaiety and seriousness, the touch of mystery about her, the occasional secretive look. Were they due to her blood or to the knowledge she had of herself? Had she, in fact, suspected the truth long before they confirmed it? An overheard remark, a hastily broken off conversation, can reveal more to a child than adults realise. Children are no fools.
None of her characteristics could have stemmed from the Bristows, and I should have known it; and even if, as I had thought, she had had some more interesting ancestor, the dull Bristow blood would have thinned it beyond hope.
“My dear Stanley, what on earth does that matter?” I said lightly, and realised that in my relief that Juliet was a full-blooded non-Bristow I had for the first time called him by his Christian name.
“I hoped you’d say that, old boy. I’d have said the same myself. I’ll tell you about her parents, I’ll tell you something she doesn’t know herself.”
“You don’t need to.”
“It’s only fair, old boy.”
He went ostentatiously to the door, opened it quietly, an inch or two, as if to make sure that nobody was coming along the passage, then closed it and walked back to the fireplace.
“Actually, I’d rather not know,” I said quickly. “I’d rather not have that sort of secret between Juliet and me.”
“I think you should, old boy—you see she’s only half English.”
He spoke in a half whisper, and looked at me as if he expected me to fall down in a dead faint.
“Half English–half Italian,” he muttered. “Remember that hotel I recommended near Sorrento? Remember Signor Bardoni? That’s her father. Good fellow, eh? Don’t know her mother, old boy. English, but just a name—Smith, or Brown or something. Disappeared. Got it?”
I nodded. I’d got it all right. But I couldn’t speak.
“And she doesn’t know?”
“She knows she’s an adopted child, old boy. But she doesn’t know who her parents are, she doesn’t know Bardoni is her father. And her father doesn’t know who adopted her. That’s the way these adoptions go, of course, and quite right, too, old boy, saves a lot of trouble and heartache in later years. But I found out—through a friend of a friend. You know? Made inquiries. Can’t be too careful.”
“And you went and stayed at the hotel a couple of years ago? You and
His voice was as snuffly as ever, but lacked the normal lighthearted overtones.
“It’s about Juliet, old boy.”
CHAPTER 5
W hat about Juliet?”
“I expect she’d tell you herself, if she hasn’t done so already. I suppose she hasn’t?”
“Hasn’t told me what, for heaven’s sake? How do I know?” I asked, and couldn’t keep the irritation out of my voice.
It was late, and I know now that subconsciously I was beginning to worry about Juliet’s attitude.
“I can’t tell you whether she has or whether she hasn’t, unless you tell what she might or might not have told me, or be about to tell me, can I? Well, can I?”
He turned round from the mantelpiece and gawked down at me, tall and spindly, and I noticed that his tow-coloured moustache had not turned as grey as his thin hair. He looked, as he sometimes implied to other people that he was, like a former member of a crack cavalry regiment officered by rich young men, though I knew from Elaine Bristow that in fact he had been in the Pay Corps during the last war.
“Well, it’s only fair you should know, old boy—in point of fact, Juliet is not really our daughter. She’s an adopted child.”
He looked anxiously at me, swirling his whisky in his glass. He looked really worried. I could have laughed in his face.
So far from feeling dismay, I was aware of a surge of relief that Juliet was not the result of the marriage of this uninteresting couple; and mingled with the relief, piercing through it, here and there, I began to ponder certain things, such as her dark, withdrawn attractiveness, her mixture of gaiety and seriousness, the touch of mystery about her, the occasional secretive look. Were they due to her blood or to the knowledge she had of herself? Had she, in fact, suspected the truth long before they confirmed it? An overheard remark, a hastily broken off conversation, can reveal more to a child than adults realise. Children are no fools.
None of her characteristics could have stemmed from the Bristows, and I should have known it; and even if, as I had thought, she had had some more interesting ancestor, the dull Bristow blood would have thinned it beyond hope.
“My dear Stanley, what on earth does that matter?” I said lightly, and realised that in my relief that Juliet was a full-blooded non-Bristow I had for the first time called him by his Christian name.
“I hoped you’d say that, old boy. I’d have said the same myself. I’ll tell you about her parents, I’ll tell you something she doesn’t know herself.”
“You don’t need to.”
“It’s only fair, old boy.”
He went ostentatiously to the door, opened it quietly, an inch or two, as if to make sure that nobody was coming along the passage, then closed it and walked back to the fireplace.
“Actually, I’d rather not know,” I said quickly. “I’d rather not have that sort of secret between Juliet and me.”
“I think you should, old boy—you see she’s only half English.”
He spoke in a half whisper, and looked at me as if he expected me to fall down in a dead faint.
“Half English–half Italian,” he muttered. “Remember that hotel I recommended near Sorrento? Remember Signor Bardoni? That’s her father. Good fellow, eh? Don’t know her mother, old boy. English, but just a name—Smith, or Brown or something. Disappeared. Got it?”
I nodded. I’d got it all right. But I couldn’t speak.
“And she doesn’t know?”
“She knows she’s an adopted child, old boy. But she doesn’t know who her parents are, she doesn’t know Bardoni is her father. And her father doesn’t know who adopted her. That’s the way these adoptions go, of course, and quite right, too, old boy, saves a lot of trouble and heartache in later years. But I found out—through a friend of a friend. You know? Made inquiries. Can’t be too careful.”
“And you went and stayed at the hotel a couple of years ago? You and
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