something depressing into something sinister. So much so thatEmilia suddenly stopped short and said, “Do let’s go. I can’t bear this stifling atmosphere one second longer.”
“Let me look in this last room,” John answered. “I’m sure this is where the fire was.” He threw open the door and they both drew breath. A fully furnished salon lay beyond, not only that but tricked out in the most sumptuous and modern style with heavy brocade curtains and elegant appointments. Beyond that again and visible through a partly opened door was the last room in the suite — a bedroom of unsurpassed luxury and elegance. Sure enough a fire had been recently lit in the drawing room grate and, to judge from the warmth of the two rooms, in that of the far chamber as well.
“Zounds,” said John, “so there’s somebody living here after all.”
Emilia, her courage much restored, walked through and into the bedroom.
“It’s a woman,” she called, “some of her clothes are in the press.”
But her husband did not answer, temporarily absorbed in a study of the living quarters, trying to discover whether one or two people occupied these extraordinary premises.
A duchesse en bateau very similar to that owned by his great friend Serafina de Vignolles stood before the fire, a very feminine piece of furniture if ever there was one. And though a chair had been drawn up on the other side of the hearth there was no sign of anyone having sat in it recently. Further, on a low table close to the couch, stood a decanter of wine, a small plate of fruit, some consumed, and one glass.
“I think she lives here alone,” John called, and walked into the bedroom to find his wife. She was standing by the window, a miniature in her hand, staring at it enraptured. “Look at this,” she said admiringly. “Is he not the most handsome creature you ever set eyes on?” Very slightly offended, John took it from her and moved into the light. The likeness of a young man, probably aged about eighteen, stared back at him from gorgeous eyes, a most stunning colour, almost mauve, according to the artist. It was a truly lovely face, somewhat feminine in its beauty, but for all that, if the miniaturist had been true to his subject, in a class of its own.
“I wonder who he is,” said Emilia, taking another look.
“Surely not one of the brutal young Thornes.”
“Oh no, there’s no cruelty in this face.”
“Well, whoever, you’d best put it back where you found it. I wouldn’t want the mysterious tenant to know she’s had visitors.”
“You’re sure it’s a woman?”
“Certain. And there’s no sign of a man living with her.”
“But who would choose … “ started Emilia, and then froze as the distant sound of footsteps walking with a hard confident tread over the bare boards of the decaying East wing broke the profound silence of Wildtor Grange.
She looked at John, her face frantic. “What shall we do?”
For no good reason, he lost his nerve. The combination of the frightful house and the legend that went with it, together with the discovery of some unknown person residing within the crumbling edifice, proving too much for him. Grabbing his wife by the arm, John hissed, “We hide.”
Eyes darting, they looked round and saw that a small dressing room led off the bedroom. As one they fled into it and into the clothes cupboard that stood inside. With the door open the merest crack, just enough to give them space to see out, the Apothecary and his wife waited in fearful silence.
With a bang the door to the living room flew wide and those confident feet, booted to judge by the noise they made, strode inside. Then came the sound of wine being poured into a glass and someone hurling themselves onto the couch in order to drink it.
John peered wildly but could see nothing, the woman — or whoever it was — being totally out of his line of vision. There was a long silence, then the feet descended to the floor once more and
“Let me look in this last room,” John answered. “I’m sure this is where the fire was.” He threw open the door and they both drew breath. A fully furnished salon lay beyond, not only that but tricked out in the most sumptuous and modern style with heavy brocade curtains and elegant appointments. Beyond that again and visible through a partly opened door was the last room in the suite — a bedroom of unsurpassed luxury and elegance. Sure enough a fire had been recently lit in the drawing room grate and, to judge from the warmth of the two rooms, in that of the far chamber as well.
“Zounds,” said John, “so there’s somebody living here after all.”
Emilia, her courage much restored, walked through and into the bedroom.
“It’s a woman,” she called, “some of her clothes are in the press.”
But her husband did not answer, temporarily absorbed in a study of the living quarters, trying to discover whether one or two people occupied these extraordinary premises.
A duchesse en bateau very similar to that owned by his great friend Serafina de Vignolles stood before the fire, a very feminine piece of furniture if ever there was one. And though a chair had been drawn up on the other side of the hearth there was no sign of anyone having sat in it recently. Further, on a low table close to the couch, stood a decanter of wine, a small plate of fruit, some consumed, and one glass.
“I think she lives here alone,” John called, and walked into the bedroom to find his wife. She was standing by the window, a miniature in her hand, staring at it enraptured. “Look at this,” she said admiringly. “Is he not the most handsome creature you ever set eyes on?” Very slightly offended, John took it from her and moved into the light. The likeness of a young man, probably aged about eighteen, stared back at him from gorgeous eyes, a most stunning colour, almost mauve, according to the artist. It was a truly lovely face, somewhat feminine in its beauty, but for all that, if the miniaturist had been true to his subject, in a class of its own.
“I wonder who he is,” said Emilia, taking another look.
“Surely not one of the brutal young Thornes.”
“Oh no, there’s no cruelty in this face.”
“Well, whoever, you’d best put it back where you found it. I wouldn’t want the mysterious tenant to know she’s had visitors.”
“You’re sure it’s a woman?”
“Certain. And there’s no sign of a man living with her.”
“But who would choose … “ started Emilia, and then froze as the distant sound of footsteps walking with a hard confident tread over the bare boards of the decaying East wing broke the profound silence of Wildtor Grange.
She looked at John, her face frantic. “What shall we do?”
For no good reason, he lost his nerve. The combination of the frightful house and the legend that went with it, together with the discovery of some unknown person residing within the crumbling edifice, proving too much for him. Grabbing his wife by the arm, John hissed, “We hide.”
Eyes darting, they looked round and saw that a small dressing room led off the bedroom. As one they fled into it and into the clothes cupboard that stood inside. With the door open the merest crack, just enough to give them space to see out, the Apothecary and his wife waited in fearful silence.
With a bang the door to the living room flew wide and those confident feet, booted to judge by the noise they made, strode inside. Then came the sound of wine being poured into a glass and someone hurling themselves onto the couch in order to drink it.
John peered wildly but could see nothing, the woman — or whoever it was — being totally out of his line of vision. There was a long silence, then the feet descended to the floor once more and
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