Читать книгу So Evil My Love: Based on a True Crime Story - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 13

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The volatile Susan was in high spirits. Old Mrs. Rue had returned to Blackheath; she had her own dependents and affairs she could not leave long untroubled, and though she would undoubtedly soon return to her son’s house, Susan was never inclined to think of the future. The hag has gone, reflected Mrs. Sacret, to consider her next move.

She rejoiced with Susan and gave her a light account of the new tenant—“an eccentric fellow, who traveled about—a kind of journeyman painter, who wants a place to keep his canvases and paints. We are taking an inventory of my things—a tedious task. I shall go over every morning for an hour or so.”

“Oh, I can take you in the carriage, on my way to the park.”

“No—I’ll walk over. I have several little affairs to settle in the neighborhood.”

“Walk, all that way!” Susan was disturbed, her fine eyes cast an appealing glance at her friend.

“And I can do some errands for you,” said Mrs. Sacret firmly. “Match your silks. Make inquiries for the goldfish you wanted. And the aeolian harp for your window—and see Miss Sermoine for you. And there is the sherry to fetch. I think it would be an excellent plan for Miss Sermoine to come and help you with your music,” she added sweetly.

“I don’t care about music, really,” sighed Susan, with a desolate glance at the grand pianoforte, draped with a pale, yellow silk shawl that twisted around a bowl of hothouse orchids, chocolate and green patched.

“It is an employment for you, Susan. You are so idle. I cannot be with you always. And when I am not with you, you sit and mope, or read silly novelettes.”

“You know that Martin doesn’t want me to see company, save his friends, and they are so dull and seem to spy on me, and I don’t care about it—but pianoforte playing doesn’t attract me. Perhaps I might have a little dog—a spaniel?”

“Perhaps. Though they are such noisy, nasty creatures. The goldfish are better as pets.”

“They, too, are dull,” protested Susan timidly.

“What do you want, dear? I can’t give my whole time to amusing you.” Mrs. Sacret smiled up, gently, from her sewing.

“You said that before—do you want to leave me, Olivia?”

“No. I came to help you. At first I gave you all my time. Now, I’ve some affairs of my own to attend to—the chapel people—”

“But you are Church of England, now.”

“Yes. But I had friends at the chapel. Then there are members of Frederick’s flock in London.”

“Bring them here. It would be a diversion.”

“Oh, no! That would never do. They would consider it very strange to see me here, in this luxury. And idleness. For I could not explain what I do for you, Susan. And you would find them dull. That is quite a favorite word of yours, is it not?”

“I daresay.” Susan sighed listlessly. “At least that horrid old woman has gone and I felt in better spirits.”

“Why have they fallen again? What do you want, Susan?”

Challenged a second time, Susan turned her lovely, flushed face toward her friend and replied with childish abandon. “I want to go away—with someone I love—and be true to myself and have a proper home. Sometimes I wish I had been a wicked woman and run away with John. Away—away!”

“Fie, that is a shocking thing to say. You have such loose principles, Susan. No wonder Mr. Rue is so watchful and jealous—and his mother, too.”

“Yes, they are, Olivia. And you’ve admitted it. Pray do give me those letters—I don’t care what I pay! Just suppose Martin or that detestable old woman should get hold of them!”

“Hush, Susan, you must not get so excited. The letters were written in—fearless innocence—you must not think of them as if they were something evil. Nor insult me by talking of buying them. They are safe with me.”

“For pity’s sake destroy them!”

“Why, so I shall, as I’ve promised you a dozen times. But I’m not going to do anything theatrical or silly as if these harmless letters were important. When you have forgotten about them, then I shall quietly tear them up. So don’t tease me about them, Susan.”