Midwinter Nightingale by Joan Aiken Page A

Wait a moment, then—”
    She ran up the moss-grown steps to the big double doors of Fogrum Hall and rapped lustily on them with the handle of her umbrella—for rain was falling steadily—rattled the latch and called, “Open up, within there! It's Mr. Lot's sister—Miss Jorinda—open up, I say!”
    After considerable delay the doors were slowly opened and an elderly head thrust out.
    “Who's that making such a clamoration at this time o' the evening?”
    “It's me, Miss Jorinda! I need money to pay the coachman's fee who brought me here. Can you settle him? Or send for Master Lot.”
    “Nobody said to me as you was expected, miss.”
    “Well, I'm here now, so will you please do as I say? My bags are on the coach roof.”
    Grumbling and reluctant, the porter finally made his slow way down the slippery steps, paid the jarvey and struggled up again with Jorinda's luggage, making several trips and complaining more bitterly each time about the weight of the bags and the lack of consideration shown by people who arrived unexpectedly at an hour when all decent householders were about to lock up and retire for the night. “Lucky the bridge wasn't pulled up yet.”
    “Where is my brother?”
    “Master Lot? He's with His Lordship, o' course.”
    “My father? Is my father out of prison and here already? Oh, that is capital! I did not think he would be here so soon. Take me to them at once.”
    “Dunno as ow they'll be that happy to see ye—females ain't over and above 'welcome hereabouts.”
    “Will you kindly stop boring on and take me to the baron! And you might bring some tea and bread and butter—or tell someone else to. I'm sharp set!”
    Mumbling and growling even more, the porter dumped the bags and cat basket in the middle of the hallway and started limping along a dimly lit stone-paved passage without looking to see if Jorinda was followinghim. But she did so, treading close behind, exasperated at his slow shuffle.
    Presently he knocked at a door.
    “What is it?” shouted a voice impatiently.
    “Beg pardon, me lord—there's a young lady here says she's yer lordship's daughter. Miss Jorinda, she says her name is.”
    There was a flat, flabbergasted silence from behind the door for a moment or two, then a younger voice called, “Send her away!”
    “I will
not
be sent away!” exclaimed Jorinda. “I never heard such rude, hateful rubbish! I am his lordship's daughter. Let me in directly!”
    She gave a vigorous poke with her umbrella to the aged porter and another to the door, which swung open, and she marched into the room.
    It was a dining room, dimly lit by a number of oil lamps. A low red fire burned in the hearth and the remains of a lavish meal were scattered on a fair-sized table. But Jorinda had eyes only for the two people who sat in armchairs on either side of the fireplace.
    She approached the white-haired man.
    “Sir! I am your daughter, Jorinda! My mother was Zoe Coldacre, who died at my birth. I have come here to love and cherish you!”
    “Oh, for mercy's sake, my good girl! Let us not have any sentimental nonsense of that kind, I beg! I assure you that I could hardly be less interested if you were Queen Cleopatra's daughter.”
    After uttering these words the white-haired man gave her a long, cold, smiling, distasteful appraisal. She observed that his left leg and foot were swathed in bandages and that—for some reason—he held a gold-framed hand mirror at which he glanced now and then.
    “But, sir! Papa! Do I not remind you of my mother? Of Zoe Coldacre? I am the living image of her! Everybody says so!”
    “I have only the very scantiest recollection of your mother, my good girl. Our connection was extremely brief. Now, will you please go away—
far
away—and never come back? Even supposing that you are my daughter—which I take leave to doubt—what possible use would I have for a daughter? I am already cumbered with a son, which is tiresome enough, but has to be borne.” And