meal to him that
it looks like the old albatross won’t fly any time soon, whatever
that means.”
“Your reclusive employer has quite a
singular way with words,” Christine remarked in a choked voice,
determinedly spooning sugar into her cup.
The old albatross, not realizing that
Hawkhurst had been referring to her or there would have been the
devil to pay, turned away from the window to accept the cup from
Lazarus’s hands. “And now, Christine, tell me,” Aunt Nellis said
after taking a restorative sip of the hot liquid, “did you enjoy
your first dinner downstairs? I rather thought the capon was spiced
a fraction too freely, but then I have always had a sensitive
palate.”
Obviously, Aunt Nellis was trying to impress
Hawkhurst’s servant with her worldliness. At Manderley, the woman
would have been satisfied with a single chicken baked in butter
sauce, but Christine was too polite to point that out to her now.
Besides, she had other matters weighing on her mind.
Sneaking a quick glance at the mantel clock,
Christine only mouthed some random words of agreement and then
suggested that her aunt make an early night of it. It was past ten,
and she was a mass of nerves about missing her private meeting with
Hawkhurst just so that her aunt could practice her wiles on
Lazarus.
“Nonsense, Christine,” her aunt said
dismissingly. “As if a little pepper should send me scurrying to my
bed like some missish old woman. No, I think I shall sit up a bit
longer, and perhaps work on that embroidery square I brought with
me from Manderley. It’s the loveliest thing—a scene from the
Creation, I believe.”
Christine loved her aunt, truly she did, but
at the moment she was wishing the dear lady on the other side of
the moon.
Narrowing her eyelids, she leaned forward on
the settee to peer searchingly into her aunt’s face. “How brave you
are, Aunt,” she marveled, shaking her head. “How staunchly you have
stood through these last trying days here at Hawk’s Roost, and
without a whimper of protest at the heavy physical and mental toll
your vigil at my bedside has so obviously wrought.”
Aunt Nellis quickly lifted one trembling
hand to her face, as if checking for outward signs of damage. “Why
do you say that? What do you see, Christine? Am I looking pale?
Drat the lack of mirrors in this place! Do I have circles under my
eyes?”
Tilting her head to one side, her niece
appeared to be concentrating on forming an answer. “No-o-o,” she
began consideringly, “not actually circles, I don’t think. At
least, not so much that they cover the puffiness. It was more the
rather drawn look that had me concerned.”
“I look drawn?” Aunt Nellis’s expression
took on a look of panic.
Christine sat back against the cushions and
waved a hand in dismissal. “But if you say you are feeling fine,
then I shouldn’t bother about it anymore. I am most probably only
imagining things anyway.”
Now Aunt Nellis had both hands raised to her
face, her fingertips gently probing the skin beneath her eyes.
“Puffiness? Really? Perhaps I should consider cucumber slices. And
drawn, you said?”
“Just a trifle.”
Aunt Nellis traced her rouged cheeks, then
tentatively patted at the second chin that was her private woe.
“Actually,” she said, “I have been feeling just slightly out of
coil, not that I wanted to burden you with my troubles, you
understand.”
“You’re too good to me,” Christine gushed,
willing a tear to her eye. “You cannot imagine how difficult it is
for me to stand by silently and watch my dearest companion fade
into a dry shell of her former self.”
The fingers moved again. “Dry?” Aunt Nellis
questioned, pouncing on the damning word. “Why, do you know what,
Christine? With all my worries about you, I do believe I have
neglected my nightly rituals of late. Yes, you’re right, my skin is
dry, dry as a leaf in the desert. And I am tired. Bone weary.
Perhaps I should make an early evening
it looks like the old albatross won’t fly any time soon, whatever
that means.”
“Your reclusive employer has quite a
singular way with words,” Christine remarked in a choked voice,
determinedly spooning sugar into her cup.
The old albatross, not realizing that
Hawkhurst had been referring to her or there would have been the
devil to pay, turned away from the window to accept the cup from
Lazarus’s hands. “And now, Christine, tell me,” Aunt Nellis said
after taking a restorative sip of the hot liquid, “did you enjoy
your first dinner downstairs? I rather thought the capon was spiced
a fraction too freely, but then I have always had a sensitive
palate.”
Obviously, Aunt Nellis was trying to impress
Hawkhurst’s servant with her worldliness. At Manderley, the woman
would have been satisfied with a single chicken baked in butter
sauce, but Christine was too polite to point that out to her now.
Besides, she had other matters weighing on her mind.
Sneaking a quick glance at the mantel clock,
Christine only mouthed some random words of agreement and then
suggested that her aunt make an early night of it. It was past ten,
and she was a mass of nerves about missing her private meeting with
Hawkhurst just so that her aunt could practice her wiles on
Lazarus.
“Nonsense, Christine,” her aunt said
dismissingly. “As if a little pepper should send me scurrying to my
bed like some missish old woman. No, I think I shall sit up a bit
longer, and perhaps work on that embroidery square I brought with
me from Manderley. It’s the loveliest thing—a scene from the
Creation, I believe.”
Christine loved her aunt, truly she did, but
at the moment she was wishing the dear lady on the other side of
the moon.
Narrowing her eyelids, she leaned forward on
the settee to peer searchingly into her aunt’s face. “How brave you
are, Aunt,” she marveled, shaking her head. “How staunchly you have
stood through these last trying days here at Hawk’s Roost, and
without a whimper of protest at the heavy physical and mental toll
your vigil at my bedside has so obviously wrought.”
Aunt Nellis quickly lifted one trembling
hand to her face, as if checking for outward signs of damage. “Why
do you say that? What do you see, Christine? Am I looking pale?
Drat the lack of mirrors in this place! Do I have circles under my
eyes?”
Tilting her head to one side, her niece
appeared to be concentrating on forming an answer. “No-o-o,” she
began consideringly, “not actually circles, I don’t think. At
least, not so much that they cover the puffiness. It was more the
rather drawn look that had me concerned.”
“I look drawn?” Aunt Nellis’s expression
took on a look of panic.
Christine sat back against the cushions and
waved a hand in dismissal. “But if you say you are feeling fine,
then I shouldn’t bother about it anymore. I am most probably only
imagining things anyway.”
Now Aunt Nellis had both hands raised to her
face, her fingertips gently probing the skin beneath her eyes.
“Puffiness? Really? Perhaps I should consider cucumber slices. And
drawn, you said?”
“Just a trifle.”
Aunt Nellis traced her rouged cheeks, then
tentatively patted at the second chin that was her private woe.
“Actually,” she said, “I have been feeling just slightly out of
coil, not that I wanted to burden you with my troubles, you
understand.”
“You’re too good to me,” Christine gushed,
willing a tear to her eye. “You cannot imagine how difficult it is
for me to stand by silently and watch my dearest companion fade
into a dry shell of her former self.”
The fingers moved again. “Dry?” Aunt Nellis
questioned, pouncing on the damning word. “Why, do you know what,
Christine? With all my worries about you, I do believe I have
neglected my nightly rituals of late. Yes, you’re right, my skin is
dry, dry as a leaf in the desert. And I am tired. Bone weary.
Perhaps I should make an early evening
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