and then we'll have a d r ink and something to eat. We might as well enjoy this evening."
She stood up. "Enjoy ?" she said slowly. "Enjoy ?"
Peter turned and looked at her. "Please don't do anything dramatic and run away. My car is faster than yours, so I would soon catch you. Besides, the fog has come down pretty badly. See you in ten minutes," he said, and left the room.
She moved very slowly. Her limbs felt heavy and tired. Somehow she walked upstairs and into her
ice-cold bedroom. Rather like a robot she moved, washing, finding her pale green trouser suit and changing, brushing her hair and pinning it up on her head, she looked anxiously in the mirror. Should she wear her glasses or not? she asked herself. She decided she had better wear them or else it would give him an opportunity to tease her. What a funny face she had ! Her cousins were right. What man in his senses would look twice at her? Peter's jokes about the solicitor liking her just proved it. He—Peter, that was—was only being kind—just as Mr. Jenkins had been. How small her face was—with the strange oval look and the big round glasses. She pulled them off, but then her reflection was blurred. Maybe that was why she thought she was better-looking without them, she told herself, and put the glasses on again.
She looked round her. Her last night in what she had thought was—or might be—her own castle. She went to the window. The fog was thick, curling itself round in the darkness like the cloak of a witch who was flying by on her broomstick.
The long flat book she had found in the secret drawer was safely locked in her suitcase. She would read it that night, she decided, and then give it to Peter. It was his by rights, yet she wanted badly to read it, for there were several things that puzzled her.
For one thing, Mrs. Stone saying that Peter had ever come to see his father, yet Luke Fairhead had said he had seen Peter come, and also seen him
turned away by Mrs. Stone, 'his face white as a sheep being sick'. Cindy would have trusted Luke Fairhead any day before Mrs. Stone. And why had Paul Stone lied about the letter? He had been the
one who wanted her to open it. He must have lied deliberately, but why? What for?
In addition, there were the nice things Mrs. Usher had said about Peter Baxter. And she knew him well. As Mrs. Stone implied, if Peter so hated his father, would he deliberately shoulder what he had called the 'burden' of the castle simply because he had believed Cindy was prepared to sell it, which was something his father would have hated?
It didn't make sense. There were too many contradictions. Perhaps, reading Uncle Robert's notes might give her the answer.
She went downstairs. Peter was waiting for her—the armchairs drawn up close to the flaming fire, a drink ready. He sat by her side and they talked. Lightly, amusingly as he told her of his interesting life and incidents that had happened to him during his working years abroad. It was a pleasant evening, only marred by Mrs. Stone's behaviour. The dinner was delicious, but she didn't say a word to Cindy. Cindy might just as well not have been there, she was so completely ignored while Mrs. Stone almost crawled at Peter's feet, determined to please him.
Afterwards as they drank their coffees by the fire, Peter looked at Cindy and grinned.
"Poor Mrs. Stone ! Afraid of losing her job."
"I suppose she is." Cindy hadn't thought of that.
"What about your job? Have you lost it?"
"Oh no," Cindy said eagerly. "Mr. Jenkins said I could have a week off. I had some holiday time due."
"A week ? How long have you been here? One day to come up, two days here, so why not stay the whole week ? As my guest, of course."
Cindy stared at him. "But why? I mean ..."
"Because you love the Lake District and the castle. It may make your disappointment a little less painful. Besides, I'd be glad of your advice. Something must be done to make the castle habitable—new curtains and
She stood up. "Enjoy ?" she said slowly. "Enjoy ?"
Peter turned and looked at her. "Please don't do anything dramatic and run away. My car is faster than yours, so I would soon catch you. Besides, the fog has come down pretty badly. See you in ten minutes," he said, and left the room.
She moved very slowly. Her limbs felt heavy and tired. Somehow she walked upstairs and into her
ice-cold bedroom. Rather like a robot she moved, washing, finding her pale green trouser suit and changing, brushing her hair and pinning it up on her head, she looked anxiously in the mirror. Should she wear her glasses or not? she asked herself. She decided she had better wear them or else it would give him an opportunity to tease her. What a funny face she had ! Her cousins were right. What man in his senses would look twice at her? Peter's jokes about the solicitor liking her just proved it. He—Peter, that was—was only being kind—just as Mr. Jenkins had been. How small her face was—with the strange oval look and the big round glasses. She pulled them off, but then her reflection was blurred. Maybe that was why she thought she was better-looking without them, she told herself, and put the glasses on again.
She looked round her. Her last night in what she had thought was—or might be—her own castle. She went to the window. The fog was thick, curling itself round in the darkness like the cloak of a witch who was flying by on her broomstick.
The long flat book she had found in the secret drawer was safely locked in her suitcase. She would read it that night, she decided, and then give it to Peter. It was his by rights, yet she wanted badly to read it, for there were several things that puzzled her.
For one thing, Mrs. Stone saying that Peter had ever come to see his father, yet Luke Fairhead had said he had seen Peter come, and also seen him
turned away by Mrs. Stone, 'his face white as a sheep being sick'. Cindy would have trusted Luke Fairhead any day before Mrs. Stone. And why had Paul Stone lied about the letter? He had been the
one who wanted her to open it. He must have lied deliberately, but why? What for?
In addition, there were the nice things Mrs. Usher had said about Peter Baxter. And she knew him well. As Mrs. Stone implied, if Peter so hated his father, would he deliberately shoulder what he had called the 'burden' of the castle simply because he had believed Cindy was prepared to sell it, which was something his father would have hated?
It didn't make sense. There were too many contradictions. Perhaps, reading Uncle Robert's notes might give her the answer.
She went downstairs. Peter was waiting for her—the armchairs drawn up close to the flaming fire, a drink ready. He sat by her side and they talked. Lightly, amusingly as he told her of his interesting life and incidents that had happened to him during his working years abroad. It was a pleasant evening, only marred by Mrs. Stone's behaviour. The dinner was delicious, but she didn't say a word to Cindy. Cindy might just as well not have been there, she was so completely ignored while Mrs. Stone almost crawled at Peter's feet, determined to please him.
Afterwards as they drank their coffees by the fire, Peter looked at Cindy and grinned.
"Poor Mrs. Stone ! Afraid of losing her job."
"I suppose she is." Cindy hadn't thought of that.
"What about your job? Have you lost it?"
"Oh no," Cindy said eagerly. "Mr. Jenkins said I could have a week off. I had some holiday time due."
"A week ? How long have you been here? One day to come up, two days here, so why not stay the whole week ? As my guest, of course."
Cindy stared at him. "But why? I mean ..."
"Because you love the Lake District and the castle. It may make your disappointment a little less painful. Besides, I'd be glad of your advice. Something must be done to make the castle habitable—new curtains and
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