Legacy of Secrets Read Online Free

Legacy of Secrets
Book: Legacy of Secrets Read Online Free
Author: Elizabeth Adler
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from the chimneys, and the dalmatians sprawled picturesquely on the steps. The door stood wide open, as usual, and in the green hills behind, the young stablelad was playing a plaintive little tune on his reed pipes, sounding exactly like a nightingale.
    Scenting a stranger, the dogs lifted their heads, then they rose as one and bounded toward us. I dismounted and gave Kessidy a slap on the rump that sent her ambling toward the stables where the lad would take care of her, then I pushed the dogs back down again with a wave of my hand. “Down, you damned creatures,” I yelled angrily at them, and they subsided, sitting on their haunches wagging their silly tails knowing I didn’t mean a word of it. “Blitherin’ idiots,” I said to Shannon Keeffe, “but I’m dashed fond of ’em all the same. Truth is I couldn’t live without ’em.”
    The girl was staring at the house with that rapt expression on her face that meant she had fallen in love, and I smiled, pleased. “Let’s have tea,” I said hospitably waving her inside. Her lovely eyes were wide with pleasure as she stared around the cluttered hall and the dusty old rooms, breathing in the scent of it. And I knew then that I liked her.
    “It’s the most enchanting house I’ve ever been in,” she said in a soft, trembling little voice as if she were quite overcome by it. “It’s as though it were alive.” She laughed. “You can almost hear it breathing.”
    “ ’tis true,” I agreed modestly, sweeping her in front ofme to the kitchen, for there’s nothing nicer than a bit of flattery when it’s about something close to your heart.
    Now, Faithless Brigid is as plump and big-boned as I am delicate and sparrowlike. She has a round face with three chins and her gray hair is parted straight down the middle and anchored just above each ear with a white plastic hair band. Her pink overall is usually hiked up three inches shorter at the back, showing the underside of her plump knees, and when she’s working in the kitchen she always wears a pair of old green Wellington boots on her impossibly tiny feet. “For comfort,” she says, with no thought for how it looks.
    “That’s Faithless Brigid,” I said, sweeping layers of newspapers and books and a couple of sleeping orange cats to the far end of the table. “I’ve brought Shannon Keeffe to take tea with us, Brigid,” I added loudly. The old girl has become a bit deaf these last few years.
    “Then it’s as well I’ve just brought out a batch of scones,” she retorted tartly. “Next time,
madam,
if you’ll be invitin’ a person to take tea, will you be lettin’ me know sooner, so I can prepare properly.” With that she took a giant plate of fresh scones and banged it down on the table. She trotted over to the cupboard and brought out a huge pot of jam.
    “Fresh raspberries, I picked ’em myself,” I whispered conspiratorially as Brigid slammed the pot of jam onto the table in front of us. Then she took a blue pottery bowl of cream and slammed it onto the table next to the jam.
    “The brack’s not yet cooled, so you’ll have to be makin’ do with that,” she grumbled, trotting back to her stove.
    Knowing how to rile her, I told Shannon the story of how she came to be called “Faithless.” She flung me a furious glare, and I grinned.
    Jostling the dalmatians from the chairs where they sat like expectant-looking statues awaiting tidbits, I poured strong black tea into delicate Spode cups. “Here’s yours, Faithless Brigid,” I called mockingly, knowing exactly what her answer would be.
    “Ah, and y’know I’m always takin’ mine from yer fayther’s old shavin’ mug,” she grumbled, trotting quickly over to the table. She’s a creature of habit, my Brigid.
    As long as I’ve known her, and
you
know that’s a lot of years, Brigid has seemed to be in perpetual motion—just as I always seem to be in perpetual mid-sentence—trotting here and there, as light on her feet as a
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