Master of Glenkeith Read Online Free Page A

mother who had accepted Scotland as her place of adoption, and, presumably, an English father.
    The thought of Veronique struck him like a blow between the eyes and he realized for the first time that here was Veronique’s daughter, no more the product of the Italian scene than he was himself, but a strange, wilful mixture of nationalities that might so easily lead him astray.
    Not that he would have anything to do with her once they reached Glenkeith, he assured himself. He knew that she must be older by far than she looked and far older than he had expected. He smiled grimly to himself when he thought that he had come to Rome expecting to find a child.
    “I have arranged that we will fly back,” he said, turning to her stiffly. “I have booked seats on a plane leaving the day after to-morrow, if that is not too great a rush for you. The fact is that I have little time to spare. We are a farming community at Glenkeith and we should be getting in the harvest.”
    He had not sought to spare her the knowledge of his impatience. Something in him wanted to strike back for the shock she had given him when they had first met, for the fact that she had grown to woman’s estate almost before his eyes, and he saw her face sober a little as she turned away.
    “I could have come with you at once,” she told him with a dignity he had not expected in anyone so young. “I am ready. Everything I have is packed, waiting.”
    Evidently she had taken them for granted. A more generous estimation of the situation might have suggested that Tessa had faith in their kindness, but Andrew had thrust generosity from him at the memory of Veronique. This, he reminded himself, was Veronique’s daughter, and what was bred in the bone showed in the flesh, didn’t it?
    He watched as she put the finishing touches to the table in Signora Zanetti’s absence, her hands sensitive as those of an artist going about the everyday task with a swiftness which might be appreciated at Glenkeith if Hester MacDonald could sink her prejudices against the mother.
    Andrew drew his thoughts up there, realizing that he had no right to demand from others what he could not give himself, and during the meal which followed he kept his eyes deliberately averted from those sensitive hands, as if they might be capable of telling him much that he was not willing to learn.
    The buxom Signora Zanetti had come from an inner room to be introduced before they sat down, but she had no knowledge of English and could only smile and nod brightly as her contribution to the conversation.
    When the meal was over Andrew sat with Luigi on the narrow balcony while Tessa and Signora Zanetti washed up at the sink in another corner of the room. A great wooden platter of fruit and a flask of red wine were set on the little iron table at Andrew’s elbow, but neither Tessa nor Signora Zannetti joined them while they smoked.
    Luigi explained to Andrew that Veronique’s second husband had been an English artist who had come to Rome because of his health and also because of the atmosphere it afforded for his art. They had been neighbours in the Villa Rosa for twenty years and Tessa had been born there eighteen years ago and had grown up with Luigi’s children because Roger Halliday had never quite made the grade with his painting. He had sold the odd canvas now and then to tourists and supplemented his living by driving other tourists along the coast to Naples or Amalfi in Luigi’s decrepit old car which he kept for carting his greengrocery products in from the Campagna, but that could only be spared to him occasionally when Luigi himself was not in need of it.
    Andrew smoked in silence, and for the first time in his life it had no power to soothe him. The tobacco had an acrid taste in his mouth and finally he thrust his pipe into his pocket and rose to his feet.
    “I must go now and find an hotel,” he said, looking down into the little Italian’s beaming face. “Will you thank your wife