Midwinter Nightingale Read Online Free Page A

do, child.”
    With a swish of skirts Jorinda reseated herself and gestured for Simon to do so too.
    “Won't you
please
share my picnic?” she begged, and fixed him once more with that deep, meaningful, glowinggaze. “For I shall never be able to eat it all by myself.”
    Good heavens, thought Simon uneasily, anybody would think the girl had fallen in love with me. But we have only just met!
    “Th-thank you!” he stammered. “But—but what about this lady?” He turned to look at Mara, who was snappishly unfolding a starched napkin.
    “Oh, she is only a servant.” Jorinda coolly took up a slice of game pie and bit a large semicircle from it.
“She
takes her tiffin in the baggage car. You need not bother your head about
her.
Not in the very least.”
    Nurse Mara fixed Simon with a basilisk stare that emphatically contradicted these words.
    “Do please have some of my picnic,” Jorinda repeated, munching. “The game pie's not bad.”
    “I won't, really, thank you,” Simon said, rather awkwardly seating himself in what space was left from the feast. “As a matter of fact I don't eat meat.”
    “Don't
you? Why? How very queer! Well then, have a hard-boiled egg—do! Or some chestnuts.”
    Jorinda went on pressing him until at last, to pacify her, he took an apple and bit into it. At the crunch a tawny owl, which had been asleep in the rack for the past hour, woke, opened huge round eyes, let out a snoring sound and clicked its beak.
    Jorinda gave a sharp cry. “What's
that?
”
    “It's only my owl. Thunderbolt. He won't hurt you. He likes to sleep all day”
    Jorinda's cat, which had opened large plum-colored eyes at the sound of the owl's voice, shut them again, as if the interruption was too trifling to be worth his attention.
    Nurse Mara shrugged furiously in a gesture that said, “What did I tell you?” and left the compartment. But, evidently placing no trust whatsoever in her young mistress, she continually came back to do some small thing: open a pot of jelly, peel an egg for Jorinda, or just glance sharply through the glass door to make certain nobody was misbehaving. And soon she came back to repack the remains of the picnic lunch and warn her charge that the next stop, Distance Edge, was where they had to get off.
    “My granda's manor is about twenty miles from there,” Jorinda told Simon. “Sir Thomas Coldacre, of Wan Hope Height. Where are you bound?”
    Her face fell when he told her that he was going south to Windfall Clumps.
    “Oh! What a pity! I hoped you were traveling my way. Shall I give you my address? Will you give me yours? As a matter of fact I haven't quite made up my mind …”
    Simon hurriedly explained that he did not know what his address would be—that he would not, probably, in any case, stay there for very long—would shortly be returning to London—his plans were uncertain—all depending on other people.
    Jorinda's face fell even more at this, but brightened a little at the mention of London.
    “I
mean to go there as soon as Granda "will let me. Papa has a house there. London's a fine town, ain't it? But I do, I
do
wish for us to meet again. We
must!”
Her fingers clutched his arm. Simon looked anxiously toward the door—but Nurse Mara was out of view for the moment. “What is your address in London? We could meet there—please—couldn't we?” She fixed imploring eyes on his.
    What a queer girl, thought Simon. All those years at school, you'd think she'd be a bit cooler in her manners.
    He decided that he had no option but to tell a lie, a thing that went much against his nature.
    “Oh, I shall probably be staying with my aunt Bessie in—in Hans Town.”
    “What is her direction? Her surname?” Jorinda pulled out an ivory tablet.
    “Mrs. Nettlepink—18 Prince Richard Row,” said Simon, hastily inventing.
    By this time the train had jerked to a halt.
    “Come along—do, my lady,” urged Nurse Mara. “Your grandpa's coach will be waiting. And besides,