The Specimen Read Online Free Page B

not so very young after all. She looked into his
eyes.
    “Ch-Charles. I’m Charles. Hello.” He looked up at the ceiling and searched in the air above their heads.
    “Welcome, Charles.” She noted him as difficult, perhaps an unbeliever, and moved on to the woman sitting next to him.
    “Good evening, I am Penelope.”
    “Welcome, Penelope. So lovely to see you again.”

Chapter III
    Helford Passage. April 1859.
    Paths meandered down each side of the cleft in the garden crowded with old rhododendrons. Palms, which had once been ships’ ballast, now sprouted rich fronds of growth.
Camellias flushed a pink frothiness into the wet green of spring alongside the magnolias’ burst of waxy petals. Stands of bamboo, once tidy and slim, were now out of control, pushing their
spiked shoots throughout the grounds. Bisecting the garden, a stream fled unkempt pools for carp where none swam; along its banks the formidable gunnera leaves pushed up from their hairy crowns.
Edward saw all of this in his mind because the night sky was especially overcast. The day had begun well, with a clear horizon over the sea, but the bank of cloud now obscuring the moon and making
his progress difficult had come and built up its volume as it moved over the sea towards this part of the south Cornish coast. He doubted, now that he had finally met Miss Carrick in daylight, that
she would be there waiting for him for a second time in the dark chill of the summerhouse. She had made him keep a promise, and already he had broken it. He had come back again hoping to redeem
himself, to explain that he couldn’t have kept away in daylight, that he couldn’t possibly have let the chance to see her face pass. Her manner on the beach had encouraged him. And yet
he was nervous, so much more nervous than he had ever been about anything in his life. And he was exhausted. The seven miles had tripled. Early that morning, he had set out intending to do
something very different. He had walked to the boundary of the small Carrick estate, intending to call at the house and present himself. He had turned back. When he had arrived at his rooms in
Falmouth, he had caught sight of himself in the mirror above the wash-stand. He’d stripped to the waist and passed a frenzied minute washing himself before putting a clean shirt on his damp
body and setting out again.
    There were times on that walk as the gloaming turned to pitch when he thought he would fall over the cliff edge. And deservedly so, he told himself, deservedly so. You have behaved irrationally
towards Miss Carrick and too bad for you if you fall over the cliff and never discover her feelings. Too bad for you if you never have the opportunity to declare your own feelings. He had stopped
at several points to strike a light, but the pathetic flare cupped in his hands had been blown out almost instantly by the gusts coming in off the sea.
    How easy it was to allow events to overtake one’s former intentions. It was a relief to discern the shape of the red brick summerhouse coming out of the mist, the wet dark slate of the
roof almost a comfort to Edward as he rounded the corner on the steep path. In the far corner, he settled into the old armchair and pulled the musty blanket on it around his shoulders. It smelled
strongly of tobacco smoke and the kind of smell Edward associated with cellars.
    At five-thirty the crescendo of birdsong woke him briefly and he drifted back into the remnants of a dream. But he was cold and he woke again, the memory now of the real Miss
Carrick stronger than the wisps of what he could recall of his dream. He looked at his watch and saw that it was almost six. He took another mouthful of whisky and decided that he would stay a
while longer. He unfastened his breeches, pulled himself free and allowed the warmth of the whisky and the memory of Miss Carrick in the sunshine to run through his body.
    By the time Gwen had been down to the beach and back up again, the mist