The Last to Know Read Online Free Page A

mansion, for mansion it was, and stopped before a flight of broad stone steps. The doors of the great house began to open, and a wash of light dazzled my strained senses. For a moment I could see nothing of the detail of this vast building, and yet, as my eyes became accustomed, shapes slowly grew and resolved into their proper forms.
    Carsholt was ancient indeed. Above my head battlements flew against the night sky, and there was an eccentric jumble of towers and twisted chimneys rearing up toward faint stars. Was that, yonder, the remains of a moat? I could not tell—further exploration must await the morning—but, for now, the noble doors were open to their greatest extent, pulled back by a man even older than William.
    Dressed in perfect black, the manservant hobbled down the steps toward the carriage, and in his wake came others, men and women who arranged themselves, one of each sex and a pair to a stair tread, into a party of reception.
    “Welcome, welcome, Miss Fairfax. On behalf of my master and . . .” The old man, busy before this moment in opening the carriage door, pulling out the steps, and talking, had not looked up. When he did, the torrent of pleasantries fled, as if he’d been garroted. He gurgled as the name emerged. “Mr. Kit, can it be you?”
    Kit Carsholt smiled charmingly and leaned forward, catching up one of the good old man’s hands in his own—yet I saw that my traveling companion’s expression was strained and his face a sickly white beneath the tan. “Yes, Graveney. It is I. Tell me, how are my parents?”
    The butler straightened and backed away a pace or two, his eyes never leaving Kit Carsholt’s face. “You will find them well, Mr. Kit.” Was there the taste of a threat in those words, a menace? Graveney transferred his attentions to me. “Miss Fairfax, my master and mistress await.” He bowed deeply as, behind him, each servant on the stairs mimicked the action.
    I smiled as graciously as I was able—though my heart quivered in my breast with the strangeness of this arrival, the unanswered questions—and allowed Kit Carsholt to place my hand on his. It seemed he would conduct me formally into his parents’ house, and the strange fears—even dread—that I had experienced during the lengthy journey through the dark and silent world of Carsholt Park were snuffed out in the light of many candles as I entered that gracious building.
    Mr. Kit ushered me into a lofty hall; it was an old, old place. There was a fireplace larger than was needed to roast even the most enormous ox, for instance; and banners of antique design were hung high above my head among the rafters. Trophies from battles fought so long ago, lost or won, who would remember now?
    Beneath my kid boots—also pink, with buttons of pearl, I have them still—was a floor of stone flagging. Its surface, though waxed and polished, was so abraded by time and many feet that I recall wondering what stories that stone would have to tell us of the past if only we could hear with more than mortal ears, see with more than mortal eyes . . .
    “Miss Fairfax!” I turned in the direction of that musical voice as my mother’s girlhood friend, Lady Mary Carsholt, hurried toward me, hands outstretched. “Child! How delighted I am to meet you at last. You have the look of your dear mama as a girl. But you must be so tired.”
    She was beautiful, you know, in her prime. And always elegantly dressed. Tonight, that famous wheat-gold hair was piled high, and diamonds flashed at her throat and in her ears as she turned this way and that, smiling. And her long, graceful gown of shot blue silk swirled like the sea over pearl-embroidered slippers. I recall smothering an abashed sigh. Would I ever embody such poise, such élan, such style ? At the end of a long life, that is not for me to say . . .
    However, there was more to my hostess than her fine white skin, her delicate hands. If my mother’s words are true for all time and all