Penmarric Read Free Page B

Giles had assumed the responsibilities of guardianship when he had allowed her to bring them to live at his house. Harry, the adopted son, was by this time eighteen; his sister Clarissa was a year or two younger than Raymond and myself. I knew nothing about them beyond these sparse facts, and later, particularly where Clarissa was concerned, I was to wish I had remained in ignorance. Why was it that I disliked Clarissa so much? At sixteen when I first saw her I was certainly old enough to appreciate her looks, but dark girls have never attracted me, perhaps because they remind me of my mother and her domineering attitudes, and besides, my dislike of Clarissa went further than a mere antipathy to her good looks. On reflection I suspect that my dislike sprang into existence on our first meeting on the steps of Penmarric, when she insulted me with the cattiness of a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl and gave me forewarning of the spitefulness which I was to encounter, with such disastrous results when we were older. Perhaps even when I first saw her I sensed that her influence on my life was not destined to be benign.
    The trouble began when—to no one’s surprise but my mother’s—we were refused admittance to the house by the butler. My mother at once demanded to see Giles in person, but the butler, who was by this time very white around the gills, said that Mr. Penmar was indisposed and could see no one. It was at this moment that I had the unfortunate idea of parleying with my cousin Raymond; I suppose I thought that two sixteen-year-old youths were more likely to reach a friendly agreement than our parents were, but that was my mistake. When Raymond emerged cautiously from the hall the first thing he did was to order me off the porch as if I had yellow fever.
    “You get away from here!” he yelled with the sort of charm that I at once realized was characteristic of him. He was a tall youth with a spoiled mouth, soft hands and a petulant expression. Pitching his voice loud enough to reach my mother, who was waiting with Cousin Robert in the carriage, he added, “Penmarric will never be yours now, so you can go back to London and rot for all I care!”
    “Well, ---------- you, old chap,” I said politely, in the language I had learned from my years at Eton, and gave in to my overwhelming urge to punch him on the nose.
    He fell like a stone.
    I was just savoring the effectiveness of my handiwork when the front door flew open and I was face to face with a protagonist far more dangerous than my ineffectual cousin Raymond. His adopted brother Harry was tall and tough, with a strong pair of shoulders and a pair of fists that made me decide that the time had come to beat a quick but graceful retreat.
    “Damn you, you bastard,” said Harry Penmar through his teeth. “Damn you, get out of here before you wish you’d never come.”
    And before I could think of a reply his sister appeared, pushing past him and kneeling by Raymond’s inert body, her breast rising and falling rapidly in her agitation. I would have looked at her closely if I had had the chance, but by then I was too busy jeering at Harry Penmar as my feet concentrated on the task of widening the gap between us. “And who do you think you are?” I drawled at him insolently, anxious to disguise the fact that I was in full retreat. “The Light Brigade before the Charge?”
    But it was the girl who answered me. She looked down at me from the top of the steps as my feet crunched on the gravel of the drive, and suddenly I was aware only of dark eyes blazing and a wild passionate mouth.
    “You ugly little brute!” she spat at me. “You fat repulsive cretin, go away and take your abominable mother with you and never— never —come near us again!”
    Despite my natural aggressiveness and the self-confidence infused by a public school education, I was still more vulnerable than I cared to acknowledge. Sixteen is a sensitive age. I knew I was still a trifle stout. I