Windfallen Read Free Page B

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    Lottie gazed around her at the house, at the racks of oversize paintings; at the stacked, rolled rugs, slumped against the walls like stooping, elderly gentlemen; at the African carving of a woman’s bloated stomach. It was all so different from the houses she knew: her own mother’s—cramped, dark, full of oak furniture and cheap porcelain knickknacks, permeated with the smell of coal dust and boiled vegetables, constantly interrupted by the noise of traffic or next door’s children playing outside; the Holdens’—a sprawling, comfortable mock-Tudor family home that seemed to be valued for what it communicated as much as what it housed. Their furniture was inherited and had to be treated reverently, more reverently, it seemed, than its occupants. No cups were to be placed upon it, no children to knock against it. It was all, Mrs. Holden announced, to be “handed on,” as if they were simply guardians of these pieces of wood. Their house was permanently arranged for other people, made nice “for the ladies,” made straight for Dr. Holden “when he comes home,” with Mrs. Holden a fragile little King Canute, desperately trying to push back the inevitable dirt and detritus.
    And then there was this place—white, bright, alien, a strange, angular shape with long, low, opaque windows, or portholes through which you could see the sea, filled with an elaborate and chaotically arranged treasure trove of exotica. A place where every item told a story, held a rich provenance from foreign lands. Lottie breathed in the house’s scent, the salt air that had permeated the walls over years, overlaid by the smell of fresh paint. It was strangely intoxicating. “Tea can’t hurt. Can it?”
    Celia paused, scanning her face. “Just don’t tell Mummy. She’ll fuss.”
    They followed the mournful Frances into the main living room, which was flooded with light from the four windows that faced outward onto the bay, the two middle ones curved around a semicircular wall. On the farthest window to the right, two men were struggling with a curtain pole and heavy drapery, while to their left a young woman was kneeling in the corner, placing lengths of books into a glass-fronted bookcase.
    “It’s Julian’s new car. He’s going to be absolutely furious. I should have let you move it.” Frances lowered herself onto another chair, checking the handkerchief for new blood.
    George was pouring Frances a large glass of brandy. “I’ll sort Julian out. Now, how is your nose? You look like something by Picasso, dear girl. Do you think we need a doctor? Adeline? Adeline? Do you know a doctor?”
    “My father’s a doctor,” said Celia. “I could call him if you like.”
    It was several seconds before Lottie noticed the woman. She sat perfectly upright in the center of a small, upright sofa, her legs crossed at the ankles and her hands clasped in front of her, as if completely removed from the chaotic exertions around her. Her hair, which was the kind of blue-black seen on ravens’ feathers, sat close to her head in sleek waves, and she wore a red dress of oriental silk, cut unfashionably long and close; over that was an embroidered jacket upon which peacocks preened their iridescent plumage. She had huge, dark eyes rimmed in kohl, and tiny child’s hands. She was so still that when she dipped her head in greeting, Lottie nearly jumped.
    “Aren’t you marvelous? There, George. You have found us some scouts already.” The woman smiled, the slow, sweet smile of the perennially charmed.
    Her accent was unfathomable, perhaps French, definitely foreign. It was low and smoky and held a sneaking lilt of amusement. She was way beyond the realms of experience, even of someone whose upbringing stretched further than the twin poles of Manningtree and Walton-on-the-Naze. Lottie was transfixed. She looked at Celia, seeing her own gormless expression reflected back at her.
    “Adeline. This is—Oh, goodness, I didn’t ask you your