A Winter's Child Read Online Free PDF

born in the month of May, the fragrant gentle blossom-time which, she believed, had given all three of them their easy sunny natures, their unquenchable optimism and good humour; just as the sultry, airless day in September when Eunice had come late and gasping into the world, accounted – her mother felt sure of it – for the fact that she had been flustered and clutching at straws ever since.
    Miriam, like many leisured and by no means insensitive or unobservant women had her own view of life’s mysteries, her personal conception of fate and fortune and destiny, and she had long been of the opinion that it was not so much the Zodiac as the weather which influenced the character of the newborn child.
    Pleased with her own perceptiveness she glanced at Nola. March. A high wind, she supposed, a fierce day of sudden showers and bursts of sunshine which had made Nola a child who never knew what she wanted and a woman eternally dissatisfied. She could not remember the birthdate of Claire Lyall – Mrs Jeremy Swanfield – but she rather hoped it might be June, easy indolent midsummer, warm days of plenty and increase, which made for a pleasant restful disposition; an obliging girl who would not bait her like Nola, nor harass her like Eunice, nor wear her out like her younger daughter Polly who was nineteen, pleasure-seeking, romantic, and therefore impossible. Yes. Miriam was in no doubt about it. A twenty-three year old widow with no home of her own and no income beyond anything Benedict might decide to give her would suit her needs exactly.
    The door opened and, turning her head, her mind still drifting slightly towards summer meadows and that ever present sensation of Aaron hovering somewhere just beyond her vision, Miriam watched Aaron’s likeness, or the closest she could come to it, walk into the room; although she could not remember that Aaron had ever been so separate, so critical, so permanently at a distance as his son Benedict.
    He was a tall, intensely dark man approaching forty, a lean olive-skinned face in which the self-containment was immediately evident, eyes so deep-set as to appear coal black, a guarded mouth, an athletic build somewhat concealed by the dry authoritative manner of the businessman. And instantly, differently, they were all three aware of him.
    â€˜Oh Benedict –’ said Eunice with a guilty and most unfortunate start, a sure indication, thought Miriam, that she was seriously in need of money.
    Poor Eunice.
    â€˜Well, well,’ drawled Nola, ‘Benedict – at this time of day. How wonderful.’
    And stretching out her nervous, jewelled hand towards the overflowing ashtray she missed it by several deliberate inches and, gold chains and amber beads swinging, her long eyes narrowed but fixed speculatively upon her husband, she scattered cigarette ash lazily, provocatively, over the polished surface of the table and the deep pile of a Wilton carpet.
    Poor Nola? Hardly that, concluded Miriam. Nola up to her tricks again, more likely, playing some devious game of her own. A game of power perhaps? Or a game, even; of sexuality? Catch me, chastise me, overpower me. But Miriam neither knew nor cared anything for games like that.
    â€˜Benedict, I’d like a word with you,’ said Eunice almost shouting the words because her mouth had gone dry again.
    â€˜Yes?’
    He was, unnervingly, at her disposal.
    â€˜Well – if you have time, that is –’
    â€˜Of course.’
    She swallowed hard. ‘Oh – there’s no rush. I’ll be here all afternoon.’
    What had he said to make her falter? Nothing. He had simply looked at her, knowing exactly what she wanted to say to him and how much of it was truth, how much a desperate and therefore clumsy invention; knowing exactly why she needed the money and how last month’s allowance, which should have covered it, had been thrown away; knowing that she was a poor manager, an