Act of Will Read Online Free PDF Page B

pleasure and pain. Oh, how she longed to be in those gardens once again. It would be so easy for her to slip over to the other side of the river. All she had to do was follow the path along the bank until she came to the stepping stones. These giant flat slabs, worn smooth by running water and time, stretched across the shallowest part, led directly to the copse adjoining the manor.
    But she could not go to High Cleugh. If she did she would be trespassing. Another family lived there now.
    She sat down on the springy grass, pulled her knees up to her chest, rested her chin on them and clasped her arms around her legs.
    For the longest time Audra stared at High Cleugh.
    There was no sign of life. It appeared to slumber in thebrilliant sunshine as if it were not inhabited at all. A peacefulness lay over the motionless gardens. Not a blade of grass, not a single leaf stirred. The wind had dropped and the air was warm and languid. There was no sound except for the faint buzzing of a bee somewhere nearby and the gurgle and splash of water rushing over dappled stones as the Ure wended its way below her.
    Audra’s gaze became more intense than ever. She saw beyond the exterior walls to the inner core of the house. She closed her eyes, let herself sink down into her imagination, remembering, remembering…
    ***
    She was inside the house
.
    She stood in the hall with its apricot-coloured walls and worn green velvet bench and the palm in the pitted brass pot. All was shadowy, quiescent. She listened for a while to the stillness. Then she stepped forward, her footsteps echoing with a metallic ring against the marble. Slowly she climbed the staircase. It twisted upward in a graceful curve. She paused on the first landing. Her room was here. She went inside, closed the door, sighed with pleasure
.
    Familiar walls of the palest green surrounded her, reminded her as always of a summer sea on a misty Yorkshire morning. The polished wood floor gleamed like glass under her feet as she stepped up to her four-poster bed. She reached out, touched the tulips printed on the worn coverlet, traced a finger around their once-red petals long since washed-out to the colour of old rust. Burnt sienna it was called in her paintbox. She glided to the window, looked out across the Dales, heard the rustle of the curtains as they flapped about in the breeze. The scent of carnations filled the summer air. She turned her head, saw a cloud of pink petals in the blue willow-patterned bowl that stood on the oak chest. Their perfume drifted away, was replaced by a sweeter, headier fragrance. October roses lifted
full-blown heads from the bowl, shining yellows against the blue. It was autumn now. The time of the harvest
.
    How well she knew the changing seasons of this house
.
    The air had grown chillier. The fire crackled in the grate. She felt the warmth of the flames on her face. Snowflakes fluttered against the window pane. The gardens were made of white icing sugar
.
    She was no longer alone in the house
.
    She caught the sound of her mother’s laughter, the swish of her silk gown as she joined her by the fire. The Beautiful Edith Kenton. That was how they always spoke of her hereabouts
.
    Sapphires blazed at her throat, on her cool white arms. Blue fire against that translucent skin. Hair the colour of new pennies, an aureole of burnished copper light around the pale heart-shaped face. Warm and loving lips were pressed down to her young cheek. The smell of gardenias and Coty powder enveloped her. A slender, elegant hand took hold of hers, guided her out of the room
.
    Frederick and William waited in the hall, sang carols as they descended the stairs. Rowdy, loving brothers and devoted sons. Uncle Peter stood behind them in the entrance to the drawing room. He embraced her with his smile and ushered them all into the room
.
    She stood transfixed
.
    The room had acquired a magical quality this Christmas night. Its faded elegance had taken on a curious new beauty