After Clare Read Online Free PDF

amiss.
    Emily merely smiled and pushed open the door to her old room. Behind her, Marta immediately began to fuss. That Emily had asked to use this room had evidently put her out: it wasn’t set up as a guest room, she said – kept shut up for years, of course . . . Aware she’d made a gaffe, Marta looked down at her feet, then rushed on. She was afraid it would be draughty, but at least she had made sure the bed wasn’t damp. But are you certain you wouldn’t rather have had the blue room, Lady Fitzallan?
    The blue room. Silk curtains and a four-poster, no less. Everything needed for the comfort of a guest. The blue room was not where Emily wanted to sleep. ‘No, no thank you, Marta. And I think it had better be Cousin Emily – better still, just Emily – don’t you?’
    She wished Marta would go. She wanted to be alone in the old, familiar room she had shared with Clare. Yet an eerie feeling of having stepped back in time sent an unexpected chill down her spine. She might even have shivered involuntarily, because Marta immediately said, ‘I should have had a fire laid. The nights can still be cold.’
    She meant well, no doubt, but her excessive politeness only succeeded in being irritating. The idea of a fire was ridiculous: the big space was warmed by the June sun, heat was trapped in the heavy hangings and the walls. It smelled as it always had, of old, dry wood, beeswax and potpourri. The room, with its odd, shadowy corners, had been well prepared for a guest: Emily’s luggage had already been unpacked, her silver-topped toilet bottles and jars ranged on the dressing table and her clothes hung in the huge French armoire, whose doors still had to be wedged shut with a fold of card, due to the uneven floorboards. The sheets on the bed would no doubt be scented with lavender – the big double bed where as children she and Clare had lain close together like spoons, whispering and giggling until they fell asleep.
    â€˜Well, if you’re sure you have everything . . .’ Marta fiddled with the soap dish, ran a finger over the polished surface of a chest, found no dust. Leysmorton was well looked after, though there were no live-in maids now, only women who came in from the village. She opened her mouth to say something, changed her mind, then it came out in a rush: ‘I – I think there’s something you should know. About Dirk . . .’ She stopped, and swallowed.
    â€˜His eyesight?’
    â€˜Oh.’ Surprised, but clearly relieved. ‘You noticed then?’
    â€˜I didn’t think,’ Emily said gently, ‘that he wore those heavy glasses from choice. Was it some war injury I haven’t heard of?’
    â€˜Dirk was never in the fighting, his duties lay behind the lines.’ She put a hand up to her dusty hair and Emily saw it was trembling.
    â€˜Do sit down, Marta.’
    But she remained standing in the middle of the room, stocky, plain, ill at ease. ‘It’s all very difficult. He won’t talk about it. But someone is bound to tell you and it might as well be me. Everyone knows he is losing his sight.’
    â€˜What? I am so sorry. When – when did he find this out?’
    â€˜Not definitely until about a year ago. He was beginning to have difficulties with seeing before the war, and that’s why they wouldn’t let him fight, but it’s grown worse.’
    â€˜Is there nothing that can be done? An operation?’
    â€˜He has eye drops to dilate the pupil. And those spectacles . . . they help a little, but shapes and colours are still distorted. It makes writing and reading very difficult and he gets serious headaches. And yes, his ophthalmologist has recommended surgery, but he has warned that there is a poor outcome. There’s every possibility that he could lose his sight altogether.’ She sounded so worried, so fiercely protective, that Emily forgot her irritation and put out a