Cardington Crescent Read Online Free PDF

table with his fist. “That’s what it takes to be a man—and a Christian.”
    The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. The afternoon was spent reading and writing letters.
    The evening was even worse. They sat around striving to make conversation suitable to the Sabbath, until Sybilla was invited to play the piano, which she did rather well and with obvious enjoyment. Everyone except Emily was drawn in, singing ballads, and occasionally, more serious solos. Sybilla had a very rich voice, a little husky with a slight catch in it.
    Upstairs at last, her throat sore with the effort of not crying, Emily dismissed her maid and began to undress herself. George came in and closed the door with an unnecessarily loud noise.
    “Couldn’t you have made more of an effort, Emily?” he said coldly. “Your sullenness was verging on bad manners.”
    It was too much. The injustice of it was intolerable.
    “Bad manners!” she gasped. “How dare you stand there and accuse me of bad manners! You have spent the entire fortnight seducing your host’s daughter-in-law in front of everyone, even the servants. And because I don’t care to join in with you, you accuse me of being ill-mannered!”
    The color flamed up in his face, but he stood perfectly still. “You are hysterical,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you would be better alone until you can collect yourself. I shall sleep in the dressing room; the bed is still made up. I can perfectly easily tell everyone you are not feeling well and I don’t wish to disturb you.” His nostrils flared very slightly and a flicker of irritation crossed his face. “They won’t find that hard to believe. Good night.” And a moment later he was gone.
    Emily stood numbed by the monstrosity of it. It was so utterly unfair, it took several moments to assimilate it. Then she threw herself onto the bed, punched the pillow with all her strength, and burst into tears. She wept till her eyes were burning and her lungs ached, and still she felt no better—only too tired to hurt so fiercely anymore—until tomorrow.

3
    E MILY WOKE VERY early in the morning, even before the housemaids were up, and reviewed the situation. Last night’s crisis had swept away the paralysis of indecision, the fending off of the knowledge which she knew must come with all its misery. She made a resolution. She would fight! Sybilla was not going to win simply because Emily had neither the wit nor the strength to give her a battle, however far it had gone. And she was obliged to admit, briefly and painfully, that it had probably gone all the way—witness George’s alacrity in provoking an excuse to sleep in the dressing room. Even so, Emily would use every skill she possessed to win him back. And she had a great deal of skill. After all, she had won him in the first place, against considerable odds.
    If she were to continue to appear as wretched as she felt, she would embarrass the rest of the household and lay herself open to a pity that would not comfortably be forgotten, even when the affair was over and she had won. Most important, it would not be in the least attractive to George; like most men he loved a gay and charming woman who had enough sense to keep her troubles to herself. An excess of emotion, especially in public, would make him acutely uncomfortable. Far from winning him away from Sybilla, it would drive him further into her arms.
    Therefore, Emily would act the role of her life. She would be so utterly charming and delightful George would find Sybilla a pale copy, a shadow, and Emily again the true substance.
    For three days she kept up her charade without noticeable failure. If she felt close to weeping again she was sure no one else saw it—except perhaps Great-aunt Vespasia, who saw everything. But she did not mind that. Behind the ineffable elegance and the radical humor, Aunt Vespasia was the one person who cared for her.
    However, it had proved so difficult at times she was all but overcome with the