Keeping Bad Company Read Online Free PDF Page A

affairs with anybody else, but he had no friends or relatives around him to share his problems, so perhaps it was natural to confide in an older man whom he admired. I was sure that I knew the purpose of the proposed visit. Mr Griffiths would support Tom’s plan for taking me to India on a husband hunt. Well, I could listen and say a polite no. Also, if I’m honest, I was curious to meet this combative Mr Griffiths.
    â€˜When?’ I said.
    â€˜I’ll call for you tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.’
    â€˜Isn’t that a little early for visiting?’
    â€˜He’s living out at Richmond. We’ll take the stage from St Paul’s.’
    He drank tea with us, but wouldn’t stay the night. He had things to discuss with men from the Company about his appearance before the parliamentary committee. He seemed sad and preoccupied and it went to my heart to know that I could do nothing to help him.
    Next morning Tom brought a cab to collect me. The journey to St Paul’s was too noisy and the stagecoach too crowded to have any chance for conversation, which was something of a relief. When Tom took off one of his gloves I noticed that the nails were bitten down to the quick, an old habit. When we came to Richmond he handed me down from the coach and gave me an assessing look. There was nothing for him to criticize. I was wearing my grey-and-blue wool dress and a bonnet so sober it was practically Quakerish.
    â€˜Well, am I respectable enough to meet your Mr Griffiths?’
    He hesitated.
    â€˜Liberty, I don’t want you to have the wrong impression of him. He may seem eccentric, but I promise you he’s as good a hearted man as you could wish to meet.’
    â€˜Well then, I shall be respectful of him. More than that I won’t promise.’
    He looked as if he wanted to say more, but led the way across the green towards a neat brick-built cottage with a front garden that was a froth of wallflowers and forget-me-nots.
    â€˜Is it his?’ I said.
    â€˜I believe he’s rented it.’
    In living so far out of town, Mr Griffiths must be taking great pains to distance himself from his Company colleagues.
    We walked up the red brick path and Tom knocked on the door. It was opened at once by an Indian lad wearing a turban, tunic and white trousers. He was clearly expecting us and showed us into a sunlit room overlooking the garden. The man standing to meet us there reminded me of a heron. He was thin and angular, shoulders a little bowed. His face was clean-shaven and as brown as oak bark, with a bony wedge of nose and eyes that were probably grey, but had a bright and lively look that made them seem blue. His hair was bright silver, worn almost collar-length, but neat. He was simply dressed in a grey cutaway coat over a shirt and neckcloth of dazzling whiteness and a plain grey waistcoat.
    â€˜Tom, my boy, it’s good to see you.’
    He looked at me and smiled, but waited correctly for Tom to introduce us.
    â€˜Miss Lane, it’s a pleasure to meet you. If you take that chair there, the sun won’t be in your eyes. You’ll join me in a cup of tea?’
    His voice was pleasant and cultivated, rather old-fashioned. The tea was brought in by the lad as soon as he’d finished speaking. It was served in small cups without milk and had a startlingly fresh taste. As we sipped and made polite conversation – the company on our stagecoach journey, the pleasantness of an English April – I looked round his room and liked it. The architecture was as rustic as you’d expect in a cottage, with great ceiling beams that threatened the head of anyone more than five and a half feet tall, with mostly plain wooden furniture. Books and maps were everywhere and the open desk crowded with papers and pens. I noticed that the inside of our host’s index finger was deeply ink stained and there was an ink spot on his otherwise immaculate shirt cuff.
    We