The Legacy Read Online Free PDF Page A

‘She’ll forget it, if she even took it in.’
    On their way to the drawing-room, Christina paused. She could hear a loud buzz of voices behind the door. ‘Would you do me a favour?’ she asked. ‘Would you not go back to London? Stay the night here? There’s so much I want to ask you. Would you do that?’
    I could never rely on him; you won’t be able to either. Richard’s dismissal mocked her.
    He hesitated. ‘I have a dinner date, I can’t easily put it off. I could come next week sometime …’
    â€˜Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Just ring and invite yourself down.’ Richard Farrington hadn’t misjudged his son. She braced herself, opened the door and went in.
    Rolf Wallberg had followed the child down to the lake. She had been strained and silent while they toured the rose garden, answering his questions with a few words. At the lake’s edge they paused. Swans were sailing past, their heads held high in disdain of the humans who had come empty-handed.
    â€˜Do you like swans?’
    She shook her head. ‘No, they’re so greedy. Daddy never let me feed them; he said they were dangerous. He said they can break your arm with one wing, they’re so strong. I hate fierce things.’
    â€˜I hate fierce people,’ he said. She looked up at him. ‘Me too. My brother Alan’s fierce. He hates Mummy and me; I don’t know why.’
    Rolf said quietly, ‘Maybe he’s jealous because your father loved you better than him.’
    â€˜Maybe,’ she considered for a moment. ‘But he’s not at all nice, so why should Daddy love him?’ Rolf smiled. The clarity of children’s reasoning always amazed him.
    â€˜No reason at all. Shall we go back and find your Mother now?’
    â€˜All right,’ she agreed. After a few minutes, she said suddenly, ‘Is he really going to do awful things to Mummy and take RussMore away from us?’ Rolf knew he had won her trust.
    â€˜No, not if Mr Stone can help it. And I’m going to help Mr Stone. So don’t worry about it. We’re on your side, Belinda.’
    â€˜I’m glad.’ She reached up and held on to his hand. ‘Mummy can’t stand up to Alan by herself. I heard Daddy say that one day. He said she was too nice.’
    â€˜I’m sure she is,’ he agreed, ‘but I’m not, and nor is Mr Stone. Where do we go now?’ They had come in by a side door. They faced a long stone passage, rows of boots and weatherproofs were ranged down one side, topped by an extraordinary variety of hats. Hats and coats for all the unpredictable English seasons, he thought. Mostly for mud and rain.
    â€˜Down here,’ she said, leading him. A door opened into another passage, the walls covered in old faded photographs of dead men on horses, surrounded by packs of long-departed hounds. Extraordinary people, he mused. English ancestor worship, confined to the domestic regions, but then they tended to put their citations for bravery and their old school mementos in their lavatories. He had decided a long time ago that he would never understand the English, of any class.
    The doors to the drawing-room were open, some people were already leaving. ‘There’s Mummy,’ she said and hurried away from him. He stayed where he was, observing for a moment. She was talking to an older couple; he had retired military stamped all over him, from the neat moustache to the cropped grey hair and immaculately polished shoes. The wife was typical too. Dowdy, angular, with a hat like a flowerpot at an ugly angle on her head. He started towards them. Christina smiled as he came up; she looked pale and miserable in spite of the smile. He wasn’t sorry for her; he wasn’t concerned with people. He was interested but quite dispassionate. He had felt sorry for the child; he had a soft heart for children.
    â€˜Mr Wallberg, Colonel and Mrs