The New Moon with the Old Read Online Free PDF

next to that, Drew’s room – extremely like him, combining tidiness with cosiness. Many photographs, pictures, books … that long row of little red ones would be ‘Nelson’s Sevenpennys’. She studied the faded spines; some of the author’s names were vaguely familiar but she had read none of the books. A strange collection for a present-day young man to cherish. On his desk a bound volume of Punch for the year 1905 lay open, with a pile of neatly written notes beside it. He was obviously doing the most careful research as to clothes, furniture and the idiom of the period. What flower arrangement would suit Drew’s interest in Edwardiana? She must think about it.
    Richard’s room was as tidy as Drew’s but very far from cosy. Like the whole house it was comfortably, if unbeautifully, furnished. But its owner had added no personal touches at all. And it was as cold as it was bare, with the central heating turned off and the window wide open. Flowers would cheer things up; she remembered Richard was said to like them very fresh. Typical, no doubt – but of what? She found him so much less forthcoming than the others.
    At the back of the house there was a spare room, a box room and her own room. She skipped these and turned the corner of the gallery. Passing the bathroom she shared with the girls she went into Merry’s room, the walls of which werehung with portraits of dramatists, actors and actresses. Jane inspected these only cursorily, deciding that she’d ask Merry to take her on a guided tour. Really, the child’s collection of plays was impressive – one wouldn’t have expected her to understand some of them; indeed, as regards a few of the very modem ones, Jane hadn’t understood them herself.
    Now only Clare’s room remained, the large front one that corresponded to Rupert Carrington’s on the far side of the gallery. Entering, Jane wondered if she could permit herself to look at the flower painting that had been whisked away from her. One had every right, as a housekeeper and flower arranger, to enter rooms and look at pictures and books, but one would never, never read anyone’s letter or even a postcard; that would be spying. Would inspection of Clare’s work come into the same category? She was arguing this out with herself when she noticed that the drawing-board was back on the workable again. One could hardly avoid seeing it.
    What she saw was a watercolour drawing of roses, painstakingly careful but nothing more. No wonder Clare had said she didn’t really paint! Sending her to an art school must just be a way of launching her into the world. Jane tried to detect even the faintest hint of talent but the more one looked, the more feeble the drawing seemed. Well, never now would she question poor Clare about her work. And she should be given a very special flower arrangement: something formal and in keeping with the pictures, which were mainly Watteau reproductions and small portraits of historical personages. Obviously the girl was extremely romantic – except that she hadn’t yet struck Jane as extremely anything.
    Well, that concluded the tour of the bedrooms; except for the maids’ rooms, no doubt up a back staircase. One wouldn’t dream of invading any maid’s room. That – though she didn’t quite know why – would definitely be spying.
    A clock below chimed four. She would gather some flowers now. As she went downstairs she thought the hall, in spite of its white paint, bright chintzes and colourful Turkey carpet, looked cheerless now the sun was off it and the fire unlit. She looked up at the dome and decided she didn’t really like it. Somehow it was … too unintimate for a private house; it suggested an institution. And the daylight it admitted absurd, but it didn’t seem like present-day daylight.
    After she’d gathered some flowers she’d make herself some tea. That would be cheering – though it was idiotic that one should need cheering.
    She found scissors in the