The Other Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page A

turned her back, busying herself with the practicalities. “Did they not know how to make tea in France?”
    Rachel strove for normalcy and missed by yards. “It is amazing to me that a people who do such wonderful things with coffee cannot seem to master a simple cup of tea.”
    â€œPerhaps it’s because they do such wonderful things with coffee,” said Alice sagely.
    Water steamed into the old brown teapot with the wonky spout. The smell of tea rose like memory. Her mother’s favorite tea, Irish tea, strong as sin. During the war, they’d used the leaves over and over, until the tea was little more than faintly tinted water. Rachel could remember that first cup of real tea after the war, her mother’s palpable satisfaction as she poured the dark brown liquid from the pot, breathing in the scented steam.
    Rachel came to herself to see Alice looking down at her, two wrinkles between her eyes. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
    â€œNothing,” said Alice quickly, and set the pot of tea down on the old pine table.
    They had sat like this thousands of times over the years, at this same kitchen table, this same teapot on the table between them, working on their lessons—or avoiding their lessons—as one of her mother’s students plunked out tunes on the piano in the sitting room.
    For a moment, Rachel thought she could hear the music from the other room. And then it was gone, nothing but the ringing in her ears. She took one of the broken biscuits Alice had set on a plate. They were stale, but Alice was right, she needed to eat something. Her mind groped after what came next. Arrangements—the arrangements had been made. She would need to see her mother’s solicitor. Or had they sent a letter? Ask Alice about the mail, see Norris about the rent …
    Anything to keep from thinking about the silence of the other room.
    Tea spattered from the broken spout as Alice poured. “I imagine—I imagine you’ll be going back to France?” she said hesitantly.
    Rachel remembered the look on the countess’s face. A hysterical laugh welled up at the back of her throat. She’d closed that road with a vengeance. “No, not back to France. Thank you.” She took the cup of tea Alice handed her, wrapping her palms around the warmth. “I rather burned my bridges with the countess, you see. I don’t think she’ll be giving me much of a reference. Not the sort of reference one would want, at any rate.”
    â€œWhere will you go?”
    â€œI hadn’t thought about it.” There hadn’t been time to think about anything. “Here, I suppose. Just until I find myself another position.” Something in Alice’s face made her say sharply, “What? What is it?”
    Alice toyed with her teacup, turning it around and around on the saucer. “Mr. Norris came to the funeral. He told me that he’s—reclaiming the cottage.”
    â€œReclaiming?”
    â€œFor nonpayment of rent. He claims the rent wasn’t paid to him on time last week—well, it wouldn’t be, would it?—although everyone knows it’s just an excuse. He thinks he can rent it out to a rich Londoner as a weekend cottage. Horrid man. That was why I was here. I wanted to make sure you had your things—your mother’s piano—”
    Rachel’s tired brain refused to grasp what Alice was saying. “Norris is evicting me?”
    â€œHe didn’t lose a minute,” said Alice bitterly. “And at your own mother’s funeral! It seemed unlikely he’d come to pay his respects, but I’d never imagined—” Alice scooted her chair forward. “There must be some way to fight it. The rent is all of a week overdue. If I’d realized, I’d have paid it myself, you know I would.”
    â€œI know,” said Rachel numbly. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. First