The Red Thread Read Online Free PDF Page A

flame of the forest. Charlotte recalled playing in the dense shade among the grey buttress roots of this lacy-leafed plant in Madagascar. This road ran along the edge of the plain, and beyond its expanse she could see the sapphire blue of the sea and the masts of the ships.
    She felt a sudden upsurge in spirits. Here was a place intensely familiar, yet brand new. It was a frontier. Perils lay beyond, perhaps, but promises too. She felt a mantle of the past slipping from her shoulders and, for the first time, she was willing to let it go.
    It was ten o’clock in the morning and the heat was already wilting. The parasol shaded her but did nothing to stop sweat trickling down her neck. The street was deserted. The only noise to be heard was the squeaking of the big wheels on the carriage and the sonorous buzzing of a thousand cicadas in the shrubberies. Fiery air shimmered on the plain.
    A few minutes later, she caught sight of another large, columned building at the end of the plain; then the carriage turned left, and a gleaming white house came into view. Charlotte had never been to Pall Mall, but she had seen pictures, and she thought this house would not have disgraced it. The two storeys of the house were fronted by a great porch supported by six slender fluted columns, topped with scrolls in a neo-classical style. A deep frieze supported the long triangle of the roof front. On this, in foot-high, exquisite Celtic script were carved the words: ‘Tir Uaidhne’. Charlotte recognised the lettering from the books of Scottish myths and fables in her grandfather’s library but had no idea what the words meant. She liked it, though: a house with a mysterious name.
    Half-columned bays projected from the sides of the house into the gardens. Unlike the other houses she had seen, the shutters on this house were white and the roof tiles green. Surrounded by tall trees and palms in a myriad of verdant shades, the house had an air of undeniable coolness.
    Like an emerald isle in an emerald sea, thought Charlotte, remembering that Coleman was an Irishman.
    Before the porch, a mass of bushes covered in tiny white flowers spilled frothily onto a lawn. As they turned in to the gate and drew up in the deep shade of the porte-cochere, a woman descended the marble steps and put her hands together in greeting.
    Charlotte had never seen such a woman. She wore a silk sarong , which played about her ankles as she moved, a shimmering garment in hues of lime, gold, brown, tan and black, a tumbling profusion of geometric and floral designs. Over a tight bodice she wore a plain tunic in pale green, of a material which was gossamer fine. The borders of the tunic and sleeves were filigreed lace, and it fitted her body like a glove. The jacket made a deep V-shape over her tiny waist. She wore no shawl. Her jet-black hair was drawn up into a loose chignon and held with a simple gold lacquer pin. The colours so matched her light brown skin and black eyes that she seemed almost unreal. On her feet she wore open sandals so delicate they seemed to be made of diaphanous threads. Then Charlotte noticed that the skin from her toes to her ankles was covered in fine coils and tendrils of black and brown vines and leaves, as if she had stepped from a magical autumn garden. This was so fascinating that Charlotte knew she was staring and had to drag her eyes away.
    â€˜Come,’ said the vision, seemingly unmoved by her inspection, and took her hands. Up they went into the great hall. Charlotte had no time to crane her neck before they reached a sitting room on the side of the building. A wide bay window overlooked a grove of trees, with leaves which drooped prettily in pinkish–purple tassels. There, on a long sofa of pale yellow silk, sat Mrs da Silva and her three charges. Seven other ladies were also present, seated apart on pale green, damask-covered chairs. They all rose when Charlotte entered.
    Without ado, Takouhi had introduced them,