Written in Blood Read Online Free PDF

although Honoria was appallingly heartless, she had no wish to bandy the fact between all and sundry. Really, she thought crossly, if people choose to behave in such a loose manner they might at least have the decency to do so behind locked doors.
    ‘My dear,’ she said, and the endearment sat as awkwardly in her mouth as an ill-fitting tooth, ‘what on earth is the matter?’
    After a long pause Laura gave the reply people nearly always do in such circumstances. ‘Nothing.’
    Strongly tempted to reply ‘Well, that’s all right then’ and leave, Honoria descended two glossy stone steps and drew a wheelback chair out over the blue slate tiles. She sat down, saying, ‘Is there anything I can do?’
    Of all the bloody awful rotten luck. Laura cursed herself for forgetting to put the Yale back down after signing for a registered package. Of all the bloody awful rotten people to walk in. Laura had looked up only briefly, but once had been enough. Honoria’s prurient disengagement and passionate wish to be elsewhere were unmistakable.
    ‘No, honestly.’ She took a tissue from a nearly empty box, scrubbed her cheeks, blew her nose and dropped the soggy ball into a waste basket. ‘I get like this sometimes.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘I guess everyone does.’
    Honoria stared in disbelief. She had been brought up under the strict understanding that a lady never displayed her emotions. Honoria had never cried, not even when her beloved Rafe had died and she had been split asunder with the pain of it. Not then or at the funeral or at any time afterwards.
    ‘Shall I make you some tea?’
    ‘Tea?’ God, she’d be here for the duration. Making it, letting it stand, pouring it out. Milk and sugar. Bloody biscuits. Go away, you horrible old woman. Just go away.
    ‘That’s very kind.’
    Honoria filled the kettle and got milk, still in its carton, from the fridge. The teapot, a pretty piece of Rockingham covered with blue flowers was, to her relief, sitting on the side. She hated the idea of opening cupboards. Seeming to pry. Which meant doing without a milk jug. The silver-gilt caddie held Earl Grey bags.
    ‘Do you have bis—’
    ‘No.’ Laura had stopped crying but her face remained crumpled, this time with incipient crossness. ‘I eat them all so don’t keep them in the house.’
    ‘I see.’ Honoria was unsurprised at this further example of undisciplined dishevelment. ‘What a charming pot,’ she added, whilst waiting for the tea to brew. ‘You have such lovely things. I suppose it’s being in trade.’
    Laura blew her nose again, this time more loudly, putting the tissue in the pocket of her dressing gown. Actually when the drink came she was glad of it, for she had taken nothing since after dinner the previous evening.
    What was it, she wondered, about the making and proffering of this, the English panacea? No matter how appalling the occasion - a devastating accident, incipient bankruptcy or news of bereavement - the shell-shocked survivors were offered a cup of tea. And after all, thought Laura, aren’t I newly bereaved? Deprived forever of the hope that once sprang eternal.
    She sipped the fragrant, steaming liquid. The deceit of him. The deceit . Such rectitude. The lonely widower nursing his loss in pious and dignified silence. Refusing all comfort. His whole life a lie. Laura crashed her cup down into the saucer.
    Honoria, sitting bolt upright and already gripping her handbag very firmly, now held it up before her in the manner of a shield. Anxious both to justify her presence and to get away she reminded Laura about the catalogue, concluding, ‘Of course it doesn’t matter now. I can come back again.’
    ‘Oh! Don’t do that.’ Laura sprang up with uncomplimentary speed. ‘I’m sure I know just where they are.’
    She ran upstairs to her second bedroom, which doubled as an office, and started sorting through her in-tray. The catalogue wasn’t there. Or in the desk. Or in the Garden (Design) file.