Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [107]
“She was so vivid. She looked at me so directly.” He smiled at the remembrance. “Her father used to criticize her for it and say it was unbecoming in a woman, but I found it honest, as if she were interested in everything and would not stoop to pretending she was not. She liked bright colors, all sorts of reds and glowing blues.” Involuntarily his eyes went to the peacock screen. “I recall once, years ago, she went to dinner in a gown of such a fierce flame color that she was noticed immediately when one entered the room.” His smile broadened. It was all so much easier than he had expected, so much more natural. “Looking back it was rather ostentatious, which was not what she meant at all. She simply loved the color and it made her feel happy to look at it. We laughed about it afterwards. Catriona laughed very easily, she enjoyed so many things.”
“It is a rare gift,” Eleanor said warmly. “And a very precious one. Too much happiness is lost because we spend our time regretting the past and seeking for the future and miss what we are given for the moment at hand. The gift to be happy is a blessing to all around. Do you have a picture of her?”
“She disliked the camera. She felt it caught only the outer person, and she did not care for the way she looked …”
Surprise flickered across Eleanor’s face.
“The person you describe sounds so lovely I had imagined her beautiful.”
“Catriona?” He was a little surprised. “When you knew her, she was. She had lovely eyes, very dark and wide, and shining hair; but she was a very big woman. After our daughters were born she seemed to become bigger, and never lost it again. I think she was more aware of it than anyone else. I certainly was not.”
“Then it hardly matters, does it?” Eleanor said, dismissing it. “Catriona. That is an unusual name. Was she Scottish?”
“Yes—as my father was, although I was born here in England.”
Goodall returned with a tray of tea and sandwiches and their conversation was interrupted while it was set down.
Goodall poured and passed the cups and the plates, then withdrew again.
“We have talked enough about me,” Drummond said, dismissing himself as a further topic. He was keen to hear something of her, even if it proved to be oddly painful: a whole world in which she knew and cared for other people and into which he could never intrude once this wretched case was over. “Please tell me of yourself.”
He half expected her to make the usual demur that modesty dictated. It was an automatic reaction of women, required by society, to be self-effacing, and he was delighted when she began a trifle awkwardly, but without excuse, as though she wished him to know.
She sipped her tea then set the cup down and began.
“My father was a man of letters, a student, but I barely remember him.” Her lips curled with a faint smile, but of far-off memories, not self-pity. “He died when I was nine, and I am afraid I can bring back to mind only the faintest recollections of him. He always seemed to have a book open in his hand, and he was very absentminded. I recall him as thin and dark, and he spoke very softly. But I am not sure if that is true memory, or the mind of my adult knowledge painting it for me from a late picture my mother had.”
Drummond thought of the privation of a new widow with a child to raise. His tea sat forgotten.
“What happened to you?” he asked with concern. “Had your mother family?”
“Oh yes. My grandfather was an archdeacon and he had a very good living. We went to live with him, my mother, my brother, my sister and myself. It was a large country house outside Bath, and very agreeable, with a garden full of flowers and an orchard where I remember playing.” Again she sipped her tea and took one of the small sandwiches. “My grandmother was rather strict, but she indulged us when she chose. I was a touch afraid of her, because I never learned precisely what pleased her and what did not, so I could never judge what her temper would be. I think now, looking back, that perhaps it had nothing