The Secret Woman Read Online Free

herself that she thought most people fools.
    For at least a year I was what Aunt Charlotte would call “a cross,” in other words a burden; but that changed suddenly. It was a table which caught my attention. I was suddenly excited merely to look at it and I was crouching on the floor examining the carvings on the legs when Aunt Charlotte discovered me. She squatted on the floor beside me.
    â€œRather a fine example,” she said gruffly.
    â€œIt’s French, isn’t it?” I asked.
    Her lips turned up at the corners which was as near to a smile as she could get.
    She nodded. “It’s unsigned but I believe it’s the work of René Dubois. I thought at first his father Jacques was responsible for it, but I fancy it’s a year or two later. That green and gold lacquer on the oak carcase, you see! And look at those bronze mounts.”
    I looked and found myself touching it reverently.
    â€œIt would be the end of the eighteenth century,” I hazarded.
    â€œNo, no.” She shook her head impatiently. “Fifty years early. Mid-eighteenth century.”
    After that our relationship changed. She would sometimes call me and say: “Here! What do you think of this? What do you notice about it?” At first I felt a certain desire to score over her, to show her that I knew something about her precious goods; but later it became a great interest to me and I began to understand the difference between the furniture of various countries and to recognize period by certain features.
    One day Aunt Charlotte went so far as to admit: “You know as much as that fool Beringer.” But that was when she was particularly incensed by that long suffering lady.
    But as far as I was concerned the Queen’s House took on a new fascination. I began to know certain pieces, to regard them as old friends. Mrs. Buckle dusting with deft but careful hands said: “Here, are you going to be another Miss Charlotte Brett, Miss Anna?”
    That startled me; I felt then as though I wanted to run away.
    It was one morning in the middle of the summer holidays, about four years after my parents had brought me to England, when Ellen came to my room and told me that Aunt Charlotte wished to see me at once. Ellen looked scared and I asked if anything was wrong.
    â€œI’ve not been told, miss,” said Ellen, but I was aware that she knew something.
    I made my way—one made one’s way in the Queen’s House—to Aunt Charlotte’s sitting room.
    There she was, seated with papers before her, for she used the place as her office. Her desk on that day was a sturdy refectory table—sixteenth-century English, of a type that owed its charm to its age rather than its beauty. She sat very upright on a rather heavy chair of the Yorkshire-Derbyshire type of carved and turned oak, of much later period than the table, but as strong and sturdy. She chose these strong pieces for use while they were in the house. The rest of the office did not match the table and chair. An exquisite piece of tapestry hung on the wall. I knew it to be of the Flemish school, and guessed it would not be there for long; and crowded together were heavy oak pieces from Germany side by side with a delicate French eighteenth-century commode and two pieces in the Boulle tradition. I noticed the change in myself. I could sum up the contents of a room, date them and note their qualities even while I was eager to know what this summons meant.
    â€œSit down,” said Aunt Charlotte, and her expression was more grim than usual.
    I sat and she went on in her brusque way. “Your mother is dead. It was cholera.”
    How like her to shatter my future with two brief sentences. The thought of reunion had been like a lifebelt, which had prevented my being submerged in the misery of my loneliness. And she said it calmly like that. Dead…of cholera.
    She looked at me fearfully; she hated any display of