The Morning Gift by Eva Ibbotson

Author:Eva Ibbotson [Eva Ibbotson]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780330477345
Publisher: Young Picador

17

Quin had never had any fault to find with the behaviour of the people who worked at Bowmont, but as he drove through the village and up the hill, it seemed to him that everyone was in an unusually genial and benevolent mood. In spite of the rain driving in from the sea, Mrs Carter who kept the post office, the blacksmith at the forge and old Sutherland at the lodge, came out to smile and wave and several times as he stopped, his hand was shaken with a cordiality which seemed to hint at some particular pleasure lying in store for him in which they shared.

‘But you’ll be wanting to get along today,’ said Mrs Ridley at the farm when they had exchanged a few friendly words. ‘You’ll not be wanting to waste any more time, not today.’

Arriving at the house, he found Turton in a similar mood. The butler called him Master Quinton, a throwback to some twenty years ago and told him, beaming with good will, that drinks would be served in the drawing room in half an hour, giving him plenty of time to change.

This alone indicated more formality than Quin usually permitted, for he made it clear that when he came for the field course, he was here to work, but as he went inside he found further signs that all was not as usual. The hall at Bowmont, with its arbitrary collection of broadswords, incomprehensible tapestries and a weasel which the Basher had stuffed, but without success, was not a place in which anybody lingered. Today, though, in spite of his aunt’s conviction that warmth inside the house spelled softness and decay, the ancient deposit of pine cones in the grate had been replaced by a fire of brightly burning logs, and though flowers were seldom cut and brought indoors, Frances preferring to let her plants grow unmolested, the Chinese vase on the oak chest was filled with dahlias and chrysanthemums.

But it was his aunt’s attire as she came forward to welcome him, that confirmed his fears. Frances always changed for dinner, which meant that she replaced her lumpy tweed skirt by a slightly longer one of rusty silk – but there was one outfit which for decades had signalled a special occasion: a black chenille dress whose not noticeably plunging neckline was covered with an oriental shawl. It was this that she was wearing now, and Quin’s last hope of a quiet evening to prepare for his students vanished.

‘You look very splendid,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Do we have visitors?’

‘You know we do,’ said Aunt Frances, coming forward to give him her customary peck on the cheek. ‘I wrote to you. They’ll be down in a minute – you just have time to change.’

‘Actually, I don’t know, Aunt Frances! I’ve come straight from Yorkshire. What did you write?’

Aunt Frances frowned. She had hoped that Quin would come prepared and joyful. ‘That I’ve invited the Placketts. Verena and her mother.’ And as Quin

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