The Legacy by Evelyn Anthony Page A

the soft light from the pictures and candles. She had a fine bone structure that would age gracefully, and the clear Nordic blue eyes that were deeper than his own, and a full mouth that promised sensuality. No wonder Richard Farrington had fallen in love with her. She began by asking him about himself; more from politeness than real interest, he realized that, but it was a step forward. Brothers and sisters, she enquired. None, he told her. He was an orphan, adopted by a couple who lived in Gothenburg; good people but stern. Lutheran stern, he added, and Christina said, ‘I know what you mean, but my family weren’t like that, they were very liberal, very socially conscious. My father encouraged us to express ourselves, make our own decisions. We didn’t worry about Church; truth was my father’s God. The only time he ever punished us was if we lied.’
    â€˜You were lucky,’ he remarked. ‘I was beaten if I lied or told the truth. I learned early on it was better to say nothing. Maybe that’s why I became a lawyer, so I could talk all the time. They were very proud of me; I was a success and they liked that, but I knew they weren’t my real parents—they told me very early on. It made a difference, I think. I used to go and see them occasionally, but we weren’t close. They’re dead now.’ She looked at him and her face softened.
    â€˜It sounds very bleak to me. And sad.’ Easy to arouse her sympathy. He felt no scruple; what he’d told her was the truth. As adoptive parents went, he had drawn a very short straw.
    â€˜And what do you do when you’re not being a lawyer? Are you married?’ Christina asked him.
    â€˜No, and never have been,’ he said, ‘I don’t like commitment. I have girlfriends, but I don’t want more than that. I ski … show me a Scandinavian who doesn’t, and for amusement, I collect old manuscripts.’
    â€˜How strange. So did Richard.’ He lowered his eyelids, covering any sudden glitter of excitement.
    â€˜Did he? What a coincidence. There was no mention of a collection in his will. Perhaps it wasn’t serious collecting?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘He used to go into the library and shut himself away sometimes, but I never thought about it. It was his hobby and I wouldn’t have appreciated any of it anyway. You know, when we met in Stockholm, he told me he’d been to some dealer and got lucky. I can’t remember what he bought, but he seemed very excited about it. James talked about this hobby of his, too. He said Richard was obsessed by his collection when they were children, and spent hours locked away in the library. It used to annoy them and their mother. He said something about the study of comparative religions.’ She shrugged slightly. ‘I’m afraid that sort of scholarship is way above my head.’
    â€˜The study of comparative religions through the Scriptures and the scrolls,’ he remarked.
    â€˜I’ve heard of it; it’s very esoteric. I’d no idea he was so intellectually gifted; Humfrey Stone described him as a nice old-fashioned English gentleman.’
    â€˜Which he was,’ Christina said, ‘with a wonderful sense of humour and a loving heart.’
    He looked at her for a moment and then said, ‘What a nice tribute. How many wives would say that of their husbands, I wonder? Not many.’ He looked at his watch, pushed back his chair and said, ‘If you’ll excuse me for not having coffee, I should be going. It’s a good three hours, even at this hour.’
    Christina did what she would have done if they had been in Stockholm, and hospitality was a Farrington tradition. ‘You’ve had too many drinks to drive and the police are very strict around here, you’d better stay the night. There’s a room always ready for anyone who needs a bed. Richard never let guests