The Secret Woman by Victoria Holt Page B

said.
    â€œNo. Have you?”
    That brought the color flooding my cheeks; and before I could prevent myself I was telling her about Redvers Stretton.
    â€œA roving Casanova,” she said. “I wish I’d been here then. I would have warned you.”
    â€œHow would you have known that he had a wife abroad?”
    â€œI would have found out, never fear. My poor dear Anna, you have to see it as a lucky escape.” Her eyes shone excitedly. “Think of what might have happened.”
    â€œWhat?” I demanded.
    â€œHe might have offered marriage and seduced you.”
    â€œWhat nonsense! It was all my fault really. He never gave the slightest indication that he was…interested in me. It was my foolish imagination.”
    She did not answer but from that moment she became very interested in Castle Crediton. I used to hear her talking about it and the Creditons with Ellen.
    My relationship with Ellen had changed; Ellen was far more interested in Chantel than in me. I could understand it. She was wonderful. By a deft touch of flattery she could put even Aunt Charlotte in a good mood. Her charm lay in her interest in people; she was avidly curious. After Ellen’s day off she would go to the kitchen to prepare a tray for Aunt Charlotte and I would hear them laughing together.
    Mrs. Buckle said: “That Nurse Loman’s a real bit of sunshine in the house.”
    I thought how right she was.
    It was Chantel who had the idea about our journals. Life, she said, was full of interest.
    â€œSome people’s,” I said.
    â€œAll people’s,” she corrected me.
    â€œNothing happens here,” I told her. “I lose count of the days.”
    â€œThat shows you should keep a journal and write everything down. I have an idea. We both will and we’ll read each other’s. It’ll be such fun, because, you see, living as close as we do we shall be recording the same events. We’ll see them through each other’s eyes.”
    â€œA journal,” I said. “I’d never have time.”
    â€œOh yes, you would. An absolutely truthful journal. I insist. You’ll be surprised what it will do for you.”
    And that was how we began to keep our journals.
    She was right, as she always seemed to be. Life did take on a new aspect. Events seemed less trivial; and it was interesting to see how differently we recorded them. She colored everything with her own personality and my account seemed drab in comparison. She saw people differently, made them more interesting; even Aunt Charlotte emerged as quite likable in her hands.
    We had a great deal of pleasure out of our journals. The important thing was to put down exactly what one felt, said Chantel. “I mean, Anna, if you feel you hate me over something, you shouldn’t mince your words. What’s the good of a journal that’s not truthful?”
    So I used to write as though I were talking to myself and every week we would exchange our journals and see exactly how the other had felt.
    I often wondered how I had got through the days before Chantel came. She was as much a nurse to me in a way as she was to Aunt Charlotte only I didn’t need the physical attention.
    ***
    It was only ten months since Chantel had come and the autumn was with us again. The autumn tints and smells still filled me with sorrow but my heart was considerably lightened. That summer had been a wet one and the damp atmosphere had had its effect on Aunt Charlotte; she was still unable to leave her bed. How right Dr. Elgin had been when he said she needed a nurse. The ease with which fragile Chantel was able to lift her up with the help of Mrs. Morton, always astonished me. Aunt Charlotte’s disease had moved into an advanced stage and the doctor gave her opium pills to make her sleep. She fought against what she condemned as drugs but finally she gave in.
    â€œOne a night,” said Dr. Elgin. “At most two. More