The Last Night in London, Karen White [english novels to improve english .TXT] 📗

step closer. Her mouth was partially open, as if she’d just spoken, and I found myself leaning forward as if to hear what she was saying. Looking closely at her eyes, I imagined I could: Help.

“Maddie? Aren’t you coming?” Arabella looked back at me.

“Sorry. I was just admiring the photographs.” Before I turned away, I spotted an elegant box-shaped purse clutched in the woman’s right hand, the paleness of her fingers stark against the dark fabric.

“You’ll have time to look at them later. Did you see the one of Colin’s grandparents on their wedding day? It was right before the war, and his grandfather is wearing his army uniform, although I believe he never saw active duty. But he looks quite dashing. Remember how we used to play dress up, Colin, and you paraded around in that same uniform?”

“That’s enough, Bella.” Colin glanced over his shoulder to glare at his cousin.

I followed them down the hallway, passing a large gold oval-framed photograph of a bride in white and a groom in uniform. They were perfect in their beauty and innocence, and appeared so very young and hopeful that it almost hurt to look at them. The groom held his hat, showing off a thick head of dark hair. He leaned into his bride as if he couldn’t bear to be apart from her. Her small hand rested in the crook of his arm, pulled close to her side.

I hurried after Arabella. “Did he survive the war?” I wished I hadn’t asked, not wanting to hear the answer if he hadn’t.

“David? Oh, yes. Thankfully. He and Sophia only had one child, James—Colin’s father—but by all accounts they lived long, happy lives.”

“That’s a relief.” I was gladder than I probably should have been, considering they were strangers to me. Yet one of the reasons I loved old photographs was because of the stories they told, usually by omission.

Arabella followed Colin, then held open the door at the end of the hall. I stood blinking, trying to acclimate my eyes to the dimness, as she latched it behind me. Everything seemed swathed in dusky peach, from the silk wallpaper to the heavy drapes on the tall windows. Even the thick carpet was the same soft hue, all of it reminding me of my little sister’s Barbie mansion.

“Precious says the light is more flattering to her complexion,” Arabella whispered.

“I can hear you, you know” came a soft Southern voice from an upholstered chaise beneath a large bay window. Her words dripped like melted butter, the familiar accent an unexpected tug on my heart, making me homesick.

Laura pulled open the drapes, exposing a small balcony railing outside the French doors and illuminating an open doorway into an adjacent bedroom behind the chaise. Colin placed the tray down on a small table, and Laura excused herself.

I tried not to stare at the woman on the chaise, but then I imagined she was used to being the focal point of any room. She wore a long peach silk robe with floating feathers around the neck and peach satin kitten-heeled slippers on her slender feet, her ankles currently crossed. Thick blond hair in perfect waves rested on her shoulders, making me wonder if she wore a wig like my aunt Lucinda, who placed hers on a plastic head on her dresser each night.

She had the same high cheekbones as the woman in the photograph in the hallway, the same patrician nose and jaw, the angles of her face still sharp. Yet she was slighter, too, all extra skin and tissue jettisoned, as if she’d paid a balance due each year, leaving behind a woman who at first glance appeared diminished.

Or not. Maybe if I’d seen her first with her eyes closed, I would have believed that. But her eyes weren’t the eyes of an old woman nearing the end of her life. Her pale blue eyes were like those of a cat perched on a ledge, deciding between the approaching stranger and a leap into oblivion.

“Good morning, Aunt Precious,” Arabella said as she leaned down to kiss the old woman’s lifted cheek.

This was definitely the woman in the photograph stepping out of the car. Even at her age, her bone structure and poise, the long limbs and elegant neck, the near-perfect alabaster skin still made her a beautiful woman. I recalled a book I’d read in high school lit class about a man who’d sold his soul to the devil so that he would have eternal youth. I’d never believed such a thing was possible. But now, looking into those eyes, I almost believed it was.

“Hello, Nana.” Colin bent to kiss the offered cheek, and when he went to straighten up, Precious took his hand and held tight.

“Sit next to me,” she said. “So I can get a good look at you.”

“Of course,” he said. “But allow me to introduce you to the journalist who will be interviewing you for the Vogue article.”

“I’m Madison Warner,” I said. “My friends call me Maddie.” I reached out my hand, and she dropped Colin’s so she could place soft fingertips in mine, much like I imagined the queen did when meeting her subjects.

Precious peered at me closely. I wondered if she didn’t wear glasses out of vanity, or if she didn’t need them. “It’s such a pleasure,” she drawled, her voice lingering over syllables the short word wasn’t meant to have. I wanted to let go of her hand, but she kept looking at me.

“Arabella tells me we’re kin.”

She hadn’t indicated that I should sit, and Colin wouldn’t sit until Arabella and I did, so we remained standing awkwardly. “We are. Arabella and I found out by accident when we were at Oxford. My sister had sent me a copy of our ancestry chart, and Arabella saw it and recognized your name. That’s how I learned that you’d been a model before and after the war.”

She continued to examine me closely, and I had to resist the impulse to squirm. Standing