Undine -

Chapter 2

Sophie took the stone steps leading up the lawn terraces two at a time, then almost ploughed into Irma.

'I came to look for you,' the woman said without smiling. 'The evening meal is served soon but Beth insists on taking sherry at six forty five.' The housekeeper ran her eyes meaningfully down Sophie's body. 'And you must dress for dinner.'

Sophie glanced down in dismay at her bare legs, then sheepishly untucked herself with as much dignity as she could muster. 'Thank you, Mrs Benchley.'

Irma nodded stiffly, turning to watch Sophie's retreating form as she hurried towards the front of the house. 'Miss Burgess?'

Sophie swung round breathlessly. 'Yes.'

'We don't want sand and lake water trodden into the hallway, do we?'

Sophie stared down at her sand frosted sandals. 'I'm sorry. I don't know any other way.'

'Follow me,' Irma instructed then marched off without waiting.

The winding staircase to the rear of the house serviced each floor via doorways cleverly concealed in the oak panelled walls. Sophie was astounded that they even existed, and even more astonished at the consummate workmanship involved in disguising the doors.

'You'd never guess they were here,' she enthused. 'I'll bet you could have some fun playing murder in the dark.'

Irma favoured her with a stony look reminiscent of her mistress. 'I think we're all a little old for such shenanigans.'

Sophie smiled automatically, wondering if Irma even knew the meaning of the word. In the sanctuary of her room she shrugged off her clothes, then stood in her underwear before the gilt framed pier glass fastened to the wall. She stared down at the drying wound on her wrist, remembering the stranger's advice, recalling the deep, soft tones of his voice. As she thought of him, Sophie raised her wrist to her mouth and touched the tip of her tongue to the wound. She glanced up, caught her own lust in the mirror, and then pulled a face at her reflection.

You've been without for too long. Too long and never enough...

~

SOPHIE made sure her shower was long and cold. Afterwards, she twisted her hair into a towel, then walked naked to the dressing room.

What the hell shall I wear? Something demure, flamboyant, casual? The old girl won't approve of jeans at dinner.

Sophie flicked through the clothes rack, fingering each garment and then discarding it. The low cut red voile; bottle green Nicole Farhi; the fitted flower print, or chartreuse tea dress.

She pulled out a flowing black georgette, pinched in at the waist with tiny tucks but demure in line and cut. The garment was knee length with puffed sleeves. There were black suede pumps to match.

Sophie perused her image in the pier glass. Black suited her, brought out the highlights in her hair and the chips of gold in her eyes. At six forty, she tripped lightly down main staircase, realising halfway down that she had no idea where the dining room was.  

The first door she tried opened into a modest library with wall to wall shelving and two long, narrow leaded windows flanked by floor length plum velvet curtains. The room was muted and gloomy, and smelled pleasantly of lemon oil and old leather. The furthest wall held an Italian marble fireplace similar to the one in the drawing room, and above the thick slab of the mantel hung a portrait of a young woman.

The painting intrigued Sophie, for the woman's dress was of such flimsy fabric that it clung to every curve of her body.

They must have soaked her to achieve that effect, she marvelled, walking into the room to study the portrait at close quarters. There's weed and lilies in her hair...