‘Is she really a beauty?’ Julian enquired.
‘A veritable goddess.’
‘If you are trying to mislead me….’
‘What?’ Sir Jasper was reproachful. ‘Do you not trust your own uncle, whom you have known since you were in leading strings?’
‘Perhaps,’ St George suggested, ‘that is why he does not trust you.’
‘Well,’ Julian said, before his uncle could respond to this provocative remark, ‘I will accept your wager on one condition.’
‘And what is that?’
‘That St George here be allowed to accompany me and assist me in my ... quest.’
Sir Jasper considered the matter. ‘I have no objection,’ he said at last, ‘if St George is willing to lend you his aid.’
‘Will you, Richard?’ Julian asked him. ‘If this Miss Powell is the old harridan my uncle describes, I shall certainly need help in winning her fair charge.’
St George stood. ‘As your friend, I can hardly refuse. Besides which, I am undoubtedly intrigued by your uncle’s story. It is certainly more entertaining than anything I’ve heard for many a day.’
‘It seems to have cured your megrims,’ Julian said, with a smile.
‘For the moment.’
‘Then it is settled.’ Sir Jasper put out his hand. ‘The only thing that now remains is to state the terms.’
Chapter Two
‘Did Papa deliver a speech?’
‘One worthy of Hamlet himself,’ Rosalind Powell replied.
‘He expects us to succumb to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune the moment his back is turned, no doubt.’
Rosalind folded her hands and raised her eyes roofward at the memory. ‘Dire prognostications fell from his lips at such length, and in such vivid detail, that I can only assume he had recently been reading the book of Revelation.’
Miss Cassandra Woodford furrowed her brow. ‘Now, my dear Rosalind,’ she pronounced, unsuccessfully attempting a deep masculine bass, ‘I know that I may rely on your good sense and plain rumgumption! I leave Cassandra to your care. You see to it that my girl comes to no harm, for well I know the dire evils that can befall a helpless female of tender years when she is unprotected and subjected to the tribulations which this world so amply affords!’
This was too much for Rosalind, who succumbed to a fit of giggles, only halting them to protest, ‘Really, you should not, Cass. There was never a father who so doted on his daughter, I am very sure.’
‘Indeed.’ The other girl sighed. ‘But in Papa’s mind I am a little girl still. I know that when he looks at me, he sees not a young woman of nearly twenty, but a freckled schoolgirl — or, worse yet, an infant scarcely weaned.’
‘Uncle Frederick only wants what is best for you.’
‘Which is why he insists on confining me to this draughty ruin of a house?’ Cassandra suggested, apparently unconvinced.
Rosalind Powell looked about her. They were seated in a large apartment, with a ceiling encrusted with a stucco interpretation of intricate fan vaulting. Rich French tapestries adorned the walls, their vivid colours depicting scenes of chivalric romance. The furniture was heavy and ornate, in keeping with the style of the architecture. But it was quite comfortable and testified to the wealth of its owner, if not his taste, for most of the furnishings had been designed by a fashionable architect and approved by Rosalind herself, Mr Woodford having neither the time nor the inclination for such ‘fripperies’, as he called them. Mr Woodford’s money, however, had not been lavished in vain, and the improvements to the original building were extensive, transforming a crumbling relic into a commodious but pleasing residence which yet managed to retain much of its fascinating antiquity.
Even in winter, Folbrook Abbey’s numerous fireplaces kept the chill at bay, and hardly ever sent smoke billowing throughout the house. Now, as spring was about to slip into the warm embrace of summer, it was as pleasant a place as any in England. Except for the line of columns and Gothic arches (original to the building) which adorned the western end of the extensive walled cloisters, there was not much which could, in all conscience, be described as a ‘draughty ruin’. The high, vaulted ceiling might be considered cavernous by some who would find it oppressive, perhaps, but Rosalind Powell was too practical and sensible to allow its austere grandeur to overpower her.
‘You see yourself as a prisoner, then?’ she enquired, pursuing Cassandra’s remark.
‘Am I not?’ Cassandra raised an eyebrow in challenge.
‘Perhaps.’ Rosalind paused a moment before continuing, ‘In which case, I suppose I must be cast in the role of your gaoler, like some dreadful female out of the pages of Richardson?’
‘Oh no!’ Cassandra’s distress was instantaneous. ‘Dear, dear Rosalind, forgive me if I seemed to say so. I could never, even for a moment, conceive of anything so dreadful!’
She was almost on the verge of tears, and Rosalind reached forward to take the pale, slender hands she held out. ‘Thank you, my dear.’ She squeezed the hands, and felt a corresponding pressure. ‘Nevertheless, there may be some truth in it. Folbrook Abbey is not a gaol. “Stone walls”, as the poet has said, “do not a prison make”. But I think your father and I are alike in this: that we see it as a hermitage — a defence, if you will — against the world outside its walls. We neither of us want to see you hurt.’
‘You have certainly managed to shut out the world here.’
‘I wonder,’ Rosalind murmured, ‘if that has been wisdom, or folly?’
A frilly white cap appeared round the edge of the large oak door just then, perched atop a smiling, russet-cheeked face.
‘Is dinner ready, Ellen?’ Rosalind asked, glancing up at the young maid.
‘Yes, Miss Rosalind. Cook’s just sent me from the kitchen to tell yer you’d better come along before it gets cold.’
‘We shall be there directly.’ Rosalind schooled herself not to laugh. ‘We dare not keep Cook waiting!’
Ellen immediately disappeared and the two girls stood up to make their way arm-in-arm towards the dining-room. This was really a large hall, with a table which could easily seat thirty guests. At one end of this, the two girls sat in solemn state, while the servants brought in a simple meal of mutton and potatoes, with a few side dishes.
‘I do miss Papa,’ Cassandra admitted, finishing off the last of the food before her. ‘It is unusual for him to leave us for such a length of time.’
‘Now do not be cast down,’ her friend cautioned. ‘One month will pass soon enough.’
‘It might be as much as six weeks,’ Cassandra reminded her. ‘We shall certainly be sadly in want of male company.’
‘I suppose it is fitting that we reside in an abbey,’ Rosalind quizzed her, ‘seeing that we live like nuns.’
Cassandra pouted. ‘Piety may be all well and good,’ she said. ‘But, for myself, I would welcome a visit from at least a monk — or two monks, perhaps, since I would undoubtedly monopolize a lone cleric, and would not want you to be excluded from any entertainment.’
‘Monks are not generally very entertaining, I believe.’
‘Two males, then,’ Cassandra amended, ‘whatever their vocation in life.’
Rosalind could not resist a smile. ‘Even one male visitor here would be unusual; two would have to be regarded as little less than a miracle.’
* * * *
Three days later, Miss Powell received a letter which spelt an end to the solitude which the ladies of Folbrook Abbey were enduring. Indeed, when Debenham handed it to her, she thought he must have been mistaken, but one glance at the direction disproved this theory. It was certainly addressed to Mr Woodford, and, as he had charged her to open any correspondence which might arrive in his absence, she paused only a moment to examine the exterior.
The large seal bore an imprint which seemed vaguely familiar to her. Rosalind could not deny a strong degree of curiosity as she hastily broke the seal and proceeded to decipher the contents. It requ
ired more than one perusal, however, for her to comprehend the fantastic tale before her.
‘Good God!’ she whispered under her breath at one point. ‘This must be the ravings of a madman.’
At last she allowed the missive to fall into her lap while she stared at the wall in consternation. A portrait by Gainsborough, depicting a stone-faced lady, luxuriously gowned and coiffed in the style of the previous century, stared back at her.
‘What shall I do?’ she asked the portrait, but the lady steadfastly refused to respond. What could one expect, however, from such a haughty dame?
Should she acquaint Cassandra with what she had just learned? Was it possible to conceal it from her? And what if it proved to be a cruel hoax of some kind? Nothing remotely resembling this had ever presented itself to her before, and she was sorely tempted to burn the hateful note and to make an attempt at least to put the entire incident from her mind.
A faint tap-tap at the door caused her to turn her head in time to see Cassandra entering behind her.
‘My dear, you quite startled me!’ she exclaimed.
‘Am I intruding?’ Cassandra halted just inside the door.
‘Not at all.’
‘I heard that the mail had arrived.’ She came forward, passing her hand along the arm of the chair opposite to Rosalind, and sat down. ‘More tradesmen’s bills, I suppose?’
‘Not exactly.’
Cassandra’s ears were ever sharp. She must have caught the hesitation in Rosalind’s voice, for she cocked her head knowingly, and demanded, ‘What is it, Lindy?’
Now was the moment for her to dismiss the matter and set Cassandra’s mind at ease. It would take only a word or two: a harmless subterfuge, which was all for the best.
‘I have received a letter for your father which purports to be from our neighbor, Sir Jasper Marchmont.’
‘Sir Jasper! What reason could he have for writing to us?’ Rosalind could not blame the other girl for her surprise. The surrounding families had long since abandoned any efforts to seek social intercourse with the Woodfords when it became obvious that even the kindest of invitations would be refused. The more top-lofty ones had never been more than mildly curious, in any case. For them to receive a letter from any of their neighbors was quite unprecedented.
‘He is not reticent in the matter of explanations for his behavior,’ Rosalind said.
‘I am absolutely eaten up with curiosity!’ Cassandra leaned forward eagerly. ‘Pray read the letter to me.’
Having gone this far, Rosalind could hardly refuse her request now. She still did not know why she had not remained silent, but somehow she did not like the thought of deceiving Cassandra.
‘Dear Sir,’ she began, noting, ‘It is dated three days ago.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Cassandra was growing impatient. ‘Do go on.’
‘ “Please forgive my boldness in thus addressing you, a comparative stranger. I do not doubt that you will understand my importunity when you have heard what I am constrained to relate to you in the strictest confidence. Certain information has come to my attention which necessitates a disclosure of the most painful and distressing nature, involving as it does my own flesh and blood—”
‘What can he mean?’
‘Allow me to continue, my dear Cass, and you shall learn.’
‘Forgive me. But indeed, it sounds so fantastic.’
‘Oh, the best is yet to come.’
Rosalind continued to read, attempting to keep her voice as cool and composed as possible. It was not easy, considering the nature of the words before her. Sir Jasper related the essential details of the wager which St George and Julian had made, leaving out only the name of the person who had suggested so repulsive a scheme.
‘I can hardly believe it!’ Cassandra’s face was a study in perplexity and total surprise.
‘If what our correspondent says is true,’ Rosalind said, reasonably, ‘it will not be long before it is proved. We have only to wait for the arrival of the two gentlemen in question.’
‘But you had not yet finished the letter,’ the other girl reminded her.
‘There is not much more to relate,’ Rosalind confessed. ‘He expresses his concern for your welfare — and my own, since it seems that this Julian’s confederate has the task of distracting my attention — and apologizes on his nephew’s behalf, and then concludes: “I only hope that, by acquainting you with these particulars, and trusting to your discretion, I will have managed to avert any damage to the reputation of your fair daughter, and that there will be no further distress caused by my nephew’s scandalous behavior ... I remain, sir, Your Humble Svt., etc., etc.”’
‘Well, this is certainly more entertaining than a receipt from the blacksmith’s!’
‘I am glad that you are taking it in such a charitable spirit.’ Rosalind could not repress a sigh of relief. ‘I was afraid that it might oppress you somewhat.’
‘Oppress me!’ Cassandra’s laugh was gay and strong. ‘How could you think so? Why, this is the most wonderful news!’
‘I would not place it in quite so kindly a light.’
‘I have heard Papa say several times that Julian Marchmont is a buck of the first head. I can hardly wait to meet him.’
‘Meet him?’ Rosalind almost jumped from her chair. ‘There is no chance of that happening — not as long as I have anything to say about it.’
‘You cannot be so chicken-hearted, Lindy,’ the younger girl complained.
‘I? Chicken-hearted?’ Miss Powell was conscious of a feeling of acute annoyance at this slur upon her courage.
‘Well, I think you are,’ Cassandra told her. ‘You seem quite afraid of meeting the two gentlemen.’
Her annoyance grew. ‘Two rakes, may I remind you,’ she said, scowling.
‘Well, that is better than two monks.’ Cassandra smiled her loveliest smile — one of pure delight. ‘It was you who complained that monks were rather dull company — which I’ll wager rakes are not likely to be.’
‘No indeed.’
‘Imagine being courted by such a man.’
‘Imagine being seduced and ruined by one.’
Cassandra shrugged. ‘But since we are already forewarned….’ she began.
‘In this case, that is small consolation.’ Rosalind stood and began pacing about the room in some agitation. ‘For heaven’s sake, Cass, only think how foolish it would be to encourage the attentions of such men! We are totally unskilled in arts of which they are undoubtedly masters.’
‘So you are afraid of them,’ Cassandra quizzed.
‘No.’ She halted before the younger girl. ‘I am merely being prudent.’
‘I understand that Julian is excessively handsome,’ Cassandra murmured dreamily. ‘All the young ladies in London are positively enraptured by him.’
‘As I am never likely to meet him, that can be of no interest to me,’ Rosalind insisted.
‘Well, a handsome face is not likely to turn my head.’
‘No.’ Rosalind swallowed something in her throat. ‘That is one eventuality I need not fear, at least. Still, I cannot but wish them as far away from here as may be possible.’
‘In Timbuktu, perhaps?’
‘If wishes were horses,’ Rosalind admitted, ‘they should certainly be galloping somewhere in the vicinity of North Africa at this moment.’
‘You are perfectly right, of course.’ Cassandra sighed. ‘We should have nothing to do with them.’
‘I am glad to hear you say so.’ Rosalind looked down upon that innocent face, with its strange, faraway expression. ‘But we need not worry. They will not find it so easy to make our acquaintance. This is one hen house those two foxes will not enter with impunity.’
Chapter Three
‘I loathe the country!’ Julian scraped the toe of his boot savagely against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak, in an unsuccessful attempt to remove the cow pats in which he had so recently trod. ‘I was happy enough to quit it and escape to London.’<
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‘Then you should be happy to be here.’ Richard yawned. ‘You will appreciate the pleasures of Town all the more upon your return from this delightful hamlet.’
‘Damn my uncle! I must have been mad to agree to anything so idiotic.’
‘Such ingratitude, my boy!’ Richard shook his head in mock censorship. ‘I, on the other hand, am revelling in the rustic joys of our little holiday. It brings out the poet in me. I am of a mind to write a sonnet, or at least a lyrical quatrain:
To trip through meadows green and sweet,
And breathe the fragrant air so pure;
To wander in such calm retreat ...’
‘And frolic in the cow manure!’ Julian finished his flight of fancy with more relish than polish.
‘Please remember,’ Richard prodded, ‘that a thousand pounds hangs in the balance — not to mention your reputation, my lad.’
Julian propped himself up against the oak tree while his companion rested on a crumbling stone wall. They were at the edge of a large field of grain, and might have been the only two inhabitants of the surrounding area, for there was no other sign of human life, but for the thatched roof of a small cottage peeping up from behind a thick coppice at the opposite side.
‘This is far more difficult than I had imagined,’ Julian confessed, with a decided pout.
‘We were not exactly ignorant of the difficulty,’ St George reminded him. ‘If it were too easy, your uncle would have been a fool to make such a wager — which, alas, he is not. Besides, what would be the challenge in a prize which required no effort to gain?’
‘But it is impossible.’
Julian’s words, though despondent, certainly seemed to state the present case with accuracy. They had been in Buckinghamshire for five days, and had so far been denied even the smallest glimpse of their too elusive quarry. Their cards had been presented at Folbrook Abbey, but their attempts to gain admittance had been firmly — and none too politely — rebuffed. Neither gentleman was accustomed to such treatment, but St George was inclined to take the matter more philosophically than his young friend.
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