‘A noble edifice,’ Julian agreed. ‘One can feel the weight of its antiquity.’
‘One might almost expect old King Henry VIII to walk through the nearest door.’ Richard turned his head, as though looking for the ghost of the much-married monarch.
‘ “The wren goes to’t, and the small gilded lecher does fly in my sight!”’ Mrs Plummer announced, to the complete mystification of the assembled company.
“Let copulation thrive”!’ her cousin added at once, struggling to keep a straight face.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Rosalind was not certain whether she was more amused or bemused by these cryptic utterances.
‘From King Lear,’ Richard explained the lady’s odd misquotation, which he had finished so aptly.
‘Trust you to know, St George!’ Mrs Plummer said, with obvious pride in her cousin’s quickness. ‘Odd what one remembers from Shakespeare, is it not?’
‘Most curious.’ Cassandra was apparently much taken with their strange new guest. ‘Each person has their own particular favourites, of course.’
‘I knew you must be admirers of the Bard of Avon,’ Mrs Plummer said, ‘when I saw this sofa on your book. I was reading Lear the other day. The man seems to have been touched in the upper works, if you ask me.’
Attempting to make some sense of these remarks, Rosalind glanced down at the volume of Shakespeare’s tragedies which she had laid aside on the sofa at their entrance. It was becoming clear to her that Mrs Plummer’s words did not always precisely match the order of her thoughts, but somehow became jumbled in the journey from mind to tongue.
‘Lindy often reads passages to me,’ Cassandra admitted. ‘She has a talent for drama, I think — although I prefer the comedies, myself.’
‘I guessed as much,’ her new acquaintance declared. ‘Your nature is writ plain on your face. What a disposition a sunny blessing is! Miss Powell strikes me as rather more melancholy.’
‘Not at all, Mrs Plummer,’ Cassandra objected.
‘No?’ Mrs Plummer did not look convinced.
‘I believe that Cousin Priscilla may be close to the truth.’
Richard’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he they focused on his target. ‘Miss Powell is of a serious, even choleric disposition.’
‘Perhaps I am.’ Rosalind affected a demure candour. ‘Or perhaps I am not so easily pleased as most young ladies are by the idle chatter of London rattles.’
A roar of laughter from St George was her reward for this riposte,
‘Beware, Cousin,’ he warned Mrs Plummer. ‘Miss Powell has a rapier wit, and is not shy about employing it to impale a man upon his own vanity.’
‘You were ever a sad flirt, St George,’ his cousin answered. ‘If you deal like this with Miss Powell, it is no wonder if she gives you the sharp edge of her tongue.’
‘Shall I give you a tour of the abbey?’ Cassandra suggested, perhaps fearing more pointed barbs from her companion. ‘I assure you, I know every inch of it quite as well as Rosalind.’
What could anyone do but consent to such an invitation? They followed behind her meekly as she led them from room to room, and soon found that she was as good as her word. From the dining hall with its minstrels’ gallery to the long room with rows of portraits of great lords and ladies who were quite unrelated to its present owners, she could describe each item of furniture, the subject of each tapestry and the intricacies of the abbey’s architecture with the practised ease of a guide who had memorized every aspect of her chosen subject’s history. She could even answer Mrs Plummer’s sometimes barely comprehensible questions with intelligence. It was a grand house indeed, and one which repaid a closer inspection. Whether the small party was more fascinated by the house or by their guide, however, was a question on which there might be some difference of opinion.
Mrs Plummer remarked that it was not so gloomy as she had anticipated from viewing the exterior of the building. This was something on which Miss Woodford could not offer much comment, but she thanked her guest with genuine pleasure and moved on to the next room.
‘I have noticed,’ St George said softly to Rosalind, ‘that there is a considerable amount of colour in the fabrics and paintings. Do I detect your own tastes, ma’am?’
They had fallen into step together, as the other three were linked arm-in-arm before them. It seemed a natural, perhaps even an inevitable situation.
She nodded. ‘When my uncle purchased the place, he left much of the details to me, only insisting that it be in keeping with the Gothic architecture.’
‘You have done a fine job,’ he approved. ‘The house is richly furnished but not over-ostentatious. Rather than forbidding and mysterious, it is warm and inviting. I congratulate you.’
‘I believe that in medieval times, people were fond of bright colors.’
The others had entered the next room, leaving them alone together in the long gallery. St George paused to survey a portrait of a distinguished-looking gentleman who appeared from his lace-trimmed collar, Van Dyck beard and feathered hat, to be a Cavalier.
‘Fashions were certainly different in the past,’ he commented. ‘I am sure I should make a great cake of myself in such attire as this.’
‘You would make quite a dashing Cavalier — or a pirate, perhaps.’
‘Not a Roundhead?’ he suggested.
‘There is little of the Puritan about you.’
‘Nor about you,’ he quizzed. ‘But I can see you as a medieval bride. I believe,’ he added, ‘that the most popular color for bridal gowns was red.’
She frowned. ‘I am not likely ever to wear a bridal gown of red or any other color.’
‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘Have you something against the institution?’
‘No.’
‘Against men, then?’ He looked right into her eyes. ‘Do you think there is no man who could make you happy?’
‘I have no doubt that there are any number of men who could make me happy.’ Her gaze challenged his own, but her smile was a trifle askew. ‘Though perhaps not as many as could make me thoroughly miserable.’
‘Then why will you not marry?’
‘Because,’ she said, as one being very patient with a dull, unimaginative fellow, ‘there is little chance that I shall ever meet anyone who will ask me.’
It was his turn now to frown. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, a little haltingly. ‘I had not considered your situation.’
‘Do not pity me, I beg you.’ She attempted to brush aside his apology, which was far more appalling than his initial questions. ‘Cass and I have both resigned ourselves to being ape leaders. I daresay it is not such an unpleasant role; we comfort ourselves by considering that we shall have much company.’
Before he could say more, they were interrupted by a shout from the doorway into the next chamber.
‘There you are!’ Cousin Priscilla called out. ‘No dawdling now — and no flirting either.’
‘If one can neither dawdle nor flirt,’ Richard asked her, ‘what point is there in living?’
‘One might,’ Rosalind suggested, ‘attempt some useful employment.’
‘I do not know that my constitution would allow it.’
‘Do not listen to him, Miss Powell,’ Julian put in, as they rejoined the others. ‘He can be perfectly rational when he chooses.’
‘Really? I would never have guessed.’
‘He shows one face at home and another in public,’ Mrs Plummer said.
‘A strange sort of hypocrisy.’ Rosalind could not resist another quip at his expense.
‘It is a pity that we have not been privileged to see him at home, then.’ This was from Cassandra.
‘If you wish,’ St George said, snatching at the opportunity he had been waiting for, ‘you shall see me in my own milieu, as it were.’
‘An excellent idea!’ Julian was quick to second it.
‘What is?’ Cousin Priscilla looked mystified.
‘It is time that we repaid Miss Woodford and
Miss Powell for their hospitality by having them as our guests at the lodge for an evening. If you would be so kind as to accept our humble invitation?’
‘I do not think—’ Rosalind began.
‘We are delighted to accept, sir!’ Cassandra forestalled her half-hearted refusal. ‘Are we not, Lindy?’
‘I am not sure that your papa would approve,’ Rosalind replied. This damping statement could not be allowed, however.
‘Nonsense!’ Mrs Plummer declared. ‘What objection could there possibly be?’
‘For us to be visiting two single gentlemen—’
‘But I shall be there as well!’ This time it was Cousin Priscilla who interrupted. ‘There is nothing at all unseemly in it. We shall have quite a gay little party!’
‘Indeed we shall,’ Cassandra said, and the matter was settled.
‘You need only tell us when to come, sir.’
‘Would tomorrow evening be suitable?’
‘I believe we are free tomorrow.’ Cassandra laughed gaily. ‘Are we not, Lindy?’
‘We have no pressing engagement.’ Rosalind’s tone was anything but light-hearted.
‘How fortunate for us,’ St George’s glance at Rosalind was so full of audacious triumph that he might as well have winked at her. ‘At eight o’clock, then.’
Chapter Eleven
Rosalind slept little that night. She was becoming increasingly aware that her heart was not the impregnable fortress she had imagined. But then, it had never been laid siege to before. If she were ignorant of the designs of these men, she could better understand the stirring of emotion within herself. Knowing why they were here, however, it was madness to allow herself to harbor feelings of tenderness towards a hardened rake like Richard St George. Madness! Yet such sweet madness, to engage in verbal duels and to cast surreptitious glances into eyes dark and daring. She did not want for common sense, but it seemed that the attentions — dishonest as they were — of this man could banish sense and leave her all sensibility. Marianne Dashwood would not have been more eager to be duped by a handsome face and polished manners.
Cassandra, of course, was in raptures at the thought of their outing. How could Rosalind blame her? Poor child! She knew nothing of social intercourse and had never visited the house of friend or neighbor in her life. All she had ever known was her first home near York Minster, followed by her years here at the abbey. The only change of scene had been the occasional visit to Bath or London — once even to France — to be examined by physicians who held out a faint hope of restoring her sight.
These had all been exercises in futility which left Mr Woodford more despairing than his daughter.
If Cassandra’s head was turned and her heart elated at the thought of a convivial evening which most London ladies would have scorned to accept, it was no wonder. Not that Rosalind was any more experienced. Her world was constricted by Cassandra’s own limitations. Since she had left her home at the age of twelve to be her cousin’s companion, she knew as little of life outside these walls as did the younger girl. While their maids helped them to dress, Cassandra chirped like a canary freed from its cage.
“Is it not the most exciting thing ever, Lindy?’ she asked, with a kind of breathless wonder. ‘To think that we shall be spending an evening with two of the most sought-after Corinthians in England. What an adventure!’
‘It is the most foolish thing we have ever done.’ Rosalind refused to be persuaded. ‘I only hope that it may not end in disaster.’
‘Pooh!’ was Cassandra’s considered response. ‘You cannot gammon me that you are not as eager to spend an evening with St George as I am to be with Julian.’
‘If I am,’ Rosalind said, wincing as Harriet tugged at a stray ringlet, ‘it is no credit at all to my intellect.’
The two maids, Ellen and Harriet, had been listening to Miss Woodford’s chatter with equal interest, and here Harriet decided to interject her own opinion.
‘If you ask me’ — she waved a hairpin in front of her nose – ‘it’s high time the two of you had your own beaux. And you couldn’t find two more handsome gentlemen if you was to search the whole country.’
‘Mr St George’s smile puts my heart in a flutter, I can tell you that,’ Ellen confessed.
‘And the way Mr Julian looks at you, Miss Cassandra!’ Harriet put her own hand over her heart, though her mistress could not see it. ‘Well, there’s not many girls could say nay to him, an’ all.’
‘I do not doubt that many girls have said “yes” to him, and lived to regret it,’ Rosalind snapped.
Cassandra’s spirits would not be dampened, however. She continued to babble happily until they stepped out of the front door to enter the waiting carriage. Looking at her, Rosalind could not help but feel a twinge of sympathy. She was so beautiful in her white muslin gown, cut just low enough to be fashionable without seeming at all fast, and trimmed with the finest Belgian lace. Her golden locks were adorned with small diamond clips which looked like butterflies, and a thin diamond necklace encircled her throat. Even the edges of her fan were studded with diamonds. Nothing but the best and latest fashions would do for Mr Woodford’s daughter, though the gowns were generally of Rosalind’s choosing.
Rosalind herself did not affect anything so youthful or so grand. As a poor relation, she felt sober colours were more suitable. Still, her dress of bottle-green silk, cut somewhat lower than her cousin’s, was fashioned by the same stylish modiste from London. The shawl of golden silk had been a gift from Cassandra herself, while the amethyst earrings and matching pendant had been presented to her by her uncle on the occasion of her one-and-twentieth birthday.
They might not be up to snuff like the London ladies, but no one could call them dowdy.
* * * *
The drive to the lodge was quite brief. The gentlemen must have been on the watch that evening, for they appeared on the steps as soon as the carriage door opened. Julian was a young Adonis, while St George was darkly fascinating in his severe evening attire.
‘Welcome to our humble cottage,’ he intoned. Raising Rosalind’s gloved hand to his lips in an exaggerated gesture, he then swept her into the entrance, where Mrs Plummer awaited them. Cassandra and Julian, laughing and flirting, were a few paces ahead of them.
‘What a snug little party!’ Cousin Priscilla cried. She was a blaze of color tonight in a gown of amaranthus taffeta with puffed sleeves of a rich cherry-red velvet. In her glorious piebald attire, she was a jolly court jester endlessly entertaining without any consciousness of being so.
‘But five is an unlucky number,’ Cassandra said, turning in the direction of her new friend’s voice. ‘Is there no companion for you, Mrs Plummer?’
Priscilla Plummer laughed aloud. ‘I assure you I do not mind in the least. My late Plummer, Mr Husband, when he was in his cups (which was quite often, now I think on it) always used to say, “Scilly—”’
‘Silly?’ Cassandra could not contain her surprise.
‘His own little name for me,’ she explained. ‘Short for Priscilla, you know.’
‘Of course.’ Rosalind barely suppressed a smile.
‘Now what was I saying?’ the lady asked, having misplaced the somewhat tenuous thread of her thoughts.
‘You were telling us what your husband used to say to you,’ Julian informed her helpfully.
‘Oh yes!’ She paused, apparently attempting to recapture the stray bit of memory. ‘He used to say, “Scilly, you’ll never find another sapskull like me. I’ll wager my life upon it!”’
‘And you never have!’ St George agreed, almost oversetting Rosalind with his air of mock gravity which was quite lost upon his poor cousin.
‘Indeed not,’ she agreed, her eyes misting suspiciously. ‘Not that Mr Plummer wasn’t a trial at times … But what man isn’t?’
‘You’ll have no argument from me on that head,’ Rosalind told her.
‘And now, my beautiful dragon,’ St George said to Rosalind, ‘it is our turn to
make you acquainted with our own lodgings. If you will allow me to escort you?’
Politeness demanded her acquiescence, and for the next half-hour they were led around the lodge which was the occasional residence of Julian’s absent uncle — he of the warning letter, of which his present tenants were in blessed ignorance, Rosalind thought with inward self-satisfaction.
The lodge was a fairly commodious residence, with five bedchambers, a small dining-room, a much larger drawing-room, in addition to kitchens and servants’ quarters. There was a great deal of oak panelling and lurid paintings of hunting scenes on the walls. In the small study, the most remarkable feature was a rug made from the skin of a grizzly bear from the Americas, which a previous Marchmont had shot with his own musket.
‘I should be afraid,’ Cassandra told Julian, pressing rather too close to him in Rosalind’s opinion, ‘that it would come to life some night and eat me!’
‘And what a delectable morsel you would make,’ he quizzed.
‘But I am sure that Julian would rescue you from such peril,’ St George added.
‘It looks as though it would collect a great deal of dust.’ Cousin Scilly’s practical comment shattered any lingering trace of the supernatural or romantic.
‘A housemaid’s nightmare,’ Rosalind agreed.
‘A sad decline indeed.’ St George shook his head. ‘From a ferocious beast in an untamed wilderness to a servant’s chore in a staid English study.’
‘Like Don Juan,’ Rosalind quizzed him in turn. ‘From a dashing young lover to a toothless old dotard, drooling over the ankles of an indifferent parlor maid.’
‘There is not an ounce of romance in you, Miss Powell,’ Julian objected.
‘I fear you are right, Julian — Mr Marchmont—’ Cassandra corrected herself quickly. But Julian would have none of it.
‘No, no, Miss Woodford!’ he corrected. ‘I hope we are better friends than that. My Christian name is at your disposal, if I may be permitted to call you by yours.’
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