* * * *
Cassandra soon discovered that St George had not been mistaken in his prediction. Presented with the proposed plan, Rosalind flatly refused to have anything to do with it.
‘But think, Lindy! If you do not go, how can I?’
‘Really, Cass, I think it best if you do not go either.’
‘Do not be so stuffy.’ Cassandra knew that she was pouting, but she had recourse to all her weapons in this skirmish. ‘Cousin Priscilla says that the lake — or pond — is just over an acre in size and a lovely spot for a picnic.’
‘Suppose one of us happened to fall in?’ Rosalind was determined, it seemed, to view everything in the most gloomy light possible. ‘Neither of us can swim. And, in case you have forgotten the fact, you happen to be blind.’
‘I assure you, it is something I never forget.’
Cassandra had long ago determined not to dwell on her condition. Remembering that ‘what cannot be cured must be endured,’ she accepted her lot and never indulged in useless self-pity. Perhaps it was not quite fair to Rosalind to fling this spurious plea for sympathy at her. But what else could she do? How else was she to acquire her consent? What did it matter if her tactics were less than honest, so long as they were effective?
‘Forgive me, Cass.’ The remorseful response was instantaneous. ‘How unfeeling of me.’
Cassandra felt her friend’s affectionate and apologetic embrace. It occurred to her that Rosalind had been behaving strangely for several days. It was as if the older woman were avoiding her company. They had not even had an opportunity to discuss the evening party two days previously.
‘Do not ask me to go on this picnic, dearest,’ Rosalind pleaded. ‘I do not think my nerves will stand it.’
‘I have never known you to be nervous before.’ Cassandra was taken aback. This was a new Rosalind, one with whom she was not yet acquainted. ‘What happened between you and Richard in the garden the other evening?’
Rosalind drew away abruptly. ‘Why do you ask me such a question?’
‘It is obvious that something happened.’ She did not mince matters. ‘You have been most elusive since then, and your convenient headache today was quite unconvincing. I think you must go on this picnic, if only by way of apology to Julian and Cousin Priscilla.’
‘I did not mean … you do not understand.’ The normally fluent Miss Powell was plainly disconcerted.
‘Did St George … did Richard ... did he ... um ... ravish you that night?’
Cassandra waited with bated breath for the answer to this indelicate question. She was not disappointed.
‘No!’ Rosalind cried emphatically, then promptly spoilt this by adding, ‘Perhaps ... yes ... I don’t know.’
‘Well, I have never been ravished by a man.’ Cassandra’s brow furrowed in an effort of concentration. ‘But I should think I would know if I had.’
‘He kissed me. That is all.’
‘How wonderful!’ Cassandra was ecstatic at this news.
‘Wonderful!’ Rosalind repeated, her voice clearly expressing that this was not the word she would have used to describe it.
‘I am green with envy and feel quite ill-used,’ Cassandra complained. ‘Julian has never done more than hold my hand! He treats me with a degree of respect almost bordering on reverence — and, frankly, it is becoming unbearably vexatious.’
‘Cassandra!’ Rosalind’s tone was one of severe reproof.
‘Don’t pretend to be shocked, Lindy.’ Cassandra was growing impatient. ‘I would have kissed Julian myself, only I am doubtful of finding his lips. I should probably end up kissing his nose instead. I have even considered asking him to kiss me, but have not the courage.’
‘You sound as wanton as … as—’
‘Aholah and Aholibah?’ Cassandra finished, recalling the two ‘sisters’ in Ezekiel’s parable.
‘Perhaps not so bad as that.’
‘Are we harlots, do you think?’
‘No!’
‘You are not lusting after St George, like the Assyrians and Chaldeans, then?’ Cassandra was comically earnest. ‘Perhaps I am like Aholibah, the younger sister....’
‘Don’t be absurd!’ Rosalind admonished her, glad that Cassandra could not see the deep color in her face as she remembered how she had responded to St George. ‘We are not wanton women.’
‘Perhaps not.’ Cassandra caught delicate lips between her teeth. ‘But this is the closest to a real romance that I am ever likely to come, Lindy, and I do not want to live my life without knowing what it is like to be kissed — properly kissed — by a young man.’
‘Oh, Cass!’ There was a distinct tremor to her friend’s voice now, and Cassandra was astonished to realize that she was on the point of tears. This was quite unprecedented in the ruthlessly unsentimental Rosalind Powell.
‘If your reaction to St George’s kiss is any indication,’ Cassandra continued more gently, but with unflagging determination, ‘it must have been something quite out of the common way.’
‘Oh, it was.’
Then the whole story came tumbling from Rosalind’s lips. Cassandra, listening in something like awe, wondered how she could have kept it to herself even for these two interminable days. That her feelings for the man were stronger than anything she had ever known was apparent. For the first time, Cassandra began to question the wisdom of allowing themselves to become embroiled in the dishonorable scheme which Julian’s uncle had disclosed. It had seemed like a wonderful adventure, in which she had been prepared to risk her own heart: never had it occurred to her that she might be risking Rosalind’s as well. Rosalind was so strong-willed, so straitlaced. How could she have imagined such an outcome?
‘Dearest Lindy.’ She reached out and felt for the other girl’s arm, threading hers through it. ‘One thing you must not do is to let him see that he has any power over you. You must accompany us on this picnic, if only to prove this to him.’
‘You are right.’ She took a deep breath, and Cassandra could feel her body become less rigid as she began to reclaim her composure.
‘Besides, you shall not be alone with him again.’ With a quick, reassuring hug, she added, ‘I shall be there, and so will Julian and Mrs Plummer. There will be no opportunity for St George to compromise you in any way.’
Chapter Fourteen
The day of the picnic dawned clear and warm. It was a day made to be out of doors. Surveying her reflection in the glass above her small dressing-table, Rosalind tried to tell herself that she was confident and unafraid. She was in good looks, she knew. Her muslin dress was the colour of spring daffodils, with a white spencer jacket embroidered over with flowers. A wide-brimmed bonnet of chipped straw with yellow and white ribbons completed her ensemble.
At least she looked carefree and unconcerned. But how great an actress would she prove to be? It would not be easy to face Richard St George again after that memorable scene in the abbey garden. She had never lacked courage, but she had never encountered an opponent so perilous. He had overcome her in their last engagement. Having lost that battle so completely, was there any hope of recovery? Could she still win the war?
Standing beside Cassandra, she watched Sir Jasper’s sturdy but rather dated landau draw near, its team of dappled horses perfectly paced, with St George himself handling the ribbons. Amid the chorus of greetings, she managed a polite nod in his direction as they settled in. Seated beside Mrs Plummer at the rear of the vehicle, Rosalind was grateful that the only thing she could see of the man was his back as he drove with the practised ease to be expected of a member of the Four Horse Club.
The drive was uneventful, with Priscilla chattering away in her sometimes scarcely intelligible phrases while Cassandra and Julian carried on a low-toned conversation of their own behind St George’s back. They skirted the lodge proper, drawing up some distance behind it on a grassy expanse which led up to the very edge of the pond, which was almost a small lake.
‘Here we are!’ Julian announced
, descending eagerly.
‘I’ll wager it is a most romantic spot.’ Cassandra took his hand and stepped down on to the grass.
Rosalind was not sure that she would have described it as romantic. It should have been set in a clearing in the midst of a lush green forest, with swans gliding over the rippling surface of the water. A gaggle of geese did indeed waddle up out of the water on the other side to disappear amongst the dense reeds springing up around much of the perimeter, but they were more rustic than romantic. There was a stand of larches on the western edge of the pond. Nearer than this was a very small jetty with a weathered dinghy moored to it.
Immediately before them was their picnic. The servants had already arranged everything and could be seen retreating towards the lodge as they approached. Several coverlets were spread out on the grass under a canvas canopy which looked surprisingly sturdy. There were five baskets which no doubt contained their luncheon. Everything had obviously been carefully planned, and Rosalind was forced to admit that it all looked very festive and inviting.
Surveying this with interest, Rosalind scarcely noticed that Mrs Plummer had already exited the carriage.
‘If you will, ma’am,’ St George’s voice interrupted her silent perusal.
She realized that he was waiting to hand her down from the carriage. Swallowing the lump of anxiety which had suddenly risen to her throat, she placed her hand in his and allowed him to assist her to descend. For a moment she met his gaze, only to turn away in dismay. The sun might be shining, but the unconcealed desire in his eyes seemed more appropriate to the moonlight. Despite her best resolution, she felt her body’s instant response and her heart pounded uncontrollably in her breast.
‘Did I not say that it was a perfect spot?’ Mrs Plummer asked rhetorically. ‘It reminds me of the Twenty-third Psalm: “He leadeth me beside still pastures; He maketh me to lie down in green waters; He prepareth an enemy for me in the presence of my table….”’
Her absurd misquotation was like a bucket of cold water on the hot flush of passion. Rosalind could see Cassandra bite her lips in an effort to control her mirth, while Julian gave a suspicious cough and St George looked away determinedly.
They settled down in their Elysian field to gorge themselves on a sumptuous repast. There were thick slices of freshly baked bread and a dish of creamy yellow butter, cold sliced ham, a variety of fresh fruit, jams, jellies and sauces, a kind of salad made with peeled and sliced potato and fresh vegetables. The gentlemen shared from a bottle of wine and there was a mild negus to refresh the ladies.
Following this feast, a general lassitude descended upon them. Reclining in the shade, there seemed little inclination for speech. Even the indefatigable Mrs Plummer was affected, falling into a comfortable doze on a plump silk cushion. It must have been a quarter of an hour before Julian stirred himself.
‘I thought I spied a couple of oars in that boat by the shore there. I am sure nobody would mind if we borrowed it for an hour or so.’ He directed this observation primarily toward Miss Woodford. ‘What do you say, Cassandra? Shall we have a try?’
‘Do you mean to take me rowing?’ Her tone left no doubt that her answer would be ‘yes’.
‘That is most unwise.’ Rosalind could not sanction such a foolish scheme.
‘I will take the greatest care of her,’ Julian urged, looking so much like a hopeful schoolboy that she felt her disapproval waver.
‘Perhaps if we were to accompany you ....’
‘The boat is only large enough to accommodate two, I’m afraid,’ St George said. ‘But if you would like to have a turn, I would be happy to take you out when Julian and Cassandra come back.’
‘That is not necessary, sir.’
She might as well have spoken to the wind, for all the effect it produced. Perhaps her protestations were too feeble, for she found herself following the other three across the grass to the small boat. In a very few minutes, Julian and Cassandra were deposited in the vessel. They were joined by Welly, who had followed them and promptly jumped in behind his mistress, settling on her lap and apparently looking forward to a ‘sea voyage’. St George pushed them away from the little wooden jetty.
‘How delightful!’ Cassandra cried, as Julian took the oars and they slipped away across the water. After that, there was little noise but the occasional call of a thrush and the muted laughter which drifted from the boat as they made their way around the pond.
* * * *
The moment Rosalind had been dreading was now upon her. She was alone with the man whom she feared as much as she desired.
‘I should return to Mrs Plummer,’ she said, turning toward their shaded bower.
‘I do not think she would appreciate you disturbing her rest, Rosalind.’
He had the impertinence to use her name! Then, considering their last encounter, perhaps he felt that he had earned that right.
‘I have no intention of disturbing her.’ She opened her sunshade with a snap. ‘I merely thought that I might lie down and rest myself.’
‘You need not run away from me, sweetheart,’ he quizzed her. ‘Even I would not dare to kiss you in full view of the others.’
‘Kindly refrain from referring to me in such terms.’ Her back stiffened and she met his laughing gaze with one of icy anger. ‘And if you should choose to kiss me, the only one who would be able to see anything at the moment would be Julian — and I don’t think that he would be likely to rescue me!’
True.’ He actually had the effrontery to smile. ‘Indeed, he might well assume that you had no wish to be rescued.’
‘You are a devil!’ she spat at him, knowing that his remark had been too near the truth.
Suddenly the rather satiric look which he usually wore disappeared. His smile became more warm, more genuine.
‘Let us call a truce, my dear dragon,’ he said. ‘Tempted as I am, if you will but consent to sit beside me and watch those two lovebirds on the pond, I promise to behave myself with the dullest of decorum. And if I should forget my good intentions,’ he added wickedly, ‘you may scream as loudly as you choose. I am sure that you would receive succour at once.’
So saying, he removed his jacket and laid it upon the grass, indicating that she should seat herself. This exaggerated courtesy made it difficult for her not to return his smile: difficult, but not impossible. With a wooden countenance, she sat down and watched him lower himself beside her. For several minutes they sat in silence. She looked steadfastly forward at the water, though she was aware that he was observing her intently. This was too much to be borne.
‘How did your cousin come to join you here?’ she asked at length, casting about for some safe topic of conversation.
‘She is here to lend us countenance,’ he said, without dissimulation. ‘I had to find someone amongst my numerous relations who was respectable enough that you would not object to her as a chaperone.’
‘She seems most amiable and amusing.’ She would not give him the pleasure of discomposing her today.
‘A pleasant pea-goose,’ he agreed. ‘Just what I needed, in fact: the quintessential poor relation whose circumstances are so straitened that she can scarcely afford to refuse my invitation.’
‘Yes,’ she said, and could not quite keep the note of bitterness from her voice. ‘We poor relations can be most useful at times.’
For once she had the pleasure of seeing him disconcerted.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, clearly angry with himself for his faux pas. ‘I did not mean….’
‘You need not apologize,’ she interrupted. ‘At least I am treated better by my uncle and cousin than Mrs Plummer must have been treated by her perpetually castaway husband.’
‘With no fortune and no beauty,’ St George said, ‘I suppose she considered herself fortunate to have received an offer from that gentleman — or indeed, from any gentleman.’
‘That is the sort of good fortune without which I am quite content.’
‘So how did you co
me to live with Mr Woodford and your cousin?’
He seemed genuinely interested, and Rosalind found herself saying more than she had ever said to anyone else. Of course, there had never really been anyone to discuss such matters with. Neither Cassandra nor Uncle Frederick would have appreciated her thoughts on such a subject.
Her mother was a clergyman’s daughter and her father a captain in the Shropshire militia. They had married young and quickly produced five children, of whom Rosalind was the fourth. Mrs Powell and two of her offspring had been carried off in an epidemic of influenza, and the good captain promptly farmed out his remaining children to his brother and sister-in-law, who were childless. Even so, they found the care and support of three children more of a burden than they had anticipated. So when Mr Woodford — the half brother of the children’s deceased mother —suggested that he might be willing to take one of the girls, they were eager to send Rosalind off to live with him and his daughter. That left them with only two brats to care for. The elder, a boy named Edward, was soon sent to sea to serve on His Majesty’s ship, Olympia. Sophie, the youngest child, remained at home.
At first, Rosalind had written regularly to all of them. Edward attempted a few badly spelled missives; Sophie, a year younger than Rosalind, kept up a correspondence for some time. Gradually, however, the letters grew less frequent and eventually ceased altogether. Sophie was now a wife and mother herself. Edward, she understood, was an able lieutenant with not unfounded hopes for promotion soon to captain. Her aunt was become a chronic invalid whose care had fallen upon her husband. Of her father, Rosalind had heard nothing for several years. Whether he were alive or dead, she was quite ignorant, and assumed, from his want of all communication, that he neither knew nor cared how she got on.
‘At least,’ St George said gently, when she finished her recital, ‘you have been placed in an enviable position, compared to your siblings. Neither your sister nor brother is likely to have had the education you have received nor the elegant accommodations which you are afforded at the abbey.’
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