Beth Andrews (12 page)

‘Reading,’ she asserted, ‘is what finishes a man’s mind.’ If she was aware of the ambiguous nature of this remark, she did not show it, adding only, ‘Mr Plummer read nothing but the London newspapers, now that I think on it. One may learn much about a man by what he reads. What books have captured your attentions so entirely?’

‘I am reading
The Song of Solomon.’
Julian shook his head, as though unable to believe the words printed on the page before him. ‘Listen to this, Richard: “Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with lilies. Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins.”’

‘Most unusual and arresting images,’ St George commented after Julian’s animated recital.

‘I remember my dear husband’s favorite verse from the Scriptures.’ Cousin Priscilla’s eyes became suspiciously moist at the memory. ‘From the first book of Samuel, I believe: “Surely there had not been left unto Nabal by the morning light any that pisseth against the wall.”’

Julian’s chin dropped almost to his chest at this latest example of the crudity of ancient texts. He declared himself amazed that such things should be contained in Holy Writ. For his part, St George could not decide which he found more piquant: the quotation itself, or the fact that Cousin Priscilla had for once — at least, as far as he could discern — managed to put the words in their proper order. The late Mr Plummer must have quoted them frequently: whenever he was in his cups, no doubt. He might even have preached a fine sermon upon that particular text when the spirits moved him. His speech might have been somewhat slurred, but St George fancied he could imagine the fire in Mr Plummer’s eyes. At least they must have been a burning red.

‘And what, pray, are you reading, Cousin?’

‘My poor book is not nearly so entertaining,’ Richard confessed. Nevertheless, it was with an air of conscious superiority that he continued: ‘I am reading Mr Wilberforce’s celebrated work,
The Practical View of the Prevailing Religious System of Professed Christians in the Higher and Middle Classes of this Country Contrasted with Real Christianity.’

‘You are roasting us!’ Julian’s disbelief was too apparent. ‘I have never heard of such a book.’

‘I am not surprised.’ His tone was somewhat sardonic. ‘The title Is not, perhaps, as memorable as Mr Sterne’s
Sentimental Journey,
but this is well worth reading, if one is prepared to face without flinching the general hypocrisy and insensibility of oneself and one’s countrymen.’

‘I declare,’ Mrs Plummer said, beaming upon them, ‘I had expected you both to be reading the latest novels from town. But I suppose one must make allowances for two gentlemen in love.’

‘In love!’ Julian cried, as though she had just boxed his ears. St George, while not so astonished as his younger friend, was conscious that the smile which had tugged at the corners of his mouth had disappeared.

‘Of course!’ Cousin Priscilla, quite unaware of having said anything particularly momentous, continued gaily, ‘Why, you and Miss Woodford are smelling of May and April as strongly as ever I saw two young persons. And I could not be happier for you both. She is an angel, and I think you will deal famously together.’

‘But I believe,’ St George said, with slow deliberation, ‘that you said there were two gentlemen in love in this room.’

She laughed outright at this. ‘You cannot fool me, Cousin! If a man looked at me the way you look at Miss Powell, I would be like to swoon.’

‘And how does Miss Powell look at me?’ he asked, even more deliberately.

‘As if you were the Devil!’ She nodded sagely. ‘It is often the way with young women of strong feeling.’

‘Is it?’

‘Indeed yes. You just pop the question, and see if I am not right.’

‘I think not.’

‘There is no need to be afraid.’ His cousin clearly misunderstood his words. ‘She needs only a little encouragement, I assure you.’

‘I fear you are mistaken, my dear Cousin.’ His voice was solemn, almost menacing. ‘I am not in love with Miss Powell.’

She did not seem at all discomfited by what others would have perceived as a none too polite set-down. Indeed, she smiled more broadly and chuckled softly. She clearly did not believe his protestations.

‘Well,’ she told him, ‘I will not tease you, sir. But I take leave to keep my own opinion. I am not clever, but as they say, “when the moon is right, I know a handsaw from a hawk.”’

Before he could respond to this, they were interrupted by the delivery of a note addressed to the three of them. Since they had not bothered to become acquainted with anyone else in the small neighborhood, it could only come from the abbey. It was St George who picked it up and opened the sealed document, which was a charming invitation from Miss Woodford, asking them if they would care to dine at the abbey that evening.

The handwriting could be none other than Miss Powell’s, and the mocking smile returned to his lips as he wondered how much coaxing it had taken Cassandra to persuade her to pen it.

* * * *

Naturally they accepted the invitation, and at eight o’clock they arrived at the building which was becoming so familiar to them all. As it was the same company which they had been keeping for the past few weeks, there was no variation of scene and nothing profound in the conversation. The dinner was the plain but filling fare to which they had become accustomed in this house. It was a far cry from the London soirees, the gaming hells and boxing matches which were the usual haunts of the gentlemen; yet nobody seemed in danger of succumbing to the megrims.

For Mrs Plummer it was probably a more exciting social life than she was used to in her small cottage near the coast of Kent. She was in raptures over everything, could find fault with nothing, and generally determined to grasp whatever mite of pleasure came her way.

But even St George had to own to himself that he was not in the least bored and looked forward as eagerly as any to the time spent at the abbey. Tonight they played a short game of charades. Cassandra produced a tolerable one:

‘While my first is the sky on a clear summer day,

And my second a sheath for a young lady’s ankle,

The whole is oft thought to be much in the way

And, to eager young suitors, may rankle.’

The answer was ‘bluestocking,’ which was perhaps all the more poignant since the young lady had never seen the sky by day or night.

St George himself could not resist the following:

‘My first is to pull through muck and through mire

And my next the reverse of the phrase to be “off”.

Yet the whole, if one meet her unquenchable fire,

Even St George himself would not scoff!’

It did not take Miss Powell long to discern that the two halves of the word in question were ‘drag’ and ‘on’. The whole, of course, spelt ‘dragon,’ which drew a laugh from all concerned except the young lady at whom it was so clearly directed. Nonetheless, the evening passed remarkably swiftly. The room became increasingly warm and the three ladies plied their fans briskly.

‘The moon,’ Julian said at last, ‘is full tonight. Shall we take a turn outside?’

‘I should love to see your gardens by moonlight,’ Cousin Priscilla cried, ever eager.

‘A wonderful idea,’ St George agreed.

‘Let me but fetch two shawls for us,’ Rosalind was quick to say. There was no need for one for Mrs Plummer, who already sported a thick wool scarf in a bright shade of blue quite at odds with the purple gown she wore.

* * * *

Rosalind hastened upstairs to search for the necessary items. It was but a few minutes before she returned to the drawing-room, and yet upon her return she discovered only one member of their little party present.

‘Where are the others?’ she demanded, with a degree of apprehension quite disproportionate to the situation.

‘They are gone on ahead into the gardens,’ St George explained. ‘Miss Woodford remembered that she had left a shawl on the chair over against the wall there.’

He gestured in the direction of a shadowed corner where Cassandra often liked to sit while Rosalind read to her. She now remembered that they had done so earlier, and that she had indeed been wearing a shawl at the time. Perhaps she was too eager to ascribe ignoble motives to the gentleman. Not all his actions must be calculated and cunning, she supposed.

‘But they need not have left so quickly,’ she complained. She felt the faintest tingle of apprehension down her back. The room seemed much darker and more intimate suddenly. She almost jumped when the gentleman moved towards her.

‘They were eager for a little fresh air,’ he said reasonably. ‘It is rather close in here, is it not?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you need not fear for the reputation of your charge,’ he added, that mocking smile playing at the corners of his lips. ‘Mrs Plummer is with them. And I assured them that I was perfectly content to wait here for you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ The conventional response did not come easily.

He held out his hand and took one of the shawls from her, depositing it on a nearby sofa. Then, turning back towards her, he offered his arm. She felt obliged to accept it.

‘Shall we follow their example?’

* * * *

The garden by moonlight was a strange, unearthly landscape. Whatever was not hidden in soft folds of darkness seemed starkly etched in steel. The paths were of polished stones, the roses silver gilt and dew-encrusted in beds of black velvet. The statues were weird wraiths rising out of the foliage.

Rosalind followed St George into this enchanted yet oddly forbidding world, hoping that they would soon catch sight of the trio who had gone on ahead. There was no sign of them, however, and Rosalind soon grew impatient.

‘Are you certain that they came this way?’

‘No,’ he answered, not a whit perturbed. ‘They went in the opposite direction.’

‘Then why have you brought me here?’ she snapped, quite out of patience.

‘Because I wanted to be alone with you.’

She caught her breath, wondering if she could have heard him correctly. There was an air of deliberation about him tonight. She felt that the mask he had been wearing was slipping and she was about to find out what was behind it.

‘Why,’ she enquired between clenched teeth, ‘should you wish to be alone with me, sir?’

‘Can you not guess?’ The note of sardonic humor in his voice made her uneasy, but she refused to be intimidated.

‘I presume your intentions to be everything of the most dishonorable.’

They were standing beneath a vine-covered arbor, the moonlight filtering through in patches of quivering light and shade. Between them was an armillary sphere which offered little in the way of protection against him.

‘How well you understand me, my dear dragon.’ He moved to the right and so did she, circling about the armillary. ‘I knew that subterfuge would be useless with you.’

‘You are playing a deep game,’ she said, wondering how far away the others were, and whether they would hear her if she screamed. ‘But you cannot fool me. I am well aware of your — your machinations.’

‘What do you suppose the others would think,’ he asked, completely ignoring her words, ‘if they were to find you in my arms, being thoroughly kissed?’

‘There is little likelihood of such an eventuality,’ she flung at him. But in the semi-gloom she had underestimated how near he was, for suddenly his hand shot out around the edge of the armillary and grasped her own hand with punishing force.

‘On the contrary.’ He sounded as though he were discussing the weather. ‘If they come upon us a minute from now, that is precisely what they will see.’

While he spoke, he was moving around until he stood directly before her. A stray shaft of moonlight illumined his face for a brief moment. There was a dark, dangerous glitter in his eyes.

‘Why are you doing this?’ She was amazed by the steadiness of her own voice. Her knees felt about as steady as a blancmange.

‘Because I am a man.’ He pulled her against him, her soft breasts against his rock-hard chest, her face looking up into his. ‘And you, my lovely Rosalind, are the most beautiful and desirable woman I have ever known.’

She should have screamed. She should at least have swooned. There could be no doubt that he meant what he said, and everything she had been taught cried out that it was sinful and wrong. Unfortunately, her body was sending a very different message to her very confused mind. Being so near to him, hearing his voice grow husky with passion, something stirred inside of her that she had never before imagined. So when he lowered his mouth to hers, she behaved in exactly the opposite manner from what she should have. When his tongue parted her lips, she was already beyond resistance; when his hold tightened and that first kiss was repeated with renewed excitement and pleasure, she matched his desire with her own. His hands caressed her and her arms slid around his neck. She buried her fingers in his thick dark hair, holding his mouth against her own while she stroked his neck.

For the merest instant he raised his head and their glances met, fire stoking fire. She could scarcely breathe.

‘Shall I stop now?’ he asked her, his own breathing ragged, as if he had just been running.

‘No,’ she whispered.

He needed no further encouragement. With a groan half of victory and half of animal hunger, he pressed his mouth to hers again. She was out of her senses with his kisses, his touch. It did not even matter that he did not care for her. All that mattered was this moment, and the unbearable pleasure of their shared desire.

How long this lasted, or what the end would have been, Rosalind did not know. As if from a long distance away, she vaguely heard a sound — shrill, piercing, ripping through the veil of passion with the sharp thrust of grim reality.

‘Hallooo! St George! Miss Powell! Where are you?’

With a strength born of desperation, Rosalind pushed herself away from him. He looked down at her, appearing dazed and dishevelled in the moonlight.

‘If we are silent,’ he whispered at last, ‘she may go away.’