Beth Andrews (16 page)

Julian frowned. ‘I own it may not be the kind of match which they had hoped for—’

‘That, I would say, is a masterful understatement.’ St George swirled the brandy in his glass, contemplating it as if it were an oracle. ‘There are several peers, including at least one indigent earl, who have been throwing their daughters at your feet these past few months. If you wished to marry, any one of these would be a much more advantageous alliance.’

‘To hell with earls and their platter-faced daughters!’ Julian cried, the brandy beginning to have its effect after all. ‘I shall have Cassandra or no one.’

‘There is one very large fly in your ointment, I would say.’

‘Mr Woodford.’ Julian subsided limply against the back of his seat, immediately following his friend’s train of thought.

That Miss Woodford’s father was not impressed with either of the two gentlemen had been painfully apparent that afternoon. He allowed neither of them more than a few hesitant words before ordering them to quit his property instantly. He
told them that he required no introductions and, taking the arm of each of the two sodden young women, had marched them into the house and slammed the door firmly in the faces of the three visitors. While nobody could describe him as a gracious host, neither could anyone accuse him of being a hypocrite. He dismissed them with such unconcealed contempt that St George found himself warming to him at once.

‘I do not think that Papa Woodford will look kindly upon your suit,’ he remarked idly. ‘Indeed, I suspect that you will not be permitted entry into the abbey under any circumstances. Mr Woodford stands as an angel with flaming sword, guarding the entrance to Eden.’

‘I shall gain admittance,’ Julian vowed, growing ever more melodramatic, ‘if I have to scale the walls with my bare hands!’

‘And, presuming you are granted an audience with the man,’ Richard said, leaning forward a little to look him directly in the eyes, ‘are you going to reveal the true reason for our presence here in the country, and how we came to meet his daughter in the first instance?’

Julian groaned. ‘That damned wager! If only I could turn back the clock, I would never have accepted something so outrageous.’

‘In which case,’ St George pointed out, ‘you would never have met Cassandra at all.’

‘How can I redeem myself?’ He was the picture of desperation. ‘How can I make myself acceptable to Mr Woodford?’

‘Are you even certain that Cassandra would accept an offer if you made one?’ St George countered.

Julian hesitated for a moment. ‘I think — that is, I am almost certain that she has some feelings for me.’

‘Have you ever kissed her?’

‘No.’

‘I never took you for such a slow-top, my boy.’

‘Have you kissed Rosalind?’ Julian returned, stung.

‘That is hardly relevant at the moment.’

Julian gave a grunt which might almost have been construed as laughter had he not looked so utterly dejected. ‘A fine pair of seducers we are!’

‘As far as our wager goes, I think we must admit defeat.’ St George shrugged carelessly. ‘For my part, it has ceased to be amusing.’

‘Have you any heart at all?’ Julian marvelled at his lack of concern.

‘Hearts are dangerous accoutrements,’ his friend replied. ‘They are too apt to be broken, as you are like to discover.’

‘At any rate, my uncle is welcome to his money. I am glad we lost this wager. Are not you?’

‘My fortune is large enough that I can well afford the loss.’

‘Is money all that matters to you?’ Julian was obviously growing irritated by this cool demeanor.

‘Do not play the moralist now, my lad,’ St George stood up and stretched lazily, like a restless cat. ‘It ill becomes you.’

‘Perhaps I am learning too late that those moralists I have been apt to deride are closer to the truth than I.’

‘In that case, there is only one thing to be done.’

‘What is that?’

St George looked down upon him. ‘Gird your loins, acquit yourself like a man, and make a push to prostrate yourself before Papa Woodford and his daughter. When all else fails, sometimes one must resort to telling the truth. After that, it is in God’s hands.’

* * * *

While the two men were engaged in this unusual conversation, the ladies at the abbey were conducting one remarkably similar in nature. Having been subjected to a stony silence by Mr Woodford, they had been banished to their bedchambers with instructions to have a hot bath and rest. The inquisition could wait until the morrow. This threat did nothing to quiet the nerves of either girl; so, when Cassandra stole away to Rosalind’s chamber at midnight, opening the door just wide enough to speak through the aperture, she found the room’s occupant wide awake.

‘Lindy!’ she whispered, so as not to arouse anyone else. ‘Are you awake?’

‘Yes.’ Rosalind also kept her voice low. The room was in darkness, but that would make no difference to Cassandra.

‘Come in, Cass, and close the door behind you.’

She followed Rosalind’s instructions and made her way cautiously to the bed. Seated side by side, they were both silent for several minutes. Cassandra drew up her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them. In her white linen night garments, she was easy to spy even in the dim light trickling through the window.

‘Papa is very angry,’ she said at last.

‘With good reason,’ Rosalind answered. She had been lying on her side when Cassandra entered, but had pushed herself up in bed and leaned her back against the headboard.

‘Do you think that he will permit Julian and Richard to visit us?’

‘No.’

‘Pray do not try to spare my feelings, Lindy,’ Cassandra said pettishly. ‘Tell me honestly what you feel.’

‘Your father could hardly have arrived at a less propitious moment.’ Rosalind recalled the scene with something of the feeling that the survivor of a shipwreck might view the ocean. ‘The two of us drenched from head to toe — and the gentlemen in no better condition themselves. One can only guess what he must have been thinking.’

‘I shall never see Julian again!’ Cassandra sniffed, and Rosalind knew that her cheeks must be wet with tears.

‘You never
have
seen him.’ She attempted to treat the matter lightly, but their old jests were no longer amusing.

‘I love him, Lindy.’

‘No!’ Rosalind’s vehement cry caused the other to turn towards her sharply. ‘You cannot love such a man. You love only what you have imagined him to be. You have never been courted by a man before, and naturally it has turned your head. But only think what he really is — what we know him to be—and you will soon forget this foolish fancy.’

A piercing, heart-wrenching cry was the only answer to this. It did not come from Cassandra, however, but from the kitten, who was feeling much neglected on the floor of the bedchamber. With some consternation, Rosalind looked down into the darkness. The kitten, catching hold of the bedclothes draped over the side, climbed up in a flash and deposited herself on Rosalind’s lap.

‘What have you named her?’ Cassandra asked, with a ridiculous descent into the mundane.

‘I thought
Lady Hamilton
. She seems to have an affinity with men and with water.’

‘Appropriate, but quite a mouthful.’ Cassandra considered the matter. ‘Since Welly is named for the Duke, perhaps we should simply call her Duchess.’

She reached out one hand in the general direction of the purring sound on the bedclothes, and received the rough wetness of Duchess’s tongue. The cat’s intervention seemed to have soothed her. Her tears ceased and she answered more rationally.

‘My feeling for Julian is not a fancy. Nor do I think either of them as bad as they have been portrayed to us. If they were, neither of us could be so drawn to them.’

‘Us!’ Rosalind was determined to dispel this myth. ‘I have no feeling for either gentleman but irritation.’

Cassandra gave a genteel kind of snort, indicating patent disbelief. ‘You may lie to yourself, Lindy,’ she said, ‘but you cannot pull the wool over
my
eyes.’

‘My emotions may not be entirely untouched,’ Rosalind confessed. ‘However, I am certain that once they are removed from our vicinity, we shall both soon be thankful that they are gone.’

‘Dearest.’ Cassandra was quiet and resigned as she leaned her head on her friend’s shoulder. ‘Dearest, you know as well as I do that you are speaking nonsense. For good or for ill, neither of us will ever be quite the same. For my part, I will never regret having known them.’

But Julian had never kissed Cassandra, Rosalind thought. She had never looked deep into his eyes and felt as though she were falling into them — into him. Oh, why had Richard St George ever come into her life? What could ever come of it but misery?

‘I wish I had never laid eyes on either one of them!’ she cried honestly.

‘If only Papa had not returned so soon,’ Cassandra mused. ‘At least we might have had a few more days with them.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I wonder what made him change his plans?’

‘I did.’

‘What!’

Cassandra drew away from her friend with such violence that it startled Duchess, who gave a loud ‘mew’ as if to scold her for such inconsiderate behavior. The young girl sat up in bed, turning her face towards her friend as if she could read every line and curve of her countenance.

‘I wrote to him the night we walked out into the garden,’ Rosalind said, the words like lead on her tongue.

‘But why?’

Much to her own consternation, Rosalind felt the tears begin to stream down her cheeks. She could not remember the last time she had wept. She had always despised women who cried at every little disappointment, and the lugubrious heroines in romance novels were the brunt of many jokes she had shared with Cassandra. To find herself behaving like one of them was disconcerting, to say the least.

‘I had to do it, Cass!’ She sniffed loudly. The kitten gave up and scampered off to the end of the bed for a more peaceful doze. ‘I did not know how long I could — I could resist him, if I did not.’

Suddenly the two women were clinging together, each aware of the other’s sorrow and each attempting to ease it by whatever pitiful and unsuccessful means they could employ. It was a very long time before they both fell asleep.

The sunlight streaming through the open window the next morning was not welcome. Rosalind hoisted heavy eyelids like useless sails on a ship becalmed in the Doldrums. She lay mute and motionless, staring up at the ceiling and trying to summon enough spirit to rise and face the day. Finally, by a supreme effort of will, she swung her legs to the starboard side of the bed and now sat staring at the wall — which was slightly more interesting, as it had an oval mirror which reflected her own image. She looked like a female Robinson Crusoe, cast up on the bed like human flotsam on the shores of some far-off Pacific isle.

‘What time is it?’

Her exertions had disturbed Cassandra, who yawned and stretched lazily.

‘It must be past nine o’clock in the morning,’ Rosalind warned her.

‘So late?’

‘It was almost daylight when I fell asleep.’

‘Poor Lindy!’ Cassandra was instantly concerned. ‘And now we must face Papa.’

That was an evil event which could not be put off much longer. Both women did their best, however, taking many minutes to choose an outfit and giving their maids as much trouble as possible over the arrangement of their coiffures. They each sipped a tepid cup of coffee and nibbled halfheartedly at a couple of scones before discarding them. At last there was nothing more to be done. Either they must remain confined to their bedchambers or venture out to meet their fate.

Coming down the stairs arm-in-arm, it seemed that they might yet have a slight reprieve. The hall below was empty. Even as this thought occurred to Rosalind, a plump figure popped out of a doorway and trotted toward them. It was Ellen, who greeted them at the foot of the stairs with this portentous announcement:

‘The master wants to see you in the drawing-room. You’d best not keep him waiting.’

‘Both of us?’ Cassandra asked hopefully.

‘Yes, Miss Woodford.’ She nodded decisively.  ‘Both of you.’

* * * *

Mr Woodford was discovered pacing back and forth about the room, his hands clasped behind his back. The dour look on his face gave Rosalind a moment’s pause, but she drew a deep breath and calmly bid her uncle good morning. He returned her greeting somewhat gruffly. Cassandra, eager to pacify and disarm him, if at all possible, went forward with her arms out. He embraced her briefly, but was plainly too perturbed to be easily distracted from his purpose.

‘Perhaps,’ he said eventually, ‘it would be best if I spoke to Rosalind alone.’

‘Sending me away will serve no purpose,’ his daughter informed him. ‘You will merely put me to the trouble of listening outside the door.’

This halted him for a moment, but was hardly designed to mollify him.

‘I have been too lax with you: with both of you,’ he began. ‘Allowing you to read whatever you please, indulging you beyond what is proper.’ Here he paused, planting his feet firmly and adopting the belligerent stance which inevitably preceded one of his famous lectures.

‘I know not by what arts these fiends have insinuated themselves into your acquaintance. You cannot possibly be aware of the kind of black-hearted knaves you have allowed to enter this hallowed haven of peace and tranquillity. I thought you safe here behind these noble walls, little thinking how the wiles of the serpent can so easily beguile the innocent. I had at least expected some measure of good sense from Rosalind—’

‘And you see,’ Cassandra interrupted, ‘that you were right to do so.’

‘Eh?’ He was quite thrown out of his stride by this.

‘Was it not Lindy’s letter which brought you home to rescue us from these … these rakehells?’

‘You should not be using such language, Cassy.’ His tone reverted to that of the exasperated parent, before he turned to address the older woman. ‘You should never have allowed them to be admitted within these walls, Rosalind.’