Beth Andrews (8 page)

‘I have often wondered what the sunshine must look like.’

Cassandra looked up, unseeing, into the bright sky with its tufts of white here and there. ‘I can feel its warmth, but it is difficult to understand how it illumines everything.’

‘You must think of it as a warm, gentle hand,’ Julian suggested. ‘It touches each object, just as your own hands examine the shape and feel of everything. But the sunshine communicates those qualities to us without us having to touch them ourselves.’

‘Well put,’ Rosalind said. ‘You have a way with words, Mr Marchmont. It is a great gift which can be cruelly abused.’

‘While we waited for you,’ St George said, ‘I spied a rose garden through the window. Shall we venture there?’

‘There are several gardens within these walls,’ Rosalind told him. ‘I would be happy to show them to you, if you wish.’

‘I do indeed.’ She was much more approachable today. It boded well for his plans.

‘The sun is hotter than I had expected.’ It was Julian who spoke now. ‘Would you not prefer to sit here in the shade, Miss Woodford? I would not wish you to over-exert yourself.’

‘It is a trifle warm,’ Cassandra agreed. ‘But I would not wish to keep you confined here on my account.’

‘Nonsense!’ St George interjected. ‘Julian is not such a lover of nature as I am. I am sure he will be happy to remain here with you while Miss Powell guides me through your delightful grounds.’

‘I do not think I should leave you, Cass,’ Rosalind protested.

‘She will be perfectly safe with me,’ Julian reassured her. ‘I promise to keep her reasonably well entertained.’

‘You see, Lindy?’ Cassandra gave a mischievous smile. ‘There is nothing at all to worry about.’

‘You are very kind, sir,’ Rosalind said to Julian, with an unconvincing attempt at politeness. ‘But I really cannot importune a guest—’

‘Believe me, ma’am,’ he interrupted, ‘it is no hardship to spend an afternoon in the company of a lovely and intelligent young lady.’

In the end, Miss Powell acquiesced. Whatever misgivings she might secretly harbor, there was little she could do when her young charge was as insistent as anyone. Gingerly taking the arm which Richard offered, she escorted him out of the cloistered courtyard and around a corner of the building, where they immediately came upon the rose garden. It was set out like a wheel, with a sundial at the centre and narrow paths radiating out from it like spokes. Between the paths were rose beds in alternating colours of yellow, red, pink and white. A slight breeze wafted their fragrance up to them as they crossed into the centre.

So far they had not spoken. Miss Powell seemed in a somewhat taciturn frame of mind, no doubt still smarting from having been out-manoeuvred. As for Richard, for the first time in years he was uncertain what to say to a woman. This one was no ordinary female, but one quite out of the common way. He bent to touch a deep-red rose nodding beside the path.

‘The symbol of love,’ he commented.

‘Mind the thorns,’ Rosalind warned, prosaic as ever.

‘You are clearly not of a romantic disposition, Miss Powell.’

She shrugged slightly. ‘The abbey has all the trappings of romance, but it is a building like any other.’

‘I beg to disagree, ma’am.’ He checked the time on the sundial, noting that it was almost two o’clock in the afternoon. ‘Not every house is so grand, and not many buildings can boast such lovely inhabitants.’

‘Ah!’ The look she gave him was one of contemptuous amusement. ‘Now comes the flummery.’

‘Which is of no avail with a dragon.’

‘Dragon?’ She looked taken aback at this. Then, with a rueful grimace, ‘I suppose I can be rather a fearsome creature.’

‘My knees knock together at the thought of your wrath,’ he quipped.

‘Permit me to doubt that, sir.’

‘So fair a Diana might well weaken the knees of the strongest man.’

‘I wonder if your friend is treating Cassandra to the same Spanish coin?’ she mused aloud.

He laughed. ‘You refuse to be flattered, I see.’

‘You seem to be of a mind to play the role of Don Giovanni.’ She stood on the other side of the sundial, and seemed as stiff and stony as that object. ‘But I am no Donna Elvira, sir.’

‘You are immune to the tender passion, Miss Powell?’ He traced the roman numerals on the round stone. ‘Yet Donna Elvira ended her days in a convent. And here you are, already residing in an abbey.’

‘There the resemblance between us ends. I am not such a fool as to pine for a noble lover, however dashing or handsome he may be.’

‘You never dream of a handsome knight who would sweep you off your feet and into his strong arms?’ he quizzed.

She opened her parasol with a snap. ‘Any man I might allow myself to dream of would more likely resemble Don Quixote than Don Juan.’

‘An old dotard?’ he enquired, in some surprise. What next would this woman say?

‘A man who — whatever his age or appearance — has a noble soul,’ she countered. ‘Don Juan would bore me to tears very quickly. But life with Don Quixote would be one adventure after another.’

‘You long for adventure then?’

She did not deign to answer this, but turned her back on him and began to walk on, saying that there was more to see in the garden. He followed in her wake at first, but soon caught up with her, in spite of her swift strides. They traversed a small Elizabethan knot garden, which she said had been painstakingly designed by an antiquarian with a love of herbs. She did not rest here, however. He guessed that she was eager to bring this period of enforced intimacy to an end as soon as possible, but he had other ideas.

Passing through a vine-covered arbour, they came next to an open terraced garden, with a rectangular pool filled with water lilies in shades of pink and white. A bench was placed at either end, the better to enjoy the view. In the centre was the nude statue of a Greek athlete, who seemed to be throwing a javelin in the direction of the small orchard beyond. Richard supposed that these gardens provided some variety to the confined space behind the cloistered walls of the abbey.

‘Would you not care to rest for a few moments, Miss Powell?’ He indicated the conveniently placed bench.

She declined the offer, adding that she was not in the least fatigued and was quite ready to continue on.

‘That is a fine grove of fruit trees,’ he said, conventionally.

‘Apples and pears, for the most part.’ He was sure that she was well aware he was gently mocking her, but never would she rise to his carefully dangled bait.

‘This water garden is enchanting as well.’

‘Indeed.’

They were standing directly before the statue. It was slightly smaller than life-sized, and set on a pedestal, so that the waist was roughly at the level of their sight. He glanced from Rosalind to the very prominent portion of the male anatomy before him.

‘I do not believe,’ he said, ‘that you ever stated your question in regard to the verses from Ezekiel which you were reading earlier.’

He watched her color rise, despite her best efforts. ‘How odd!’ she declared - quite mendaciously, he thought. ‘I have quite forgotten what we were discussing earlier.’

‘The subject,’ he obliged, ‘was a comparison between adultery and idolatry.’ He warmed to his theme. ‘There was some reference to harlots and teats. But perhaps you had some difficulty with the analogies referring to the male physique.’

She was quite red now, but attempted to recover herself. ‘It is of no matter, sir, I assure you.’

‘No, no,’ he contradicted. ‘Knowledge is never something to be spurned, my dear Miss Powell. Allow me to enlighten you, I pray. As a man myself, I can provide insights of which you may be quite ignorant.’

‘There is no need,’ she said too hastily.

‘It is no trouble at all.’ In fact, this was one lesson he would enjoy to the fullest. ‘You must use your imagination, ma’am. It may seem strange and inconceivable to compare the flesh of a man to that of an ass—’

‘Not at all,’ she snapped, eyeing him with less than good will. ‘I see nothing strange in calling a man an ass. On the contrary, it seems most appropriate.’

‘But come,’ he cried, indicating the statue beside them. ‘Here is a fine rendition in stone of the male form. Now, which part would you say could produce an issue “like that of a horse”?’

She stared resolutely at the area below the athlete’s waist, and then pronounced, ‘I see no portion that in any way resembles that of any horse which I have ever seen. And,’ she added, succinctly, ‘I should think that poor Welly here could produce a greater issue!’

St George could not contain himself. He broke out into such a loud guffaw of laughter that he was sure the others must have heard him. He could not remember the last time he had enjoyed anything so much. Miss Rosalind Powell was sheer delight. He could continue in this vein forever without tiring of her company.

But it was not to be. Though her eyes sparkled with mischief and her lips curved up in the merest whisper of a smile, she resolutely compressed them together and turned away.

‘This path,’ she said, marching down it without looking back, ‘will take us back to the cloisters.’

Their tête-à-tête was over. He was not certain how much he had accomplished. He had entertained her in spite of herself, and their conversation — so deliciously indelicate — had created a closeness between them which it was impossible now to deny. How aware of it she might be, he did not know. But it was a beginning. The only question was: where would it end?

It was not many minutes before they rejoined the other couple, seated in a very cosy manner on the same stone bench where they had first discovered Miss Woodford.

‘Is that you, Lindy?’ Cassandra called out, as they approached. ‘I thought I heard steps on the path a moment ago.’

Rosalind acknowledged that they had indeed returned. She paused a moment to observe the pair before her. To her mind, they were a bit too close to suit her notions of propriety. Then, as she thought of what had just passed between herself and St George, she grimaced inwardly. She was hardly in a position to preach to Cassy.

‘Have you been talking all this time?’ St George asked them. ‘Julian can be quite a gabster, I know.’

‘He has been entertaining me with tales of the
haut ton,’
Cassandra admitted, giggling. ‘Only fancy, Lindy: they are acquainted with the Prince Regent himself!’

‘Our “fat friend”, to use Brummell’s description,’ Julian remarked with disrespectful accuracy.

‘And did you both enjoy your ramble around the abbey?’

‘I found it most — illuminating.’ St George cast a sly glance at Rosalind, who refused to meet it.

‘It was well enough for something one has seen a thousand times before,’ she said.

‘I, on the other hand,’ Cassandra pointed out, ‘have never seen it at all.’

‘I could not have had a more charming guide,’ St George said, sincerely. ‘There are few young ladies so knowledgeable as Miss Powell.’

Determining that they had accomplished enough for one day, the gentlemen soon bade a regretful farewell. They begged the ladies not to indispose themselves by attempting to see them out.

Instead, they found their own way back to the house, where Debenham appeared as if by magic and escorted them to the front door. They mounted their matching black stallions and raced each other back to the lodge, passing through the gate so close together that it was impossible to say which was the winner.

That evening, over cold roast beef and a bottle of Chambertin, the two men discussed their present position. It was decided that they had made some progress today, though things were not proceeding as swiftly as they could have wished.

Julian’s eyes widened as Richard related what had passed between himself and Miss Powell.

‘I have never heard such language from any young lady before,’ he exclaimed, disconcerted once more at the amazing behavior of these sheltered women.

‘They are rare birds,’ Richard agreed. ‘As refreshing as a cold sea bath at Brighton, but far more stimulating.’

‘I’ve not heard a doxy speak so freely.’

‘Alas that Hogarth is not alive to paint your portrait,’ St George mused. ‘It might be titled ‘The Rake’s Regress.’

‘How can they be so — so strange?’ Julian ignored his jibe.

St George contemplated the liquid in his glass, as if consulting a mysterious crystal. Cagliostro himself had never looked so mystical.

‘Miss Woodford and Miss Powell have not been trained to bore with idle chatter nor to ignore what is sensible and noble,’ he said at last. ‘I imagine that they have been allowed to do as they pleased, within reason, but their instincts are pure and honorable — a word I rarely use in connection with the weaker sex.’

‘I cannot make her out,’ Julian complained.

‘Miss Woodford?’

He nodded. ‘I paid her the most extravagant compliments — all of which were quite true, as it happens. She is the loveliest creature I ever beheld, upon my honour! Her eyes, her—’

‘Yes, yes,’ Richard interrupted him. ‘They are both beautiful and clever - “wise as serpents and innocent as doves”. But if you break into rapturous descriptions, I will begin to wonder who is seducing whom.’

Julian actually blushed. ‘I assure you,’ he said, not without regret, ‘that Miss Cassandra has no romantic designs upon me. She seemed to find my compliments excessively diverting, laughed prodigiously and asked me whether I talked such nonsense to all the young ladies I meet in London.’

‘What shall you do, my poor brave soldier?’ St George quizzed him. ‘Shall you admit defeat to a woman who is immune to your handsome face and apparently impervious to the power of your silver tongue?’

‘Damned if I will!’ he cried. ‘Miss Woodford shall be mine, if I have to walk through Hades to win her.’

‘Such extreme measures will not be necessary, my boy,’ St George said.

‘What are you hiding from me, Richard?’ Julian demanded, scenting a mystery. ‘You have the look of the Devil himself!’

‘It will require all of Satan’s cunning to win this wager,’ he replied. ‘I have my share of wits, believe me.’