green leaves, and a light breeze stirred the strange grey drapery that hung, like curtains, like the back-cloth of a theatre, but quivering in the cool sunshine so as to turn the long drive into something from a fairy-tale, the road to the enchanted palace. Juliet felt a queer little shiver of apprehension run through her: what of the prince?
Chapter Six
The house was huge. White and rambling among its protective magnolia and ilex trees, it testified, with here a verandah and there a handsome Greek portico to the varying taste of generations of Purchises. Surveying it, for a brief moment, as the carriage swung round the sweep to stop in front of the graceful flight of steps that led up to a pillared piazza, Juliet thought it at once the most beautiful and the most engaging house she had ever seen. Which Purchis had built that cupola at the corner, with its balustraded walk, and, no doubt, its view across the island to the sea? And who had added that ridiculous, delightful turret on the other side?
‘There you are, ma’am.’ Charon had the carriage door open and the steps down. ‘Home at last.’
It felt like home. A blur of tears clouded her eyes. No time for that now. As in Oglethorpe Square, a happy crowd of servants thronged the steps. Was Josephine a better mistress than she would have imagined, or was this a tribute rather to Hyde?
Luckily, everyone wanted to know about the party the night before, and just when complete panic seized her at the discovery that she had forgotten the name of the Winchelsea housekeeper a clear, cool voice from above created an instant hush, ‘Welcome home, Josephine.’ And then, coming forward to the top of the steps, Abigail Purchis fluttered the whitest hands Juliet had ever seen. ‘Scoot now! Vamoose! Am I to be the last to hear of last night’s doings?’ It was said with perfect good humour, and received in the same spirit, but with instant obedience. One moment they were in the midst of a chattering crowd, the next, as Juliet climbed the last step, they were alone.
Josephine had said nothing about Abigail Pemberly’s resemblance to her nephew. If he was handsome, she was beautiful, with the fine-boned, clear-eyed looks that age merely improves. Age? She might be anything from sixty to a hundred. Now she leaned down with a whiff of lavender, to submit to Juliet’s kiss. ‘Dear child.’ It was mechanical. Then, eagerly. ‘But Hyde? He’s stayed with the baggage?’
‘No, alas, aunt. He’s stayed in Savannah. A small matter of business. He sent you his kindest regards and said to tell you he would be here tonight or tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh.’ In disappointment, the old face was suddenly a child’s. ‘He said he’d come today.’
‘Then I’m sure he will.’ Soothingly. ‘But should we not go in? It’s cold for you out here on the stoop.’
‘Yes. It’s always cold now.’ She turned to lead the way in through wide-open double doors. ‘You’ll take a glass of something after your journey? I had his madeira brought up for Hyde.’
‘The special one? Then we must give him a good scold when he gets here, for disappointing you. But you’ve my cherry bounce, too, I’m glad to see.’ She had moved, unerringly, into the large room to the left of the entry that served as the family’s meeting-place and parlour. Deplorable of Josephine to like cherry bounce, but there it was, and she was getting used to it.
It was darkish in this room, with its big screened porch and the tall magnolias beyond. ‘Too cold for the porch.’ Half a head taller than Juliet, Miss Abigail was thin as a ghost inside a cocoon of exquisite Indian shawls. ‘Yes, I’ll take my usual drop, thank you, dear. So disappointing about Hyde.’ She settled herself with a tired little sigh in an upright chair whose exquisite faded embroidery must have been worked by Purchis hands long since white as oyster shells in the family lot down by the river.
Her usual drop of what?
Chapter Six
The house was huge. White and rambling among its protective magnolia and ilex trees, it testified, with here a verandah and there a handsome Greek portico to the varying taste of generations of Purchises. Surveying it, for a brief moment, as the carriage swung round the sweep to stop in front of the graceful flight of steps that led up to a pillared piazza, Juliet thought it at once the most beautiful and the most engaging house she had ever seen. Which Purchis had built that cupola at the corner, with its balustraded walk, and, no doubt, its view across the island to the sea? And who had added that ridiculous, delightful turret on the other side?
‘There you are, ma’am.’ Charon had the carriage door open and the steps down. ‘Home at last.’
It felt like home. A blur of tears clouded her eyes. No time for that now. As in Oglethorpe Square, a happy crowd of servants thronged the steps. Was Josephine a better mistress than she would have imagined, or was this a tribute rather to Hyde?
Luckily, everyone wanted to know about the party the night before, and just when complete panic seized her at the discovery that she had forgotten the name of the Winchelsea housekeeper a clear, cool voice from above created an instant hush, ‘Welcome home, Josephine.’ And then, coming forward to the top of the steps, Abigail Purchis fluttered the whitest hands Juliet had ever seen. ‘Scoot now! Vamoose! Am I to be the last to hear of last night’s doings?’ It was said with perfect good humour, and received in the same spirit, but with instant obedience. One moment they were in the midst of a chattering crowd, the next, as Juliet climbed the last step, they were alone.
Josephine had said nothing about Abigail Pemberly’s resemblance to her nephew. If he was handsome, she was beautiful, with the fine-boned, clear-eyed looks that age merely improves. Age? She might be anything from sixty to a hundred. Now she leaned down with a whiff of lavender, to submit to Juliet’s kiss. ‘Dear child.’ It was mechanical. Then, eagerly. ‘But Hyde? He’s stayed with the baggage?’
‘No, alas, aunt. He’s stayed in Savannah. A small matter of business. He sent you his kindest regards and said to tell you he would be here tonight or tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh.’ In disappointment, the old face was suddenly a child’s. ‘He said he’d come today.’
‘Then I’m sure he will.’ Soothingly. ‘But should we not go in? It’s cold for you out here on the stoop.’
‘Yes. It’s always cold now.’ She turned to lead the way in through wide-open double doors. ‘You’ll take a glass of something after your journey? I had his madeira brought up for Hyde.’
‘The special one? Then we must give him a good scold when he gets here, for disappointing you. But you’ve my cherry bounce, too, I’m glad to see.’ She had moved, unerringly, into the large room to the left of the entry that served as the family’s meeting-place and parlour. Deplorable of Josephine to like cherry bounce, but there it was, and she was getting used to it.
It was darkish in this room, with its big screened porch and the tall magnolias beyond. ‘Too cold for the porch.’ Half a head taller than Juliet, Miss Abigail was thin as a ghost inside a cocoon of exquisite Indian shawls. ‘Yes, I’ll take my usual drop, thank you, dear. So disappointing about Hyde.’ She settled herself with a tired little sigh in an upright chair whose exquisite faded embroidery must have been worked by Purchis hands long since white as oyster shells in the family lot down by the river.
Her usual drop of what?
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