Fairmead to sample the goodies. Gregory isn’t invited, I’m of a selfish mind to keep you both to myself.’ He grinned. ‘And in spite of having the duns at my door, you’ll be pleased to know the treat’s on me. A modicum of good fortune at the tables last night has put me in Tip Street for the time being, although that’s strictly between thee and me.’
‘Ralph St John, you’re incorrigible,’ scolded Margaret. ‘I vow you’ll plunge in so deep one day you’ll never surface again.’
‘The old man’s worth the ransom of half a dozen kings, so I can consider myself at liberty to continue plunging to my heart’s delight,’ he replied – rather arrogantly, Helen thought. ‘I can certainly consider myself able to entertain you and Miss Fairmead to the first mess of strawberries of the summer. Will you accept my invitation?’
‘Of course,’ Margaret replied, glancing at Helen. ‘You’ll come, won’t you? You’ll love the boathouse.’
‘Is it really a boathouse?’ Helen asked.
‘Oh, most definitely. It’s at Eleanor’s Lake in Windsor Great Park. The lake is named for Lady Eleanor Parfait, whose unfortunate husband spent his entire fortune damming up a stream to make the lake for her at the beginning of the last century, only to have her promptly run off with his best friend. The boathouse has been there for ages, hiring out pleasure boats to the summer visitors who liked to spend time on the water. About four years ago the present proprietress married a certain Klaus Hagman, a confectioner from Vienna, and it wasn’t long before the clients hiring the pleasure boats found themselves lingering over delicious Viennese pastries, creams, and ices, and soon it was all the rage to be seen there. It’s a positive crush of Mayfair there all through the summer, especially close to Royal Ascot week, and last year the Earl and Countess of Cardusay actually got married there. It was so romantic, the bride and groom took their vows on a barge so covered with flowers it looked as if it was made of them, and all the guests were on barges too. I wouldn’t marry at dull old St George’s now, it would be a special license and Hagman’s boathouse for me. You’ll love it there, Helen, and it’s only half anhour away by carriage. Do say you’ll come.’
Helen found the thought of Hagman’s very pleasing, but not if Ralph St John was issuing the invitation. Nothing that had happened during the past few minutes had shaken her resolve to discourage him from all thought of marrying her, and she knew that her acceptance now might be construed as encouragement. She gave an apologetic smile. ‘It’s very kind of you to invite me, Mr St John, but….’
‘Oh, Helen!’ protested Margaret, ‘please come, for it really is delightful there, and I know you adore strawberries.’
To continue refusing. would look odd, and so Helen gave in reluctantly. ‘Very well. Thank you for including me, Mr St John.’
‘Not at all, Miss Fairmead.’
Margaret turned to Helen. ‘Come on, we must change, for only ladies of great style dare to be seen at Hagman’s.’ Snatching Helen’s hand, she hurried her away toward the archway.
Half an hour later, Ralph’s dark blue barouche drove smartly away from Bourne End, its hoods down because the weather was so very warm and fine, Helen was dressed in a bluebell silk gown and matching pelisse, with a gray straw bonnet tied on with wide bluebell ribbons that fluttered in the breeze as the open carriage came up to a smart pace. Opposite her, Margaret wore an orange spencer over a cream muslin gown, and an orange hat from which sprang tall ostrich plumes. Ralph sat next to Margaret, and Helen was conscious of how often his glance, still warm and speculative, moved toward her.
The barouche passed the racecourse, where activity seemed to have increased even since the previous day. The Windsor road led over the open countryside of the heath, and then into a forest where
‘Ralph St John, you’re incorrigible,’ scolded Margaret. ‘I vow you’ll plunge in so deep one day you’ll never surface again.’
‘The old man’s worth the ransom of half a dozen kings, so I can consider myself at liberty to continue plunging to my heart’s delight,’ he replied – rather arrogantly, Helen thought. ‘I can certainly consider myself able to entertain you and Miss Fairmead to the first mess of strawberries of the summer. Will you accept my invitation?’
‘Of course,’ Margaret replied, glancing at Helen. ‘You’ll come, won’t you? You’ll love the boathouse.’
‘Is it really a boathouse?’ Helen asked.
‘Oh, most definitely. It’s at Eleanor’s Lake in Windsor Great Park. The lake is named for Lady Eleanor Parfait, whose unfortunate husband spent his entire fortune damming up a stream to make the lake for her at the beginning of the last century, only to have her promptly run off with his best friend. The boathouse has been there for ages, hiring out pleasure boats to the summer visitors who liked to spend time on the water. About four years ago the present proprietress married a certain Klaus Hagman, a confectioner from Vienna, and it wasn’t long before the clients hiring the pleasure boats found themselves lingering over delicious Viennese pastries, creams, and ices, and soon it was all the rage to be seen there. It’s a positive crush of Mayfair there all through the summer, especially close to Royal Ascot week, and last year the Earl and Countess of Cardusay actually got married there. It was so romantic, the bride and groom took their vows on a barge so covered with flowers it looked as if it was made of them, and all the guests were on barges too. I wouldn’t marry at dull old St George’s now, it would be a special license and Hagman’s boathouse for me. You’ll love it there, Helen, and it’s only half anhour away by carriage. Do say you’ll come.’
Helen found the thought of Hagman’s very pleasing, but not if Ralph St John was issuing the invitation. Nothing that had happened during the past few minutes had shaken her resolve to discourage him from all thought of marrying her, and she knew that her acceptance now might be construed as encouragement. She gave an apologetic smile. ‘It’s very kind of you to invite me, Mr St John, but….’
‘Oh, Helen!’ protested Margaret, ‘please come, for it really is delightful there, and I know you adore strawberries.’
To continue refusing. would look odd, and so Helen gave in reluctantly. ‘Very well. Thank you for including me, Mr St John.’
‘Not at all, Miss Fairmead.’
Margaret turned to Helen. ‘Come on, we must change, for only ladies of great style dare to be seen at Hagman’s.’ Snatching Helen’s hand, she hurried her away toward the archway.
Half an hour later, Ralph’s dark blue barouche drove smartly away from Bourne End, its hoods down because the weather was so very warm and fine, Helen was dressed in a bluebell silk gown and matching pelisse, with a gray straw bonnet tied on with wide bluebell ribbons that fluttered in the breeze as the open carriage came up to a smart pace. Opposite her, Margaret wore an orange spencer over a cream muslin gown, and an orange hat from which sprang tall ostrich plumes. Ralph sat next to Margaret, and Helen was conscious of how often his glance, still warm and speculative, moved toward her.
The barouche passed the racecourse, where activity seemed to have increased even since the previous day. The Windsor road led over the open countryside of the heath, and then into a forest where
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