you ask me’ — she waved a hairpin in front of her nose – ‘it’s high time the two of you had your own beaux. And you couldn’t find two more handsome gentlemen if you was to search the whole country.’
‘Mr St George’s smile puts my heart in a flutter, I can tell you that,’ Ellen confessed.
‘And the way Mr Julian looks at you, Miss Cassandra!’ Harriet put her own hand over her heart, though her mistress could not see it. ‘Well, there’s not many girls could say nay to him, an’ all.’
‘I do not doubt that many girls have said “yes” to him, and lived to regret it,’ Rosalind snapped.
Cassandra’s spirits would not be dampened, however. She continued to babble happily until they stepped out of the front door to enter the waiting carriage. Looking at her, Rosalind could not help but feel a twinge of sympathy. She was so beautiful in her white muslin gown, cut just low enough to be fashionable without seeming at all fast, and trimmed with the finest Belgian lace. Her golden locks were adorned with small diamond clips which looked like butterflies, and a thin diamond necklace encircled her throat. Even the edges of her fan were studded with diamonds. Nothing but the best and latest fashions would do for Mr Woodford’s daughter, though the gowns were generally of Rosalind’s choosing.
Rosalind herself did not affect anything so youthful or so grand. As a poor relation, she felt sober colours were more suitable. Still, her dress of bottle-green silk, cut somewhat lower than her cousin’s, was fashioned by the same stylish modiste from London. The shawl of golden silk had been a gift from Cassandra herself, while the amethyst earrings and matching pendant had been presented to her by her uncle on the occasion of her one-and-twentieth birthday.
They might not be up to snuff like the London ladies, but no one could call them dowdy.
* * * *
The drive to the lodge was quite brief. The gentlemen must have been on the watch that evening, for they appeared on the steps as soon as the carriage door opened. Julian was a young Adonis, while St George was darkly fascinating in his severe evening attire.
‘Welcome to our humble cottage,’ he intoned. Raising Rosalind’s gloved hand to his lips in an exaggerated gesture, he then swept her into the entrance, where Mrs Plummer awaited them. Cassandra and Julian, laughing and flirting, were a few paces ahead of them.
‘What a snug little party!’ Cousin Priscilla cried. She was a blaze of color tonight in a gown of amaranthus taffeta with puffed sleeves of a rich cherry-red velvet. In her glorious piebald attire, she was a jolly court jester endlessly entertaining without any consciousness of being so.
‘But five is an unlucky number,’ Cassandra said, turning in the direction of her new friend’s voice. ‘Is there no companion for you, Mrs Plummer?’
Priscilla Plummer laughed aloud. ‘I assure you I do not mind in the least. My late Plummer, Mr Husband, when he was in his cups (which was quite often, now I think on it) always used to say, “Scilly—”’
‘Silly?’ Cassandra could not contain her surprise.
‘His own little name for me,’ she explained. ‘Short for Priscilla, you know.’
‘Of course.’ Rosalind barely suppressed a smile.
‘Now what was I saying?’ the lady asked, having misplaced the somewhat tenuous thread of her thoughts.
‘You were telling us what your husband used to say to you,’ Julian informed her helpfully.
‘Oh yes!’ She paused, apparently attempting to recapture the stray bit of memory. ‘He used to say, “Scilly, you’ll never find another sapskull like me. I’ll wager my life upon it!”’
‘And you never have!’ St George agreed, almost oversetting Rosalind with his air of mock gravity which was quite lost upon his poor cousin.
‘Indeed not,’ she agreed, her eyes misting suspiciously. ‘Not that Mr Plummer wasn’t a trial at times … But what man isn’t?’
‘You’ll
‘Mr St George’s smile puts my heart in a flutter, I can tell you that,’ Ellen confessed.
‘And the way Mr Julian looks at you, Miss Cassandra!’ Harriet put her own hand over her heart, though her mistress could not see it. ‘Well, there’s not many girls could say nay to him, an’ all.’
‘I do not doubt that many girls have said “yes” to him, and lived to regret it,’ Rosalind snapped.
Cassandra’s spirits would not be dampened, however. She continued to babble happily until they stepped out of the front door to enter the waiting carriage. Looking at her, Rosalind could not help but feel a twinge of sympathy. She was so beautiful in her white muslin gown, cut just low enough to be fashionable without seeming at all fast, and trimmed with the finest Belgian lace. Her golden locks were adorned with small diamond clips which looked like butterflies, and a thin diamond necklace encircled her throat. Even the edges of her fan were studded with diamonds. Nothing but the best and latest fashions would do for Mr Woodford’s daughter, though the gowns were generally of Rosalind’s choosing.
Rosalind herself did not affect anything so youthful or so grand. As a poor relation, she felt sober colours were more suitable. Still, her dress of bottle-green silk, cut somewhat lower than her cousin’s, was fashioned by the same stylish modiste from London. The shawl of golden silk had been a gift from Cassandra herself, while the amethyst earrings and matching pendant had been presented to her by her uncle on the occasion of her one-and-twentieth birthday.
They might not be up to snuff like the London ladies, but no one could call them dowdy.
* * * *
The drive to the lodge was quite brief. The gentlemen must have been on the watch that evening, for they appeared on the steps as soon as the carriage door opened. Julian was a young Adonis, while St George was darkly fascinating in his severe evening attire.
‘Welcome to our humble cottage,’ he intoned. Raising Rosalind’s gloved hand to his lips in an exaggerated gesture, he then swept her into the entrance, where Mrs Plummer awaited them. Cassandra and Julian, laughing and flirting, were a few paces ahead of them.
‘What a snug little party!’ Cousin Priscilla cried. She was a blaze of color tonight in a gown of amaranthus taffeta with puffed sleeves of a rich cherry-red velvet. In her glorious piebald attire, she was a jolly court jester endlessly entertaining without any consciousness of being so.
‘But five is an unlucky number,’ Cassandra said, turning in the direction of her new friend’s voice. ‘Is there no companion for you, Mrs Plummer?’
Priscilla Plummer laughed aloud. ‘I assure you I do not mind in the least. My late Plummer, Mr Husband, when he was in his cups (which was quite often, now I think on it) always used to say, “Scilly—”’
‘Silly?’ Cassandra could not contain her surprise.
‘His own little name for me,’ she explained. ‘Short for Priscilla, you know.’
‘Of course.’ Rosalind barely suppressed a smile.
‘Now what was I saying?’ the lady asked, having misplaced the somewhat tenuous thread of her thoughts.
‘You were telling us what your husband used to say to you,’ Julian informed her helpfully.
‘Oh yes!’ She paused, apparently attempting to recapture the stray bit of memory. ‘He used to say, “Scilly, you’ll never find another sapskull like me. I’ll wager my life upon it!”’
‘And you never have!’ St George agreed, almost oversetting Rosalind with his air of mock gravity which was quite lost upon his poor cousin.
‘Indeed not,’ she agreed, her eyes misting suspiciously. ‘Not that Mr Plummer wasn’t a trial at times … But what man isn’t?’
‘You’ll
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