have no argument from me on that head,’ Rosalind told her.
‘And now, my beautiful dragon,’ St George said to Rosalind, ‘it is our turn to make you acquainted with our own lodgings. If you will allow me to escort you?’
Politeness demanded her acquiescence, and for the next half-hour they were led around the lodge which was the occasional residence of Julian’s absent uncle — he of the warning letter, of which his present tenants were in blessed ignorance, Rosalind thought with inward self-satisfaction.
The lodge was a fairly commodious residence, with five bedchambers, a small dining-room, a much larger drawing-room, in addition to kitchens and servants’ quarters. There was a great deal of oak panelling and lurid paintings of hunting scenes on the walls. In the small study, the most remarkable feature was a rug made from the skin of a grizzly bear from the Americas, which a previous Marchmont had shot with his own musket.
‘I should be afraid,’ Cassandra told Julian, pressing rather too close to him in Rosalind’s opinion, ‘that it would come to life some night and eat me!’
‘And what a delectable morsel you would make,’ he quizzed.
‘But I am sure that Julian would rescue you from such peril,’ St George added.
‘It looks as though it would collect a great deal of dust.’ Cousin Scilly’s practical comment shattered any lingering trace of the supernatural or romantic.
‘A housemaid’s nightmare,’ Rosalind agreed.
‘A sad decline indeed.’ St George shook his head. ‘From a ferocious beast in an untamed wilderness to a servant’s chore in a staid English study.’
‘Like Don Juan,’ Rosalind quizzed him in turn. ‘From a dashing young lover to a toothless old dotard, drooling over the ankles of an indifferent parlor maid.’
‘There is not an ounce of romance in you, Miss Powell,’ Julian objected.
‘I fear you are right, Julian — Mr Marchmont—’ Cassandra corrected herself quickly. But Julian would have none of it.
‘No, no, Miss Woodford!’ he corrected. ‘I hope we are better friends than that. My Christian name is at your disposal, if I may be permitted to call you by yours.’
So, Rosalind thought grimly, another step was being taken towards an intimacy from which no good could come. They seemed to be propelled forward now by the impetus of their initial rash decision. Where would this end?
* * * *
Dinner was a much grander affair than they had ever experienced at the abbey. The gentlemen, it seemed, had a French cook. With their deplorable lack of savoir-vivre, Rosalind and Cassandra scarcely knew what they ate. It was undeniably tasty, though the number of courses seemed excessive and they were forced to leave a considerable amount on their plates. The two men, more accustomed to such lavish fare, had no qualms about consuming the vast quantity of victuals, and Cousin Scilly had an equally healthy appetite.
Afterwards, they retired to the drawing-room. After a few awkward moments in which nobody — even the indefatigable Mrs Plummer — seemed to know what to say, Julian hit upon an idea which created a minor sensation.
‘Mrs Plummer,’ he enquired hopefully, ‘do you play the pianoforte?’
‘Yes indeed,’ the lady replied eagerly. ‘Would you like some music?’
‘We might each take a turn, if you like,’ Rosalind said. At least, she reasoned, that would spare her any tête-à-tête with St George — or rather, Richard.
‘To be frank,’ Julian confessed, ‘I was thinking that you might be persuaded to play for us while we danced.’
For a moment the two girls were both struck silent. Mrs Plummer was not so fortunate.
‘What a splendid idea!’ she almost yodelled in her delight.
‘Do you two gentlemen,’ Rosalind enquired, ‘intend to dance together for our delectation?’
‘Of course not.’ Julian was not amused by the suggestion. ‘I will partner Cassandra, if she will permit, while you and Richard can dance
‘And now, my beautiful dragon,’ St George said to Rosalind, ‘it is our turn to make you acquainted with our own lodgings. If you will allow me to escort you?’
Politeness demanded her acquiescence, and for the next half-hour they were led around the lodge which was the occasional residence of Julian’s absent uncle — he of the warning letter, of which his present tenants were in blessed ignorance, Rosalind thought with inward self-satisfaction.
The lodge was a fairly commodious residence, with five bedchambers, a small dining-room, a much larger drawing-room, in addition to kitchens and servants’ quarters. There was a great deal of oak panelling and lurid paintings of hunting scenes on the walls. In the small study, the most remarkable feature was a rug made from the skin of a grizzly bear from the Americas, which a previous Marchmont had shot with his own musket.
‘I should be afraid,’ Cassandra told Julian, pressing rather too close to him in Rosalind’s opinion, ‘that it would come to life some night and eat me!’
‘And what a delectable morsel you would make,’ he quizzed.
‘But I am sure that Julian would rescue you from such peril,’ St George added.
‘It looks as though it would collect a great deal of dust.’ Cousin Scilly’s practical comment shattered any lingering trace of the supernatural or romantic.
‘A housemaid’s nightmare,’ Rosalind agreed.
‘A sad decline indeed.’ St George shook his head. ‘From a ferocious beast in an untamed wilderness to a servant’s chore in a staid English study.’
‘Like Don Juan,’ Rosalind quizzed him in turn. ‘From a dashing young lover to a toothless old dotard, drooling over the ankles of an indifferent parlor maid.’
‘There is not an ounce of romance in you, Miss Powell,’ Julian objected.
‘I fear you are right, Julian — Mr Marchmont—’ Cassandra corrected herself quickly. But Julian would have none of it.
‘No, no, Miss Woodford!’ he corrected. ‘I hope we are better friends than that. My Christian name is at your disposal, if I may be permitted to call you by yours.’
So, Rosalind thought grimly, another step was being taken towards an intimacy from which no good could come. They seemed to be propelled forward now by the impetus of their initial rash decision. Where would this end?
* * * *
Dinner was a much grander affair than they had ever experienced at the abbey. The gentlemen, it seemed, had a French cook. With their deplorable lack of savoir-vivre, Rosalind and Cassandra scarcely knew what they ate. It was undeniably tasty, though the number of courses seemed excessive and they were forced to leave a considerable amount on their plates. The two men, more accustomed to such lavish fare, had no qualms about consuming the vast quantity of victuals, and Cousin Scilly had an equally healthy appetite.
Afterwards, they retired to the drawing-room. After a few awkward moments in which nobody — even the indefatigable Mrs Plummer — seemed to know what to say, Julian hit upon an idea which created a minor sensation.
‘Mrs Plummer,’ he enquired hopefully, ‘do you play the pianoforte?’
‘Yes indeed,’ the lady replied eagerly. ‘Would you like some music?’
‘We might each take a turn, if you like,’ Rosalind said. At least, she reasoned, that would spare her any tête-à-tête with St George — or rather, Richard.
‘To be frank,’ Julian confessed, ‘I was thinking that you might be persuaded to play for us while we danced.’
For a moment the two girls were both struck silent. Mrs Plummer was not so fortunate.
‘What a splendid idea!’ she almost yodelled in her delight.
‘Do you two gentlemen,’ Rosalind enquired, ‘intend to dance together for our delectation?’
‘Of course not.’ Julian was not amused by the suggestion. ‘I will partner Cassandra, if she will permit, while you and Richard can dance
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