rain splashed against the windows, and the house was so dark that we had to light the lamps. Agatha Crandall went up to her room, and Corinne sat in the parlor, brooding over a deck of cards. She clearly did not want company, so I avoided her. Edward Lyon talked to me for a little while and promised to take me for a canoe ride tomorrow. He went off to work on some accounts, and I found myself alone.
I wandered into the library, searching for a book. I finally took down one of Dickensâ novels and curled up on the sofa. The curtains were parted and I could see the rain splashing against the glass. I tried to read, but even Mr. Dickens was no comfort now. I could not concentrate. I looked at the walls of beautifully bound volumes, the lamp light glimmering on their gilt titles. There was an enormous gray marble fireplace with tall black andirons and screen, enormous chairs covered with green leather, as was the sofa. A beautifully varnished globe of gold and red and brown stood on a revolving stand. It was a comfortable room, but I felt no comfort. I could not forget the ugly scene this morning. I had the feeling that it concerned something far more important than anything either woman had said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
T HE GARDENS were lovely, bathed now in sunlight that fell in glittering white rays from a silver-gray sky. I strolled down the neat flagstone path, stopping to admire a bed of vivid blue gentians, walking on to see a bed of pink and purple geraniums. The path twisted and turned among the beds. I walked under arches of white trellis that held small pink roses. The fragrance was overwhelming, heady. I closed my eyes to savor it better. Even though it was three miles to the sea, I could smell the salty tang in the air. It was a glorious day, and it seemed incredible now that yesterday had been so grim and gray and depressing. The rain had washed everything clean, and the sunlight made everything sharp and bright.
I was waiting for Edward Lyon. He had promised to take me for the canoe ride this morning. I had awakened early after a night of fitful sleep, and I had hurried outside after a solitary breakfast. No one else had been up at that early hour, and I was content to examine the gardens and think my own private thoughts.
They mostly concerned Edward Lyon. He had had a long talk with me last night, finding me still in the library after dinner. Languorous, rather lazy, he had stretched out on the sofa, regarding me with eyes whose lids drooped sleepily. He asked me all about the music hall and the people there and then he asked me about my sister Maureen, and I found myself telling him all that I remembered of that beautiful stranger. He told me in turn about his childhood at Lyon House and how he had been a mischievous, moody little boy who was always getting into trouble. I could not deny the fascination the man had for me. Every detail about his life seemed incredibly important to me. I was a little afraid of him.
Perhaps I was not so much afraid of him as I was afraid of myself. I had had absolutely no experience with men, and I was a little bewildered by my reactions to his presence. I was polite and cool and modest on the surface, the properly bred young woman, but within there was something that I did not think proper at all. I wished I could discuss it with Laverne or Mattie, but as it was I would have to fend for myself. I knew Edward Lyon was dangerous for me, and I knew I was not capable of coping with him if he chose to become attentive.
He was suave, sophisticated, a man of the world, handsome, well bred and formidably intelligent, for all that he had not done well at Oxford. He had the poise and polish of a man much older, while I was as green and inexperienced as it was possible to be. I had never had so much as a school girl crush on anyone, and if I was to be initiated into those mysteries of life that the chorus girls babbled so much about, it was far better that I choose a less adept
I wandered into the library, searching for a book. I finally took down one of Dickensâ novels and curled up on the sofa. The curtains were parted and I could see the rain splashing against the glass. I tried to read, but even Mr. Dickens was no comfort now. I could not concentrate. I looked at the walls of beautifully bound volumes, the lamp light glimmering on their gilt titles. There was an enormous gray marble fireplace with tall black andirons and screen, enormous chairs covered with green leather, as was the sofa. A beautifully varnished globe of gold and red and brown stood on a revolving stand. It was a comfortable room, but I felt no comfort. I could not forget the ugly scene this morning. I had the feeling that it concerned something far more important than anything either woman had said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
T HE GARDENS were lovely, bathed now in sunlight that fell in glittering white rays from a silver-gray sky. I strolled down the neat flagstone path, stopping to admire a bed of vivid blue gentians, walking on to see a bed of pink and purple geraniums. The path twisted and turned among the beds. I walked under arches of white trellis that held small pink roses. The fragrance was overwhelming, heady. I closed my eyes to savor it better. Even though it was three miles to the sea, I could smell the salty tang in the air. It was a glorious day, and it seemed incredible now that yesterday had been so grim and gray and depressing. The rain had washed everything clean, and the sunlight made everything sharp and bright.
I was waiting for Edward Lyon. He had promised to take me for the canoe ride this morning. I had awakened early after a night of fitful sleep, and I had hurried outside after a solitary breakfast. No one else had been up at that early hour, and I was content to examine the gardens and think my own private thoughts.
They mostly concerned Edward Lyon. He had had a long talk with me last night, finding me still in the library after dinner. Languorous, rather lazy, he had stretched out on the sofa, regarding me with eyes whose lids drooped sleepily. He asked me all about the music hall and the people there and then he asked me about my sister Maureen, and I found myself telling him all that I remembered of that beautiful stranger. He told me in turn about his childhood at Lyon House and how he had been a mischievous, moody little boy who was always getting into trouble. I could not deny the fascination the man had for me. Every detail about his life seemed incredibly important to me. I was a little afraid of him.
Perhaps I was not so much afraid of him as I was afraid of myself. I had had absolutely no experience with men, and I was a little bewildered by my reactions to his presence. I was polite and cool and modest on the surface, the properly bred young woman, but within there was something that I did not think proper at all. I wished I could discuss it with Laverne or Mattie, but as it was I would have to fend for myself. I knew Edward Lyon was dangerous for me, and I knew I was not capable of coping with him if he chose to become attentive.
He was suave, sophisticated, a man of the world, handsome, well bred and formidably intelligent, for all that he had not done well at Oxford. He had the poise and polish of a man much older, while I was as green and inexperienced as it was possible to be. I had never had so much as a school girl crush on anyone, and if I was to be initiated into those mysteries of life that the chorus girls babbled so much about, it was far better that I choose a less adept
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