wondered why Paul Ransome allowed his sister such unusual freedom—and whatever did Melissa do until all hours, anyway?
Sarah’s feet pattered across the room and very, very quietly she opened the door, holding her breath as it squeaked a little, but in her adjoining room Janie slept on undisturbed. Sarah flew along the passage to Melissa’s room, knowing that her maid was asleep too, for she heard the girl snoring as she passed her door.
Sarah laid the twig of ash upon Melissa’s pillow and smiled to herself. Well, Miss Melissa Ransome, let’s see how you like it! The main door was opening, and Sarah fled back to her own room, scrambling into her bed and pulling the bedclothes up to her chin.
Melissa’s footsteps passed the door and went on to her own room. Sarah held her breath, and her excitement was rewarded by the sound of Melissa’s scream. There was quite an uproar then, and Sarah lay like a mouse listening to the sounds as Paul Ransome ran to see what his sister was screaming about. His obvious annoyance and irritation was ample reward to the black-haired girl in the bed with its blue hangings. Let that be a lesson to you, Melissa! Tit for tat. Spite for spite.
It was not long before Sarah fell asleep, and she slept well, pleased to have at last struck back, even in so small a way. Outside the ash tree murmured in the wind.
After her small victory, life settled back into its former leisurely, tedious rut. Sarah was forced to admit that her triumph had been isolated, for she could not continue night after night to lay ash twigs in Melissa’s room; and so Melissa was soon supreme once more. She rode for many carefree hours on the moor, night and day, even in the pouring rain, coming back with rosy cheeks and shining eyes. Sarah felt more and more that Mannerby House was a prison—and Paul Ransome the jailer.
Towards the end of February, some six weeks or so after Sarah had come to Dartmoor, she noticed that there was a subtle change in Melissa. The girl’s rides had become more frequent and her manner decidedly secretive. She smiled to herself like a cat with a mouse to toy with, and occasionally Sarah felt that the smile was directed toward her, that she was the mouse.
At supper one wet evening Paul had striven for once to be attentive to his companions, and Sarah had been pleasantly surprised at his warmth and humor. He could, she thought, be quite charming if he tried.
Melissa sipped her wine and ate daintily, listening as her brother talked of London and of the Duke of Wellington’s campaign against Napoleon. She evinced great interest when he spoke of Prinny, or of the beau monde, of Hyde Park, of Brighton and the new pavilion the Regent was building there. But apart from topics like these, she paid scant attention to his voice, glancing instead at Sarah, who was listening to him closely. After all, Sarah thought, I am going to be part of this world he is describing and anything I can learn will help me. Melissa was looking again and Sarah became conscious of those green eyes. She is, she thought bleakly, enjoying life at my expense. I don’t know how, but she is....
Paul nodded at Marks, who spooned some trifle into a silver dish before him. “Melissa, have you given thought to a new groom?”
She shook her head. “He may come back yet. Armand, I mean.”
Sarah saw a sweet chance to make Melissa feel uncomfortable for a change. “Oh, is he not back, then?”
Paul raised his eyebrows. “You know that he isn’t, Miss Stratford.”
“I thought I saw him. The day after the funeral I saw Melissa with a man on the moor and I was sure the man was Armand. But then perhaps I was mistaken. Who were you with, Melissa?” Innocently, Sarah smiled at the angry girl.
Paul looked sharply at his sister. “You were alone on the moor with a man, ‘Lissa?”
The green eyes rested malevolently on Sarah for a moment and then Melissa smiled at her brother. “Miss Stratford is of course
Sarah’s feet pattered across the room and very, very quietly she opened the door, holding her breath as it squeaked a little, but in her adjoining room Janie slept on undisturbed. Sarah flew along the passage to Melissa’s room, knowing that her maid was asleep too, for she heard the girl snoring as she passed her door.
Sarah laid the twig of ash upon Melissa’s pillow and smiled to herself. Well, Miss Melissa Ransome, let’s see how you like it! The main door was opening, and Sarah fled back to her own room, scrambling into her bed and pulling the bedclothes up to her chin.
Melissa’s footsteps passed the door and went on to her own room. Sarah held her breath, and her excitement was rewarded by the sound of Melissa’s scream. There was quite an uproar then, and Sarah lay like a mouse listening to the sounds as Paul Ransome ran to see what his sister was screaming about. His obvious annoyance and irritation was ample reward to the black-haired girl in the bed with its blue hangings. Let that be a lesson to you, Melissa! Tit for tat. Spite for spite.
It was not long before Sarah fell asleep, and she slept well, pleased to have at last struck back, even in so small a way. Outside the ash tree murmured in the wind.
After her small victory, life settled back into its former leisurely, tedious rut. Sarah was forced to admit that her triumph had been isolated, for she could not continue night after night to lay ash twigs in Melissa’s room; and so Melissa was soon supreme once more. She rode for many carefree hours on the moor, night and day, even in the pouring rain, coming back with rosy cheeks and shining eyes. Sarah felt more and more that Mannerby House was a prison—and Paul Ransome the jailer.
Towards the end of February, some six weeks or so after Sarah had come to Dartmoor, she noticed that there was a subtle change in Melissa. The girl’s rides had become more frequent and her manner decidedly secretive. She smiled to herself like a cat with a mouse to toy with, and occasionally Sarah felt that the smile was directed toward her, that she was the mouse.
At supper one wet evening Paul had striven for once to be attentive to his companions, and Sarah had been pleasantly surprised at his warmth and humor. He could, she thought, be quite charming if he tried.
Melissa sipped her wine and ate daintily, listening as her brother talked of London and of the Duke of Wellington’s campaign against Napoleon. She evinced great interest when he spoke of Prinny, or of the beau monde, of Hyde Park, of Brighton and the new pavilion the Regent was building there. But apart from topics like these, she paid scant attention to his voice, glancing instead at Sarah, who was listening to him closely. After all, Sarah thought, I am going to be part of this world he is describing and anything I can learn will help me. Melissa was looking again and Sarah became conscious of those green eyes. She is, she thought bleakly, enjoying life at my expense. I don’t know how, but she is....
Paul nodded at Marks, who spooned some trifle into a silver dish before him. “Melissa, have you given thought to a new groom?”
She shook her head. “He may come back yet. Armand, I mean.”
Sarah saw a sweet chance to make Melissa feel uncomfortable for a change. “Oh, is he not back, then?”
Paul raised his eyebrows. “You know that he isn’t, Miss Stratford.”
“I thought I saw him. The day after the funeral I saw Melissa with a man on the moor and I was sure the man was Armand. But then perhaps I was mistaken. Who were you with, Melissa?” Innocently, Sarah smiled at the angry girl.
Paul looked sharply at his sister. “You were alone on the moor with a man, ‘Lissa?”
The green eyes rested malevolently on Sarah for a moment and then Melissa smiled at her brother. “Miss Stratford is of course
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