lobbed back in the direction of the standish and Edgar flopped back in his chair. Connor's vivid blue gaze was still riveted on the parchment as he mocked Harley, 'I'm sure your lady friend will wait...unless, of course, she's sober now and remembers you...'
'I shall send an express to Beaulieu Gardens. Yes, I've decided, that's definitely what I shall do.'
Rachel sighed. She had heard these declarations a score or more times in as many hours. 'Send it then, Mama,' she agreed in defeat.
It had been two days since a violent storm subsided, having lasted a day and a night, before rumbling on its way. Still her father had not returned to Windrush, neither had he sent word of what occasioned his delay. He was only a few days' overdue and she had explained away his non-appearance and the lack of a messenger arriving with a note as being, in all probability, due to the hostile elements preventing anyone travelling north out of London.
Old Ralph had innocently contradicted that comforting train of thought. On their first venture out in the carriage along the sludgy track to the village of Staunton to pay a visit to friends, he'd cheerfully asserted that the folk of Cambridgeshire be best battening down the hatches next. The tumultuous weather was not heading south to London but blowing north-west. And, over the years, Ralph had proved himself to have an instinct for these things.
He could smell snow in the air, see frost in hard bright night skies, feel a mist in his bones... Yet, still Rachel persevered with telling her mother that London might now be under siege from the weather.
In truth, she was feeling an odd twinge of apprehension over her papa's whereabouts. Not that she feared for his safety, but she knew that sometimes, when in all-male company for too long, he allowed himself to be distracted by a carafe or two of fine burgundy...or brandy...or suchlike. But he was not often very drunk. Just once or twice had she seen her papa drowning in his cups...and it had been an alarming and degrading sight. She could quite clearly recall being appalled at the way alcohol could ravage a seemly gentleman and render him a witless wreck.
Rachel bowed her head towards the semi-circle of sunshine silks on the carpet. With a sniff she pushed all else but June's wedding to the back of her mind. A finger hovered first over a butter-coloured hank and then moved to one of a lemon hue. Plucking up the richer thread, she passed it to Madcap Mary.
'M'um.'
Rachel acknowledged the servant's grunt of thanks with a quiet, That needlework looks beautiful, Mary.' She ran a finger over the delicate gold filigree loops that were forming about the hem of a snowy damask napkin.
Her praises were sincere; her admiration the more pronounced for owning her own skill with a needle and thread was amateurish in the extreme. The fact that this oafish-looking young woman could produce # something so exquisitely fine filled her with a sort of joyous amazement.
'M'um. Thank you, m'm.'
Rachel watched a pleased flush tint colour into the servant's sallow complexion and Mary anchored a floppy strand of copper hair back behind an ear with a finger as thick as a sausage.
Rachel heard her small, childlike sigh of contentment as she settled her shapeless bulk back into the armchair and her fingers flew even faster.
Rachelt placed a few more hanks of the same shade on the stack of pristine linen that lay folded neatly on the chair arm.
Standing up, she walked off to the window and gazed immediately in the direction of the sentinel horse chestnut trees that marched off up the driveway. The pleasant vista was absent of a human presence; then Ralph's son, Pip, their general handyman, appeared from behind a bush. He was backing slowly on to the main track whilst methodically raking shingle.
Rachel sighed and accorded her mama an idle glance. She had settled enough from fretting over her husband to concentrate on composing a list of viands required for the
'I shall send an express to Beaulieu Gardens. Yes, I've decided, that's definitely what I shall do.'
Rachel sighed. She had heard these declarations a score or more times in as many hours. 'Send it then, Mama,' she agreed in defeat.
It had been two days since a violent storm subsided, having lasted a day and a night, before rumbling on its way. Still her father had not returned to Windrush, neither had he sent word of what occasioned his delay. He was only a few days' overdue and she had explained away his non-appearance and the lack of a messenger arriving with a note as being, in all probability, due to the hostile elements preventing anyone travelling north out of London.
Old Ralph had innocently contradicted that comforting train of thought. On their first venture out in the carriage along the sludgy track to the village of Staunton to pay a visit to friends, he'd cheerfully asserted that the folk of Cambridgeshire be best battening down the hatches next. The tumultuous weather was not heading south to London but blowing north-west. And, over the years, Ralph had proved himself to have an instinct for these things.
He could smell snow in the air, see frost in hard bright night skies, feel a mist in his bones... Yet, still Rachel persevered with telling her mother that London might now be under siege from the weather.
In truth, she was feeling an odd twinge of apprehension over her papa's whereabouts. Not that she feared for his safety, but she knew that sometimes, when in all-male company for too long, he allowed himself to be distracted by a carafe or two of fine burgundy...or brandy...or suchlike. But he was not often very drunk. Just once or twice had she seen her papa drowning in his cups...and it had been an alarming and degrading sight. She could quite clearly recall being appalled at the way alcohol could ravage a seemly gentleman and render him a witless wreck.
Rachel bowed her head towards the semi-circle of sunshine silks on the carpet. With a sniff she pushed all else but June's wedding to the back of her mind. A finger hovered first over a butter-coloured hank and then moved to one of a lemon hue. Plucking up the richer thread, she passed it to Madcap Mary.
'M'um.'
Rachel acknowledged the servant's grunt of thanks with a quiet, That needlework looks beautiful, Mary.' She ran a finger over the delicate gold filigree loops that were forming about the hem of a snowy damask napkin.
Her praises were sincere; her admiration the more pronounced for owning her own skill with a needle and thread was amateurish in the extreme. The fact that this oafish-looking young woman could produce # something so exquisitely fine filled her with a sort of joyous amazement.
'M'um. Thank you, m'm.'
Rachel watched a pleased flush tint colour into the servant's sallow complexion and Mary anchored a floppy strand of copper hair back behind an ear with a finger as thick as a sausage.
Rachel heard her small, childlike sigh of contentment as she settled her shapeless bulk back into the armchair and her fingers flew even faster.
Rachelt placed a few more hanks of the same shade on the stack of pristine linen that lay folded neatly on the chair arm.
Standing up, she walked off to the window and gazed immediately in the direction of the sentinel horse chestnut trees that marched off up the driveway. The pleasant vista was absent of a human presence; then Ralph's son, Pip, their general handyman, appeared from behind a bush. He was backing slowly on to the main track whilst methodically raking shingle.
Rachel sighed and accorded her mama an idle glance. She had settled enough from fretting over her husband to concentrate on composing a list of viands required for the
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