showed an inclination to drowse against the bole of their tree. Producing a fat cigar, Ivor removed himself to the far edge of the wood to smoke it.
Sir Charles invited Belle to walk in the woods, “To look for primroses,” he suggested.
If Belle was aware that the time for primroses had long since passed, she made no sign. Instead she fluttered her lashes at her eager swain. “Why, yes,” she said, “do let us explore this darling wood.”
Mr. Devereux was still lounging with a glass of wine, but Lucinda decided to forestall any plans he might have. “Come, Will,” she said brightly, standing up and holding out her hand. “I do so want to look at this delightful little brook.”
“Eh?” Will gaped at her, then seeing her still waiting, he scrambled up. “The brook? Right!” He took her arm, and with a last look backwards, went with Lucinda.
Mr. Devereux turned to Patience. “Would you care to walk also, Miss Grantham?”
Patience withdrew her gaze from Will and Lucinda. “Why yes, sir. That would be the very thing.”
He helped her up. “Which way do you prefer, then?”
Without raising her eyes, Patience said, “I think, you know, I should like to walk beside the stream. It is so pretty there.”
“An admirable choice,” said Mr. Devereux gravely. “Shall we go?” And they followed in Will and Lucinda’s wake.
“What’s all this about the stream?” the former was demanding. “I mean, it’s just a stream. Dozens of ’em in Nether Wilden and I never heard you in alt about any of ’em before.”
Instead of answering, Lucinda stole a glance behind her. She had seen Patience and Mr. Devereux rise; now they were clearly engaged in lively and amusing conversation. Will peered round too and grunted. They trudged on in gloomy silence.
Silence, however, did not mark the encounter between Belle and Sir Charles. After going a short way into the wood, they had spied a rather picturesque fallen log and had seated themselves upon it. Unfortunately, his evil angel prompted Sir Charles to reproach Belle for her friendship with Miles Stratton. Miss Ryland sat up straighter. “What! Do you mean to criticize my behaviour, sir?”
Sir Charles began to retreat. “I didn’t mean anything of the sort, Belle, don’t—”
“And just what did you mean?”
“Dash it all, Belle, everyone knows about Stratton: you meet him everywhere, but he ain’t good ton. You ask Dev if—”
Her eyes flashing, Belle rose. “And by that, I suppose you mean I am not good ton?”
“No, no, I don’t! Nothing of the kind!” Sir Charles saw his hopes of a romantic interlude slipping away. “Wouldn’t even suggest such a thing—you know I wouldn’t.”
“I don’t know anything of the sort,” Miss Ryland said grandly. “But I do know I shan’t walk with anyone who thinks I’m not good ton. I shall continue on my own.” Head high, she swept off.
“Belle! Belle, wait!” he called, but she ignored him and he sank back on the log. “Oh, damn it all! ” said Sir Charles disgustedly.
Belle’s anger carried her forward for some minutes. But there was no one to admire her performance and the path was becoming too overgrown for outraged striding, anyway. She looked expectantly behind her. Really, who would have thought Charles was such a milksop? Well, she certainly wasn’t going back to him.
The path grew narrower and lost itself in a tangle of undergrowth. The wood was very silent, and Belle thought she had never before noticed how sinister such a place could be. Then there was a rustle by her feet.
Glancing down, Belle thought she saw a thin brown rope wriggling towards her. She shrieked loudly and fled, blundering her way through the bushes.
Ivor had just finished the end of his cigar. It had been a particularly mellow one and had capped a highly satisfactory lunch. He was now making his way back to the elm tree, a rather slow way as he knew ladies of a certain age did not like to be caught napping.
Sir Charles invited Belle to walk in the woods, “To look for primroses,” he suggested.
If Belle was aware that the time for primroses had long since passed, she made no sign. Instead she fluttered her lashes at her eager swain. “Why, yes,” she said, “do let us explore this darling wood.”
Mr. Devereux was still lounging with a glass of wine, but Lucinda decided to forestall any plans he might have. “Come, Will,” she said brightly, standing up and holding out her hand. “I do so want to look at this delightful little brook.”
“Eh?” Will gaped at her, then seeing her still waiting, he scrambled up. “The brook? Right!” He took her arm, and with a last look backwards, went with Lucinda.
Mr. Devereux turned to Patience. “Would you care to walk also, Miss Grantham?”
Patience withdrew her gaze from Will and Lucinda. “Why yes, sir. That would be the very thing.”
He helped her up. “Which way do you prefer, then?”
Without raising her eyes, Patience said, “I think, you know, I should like to walk beside the stream. It is so pretty there.”
“An admirable choice,” said Mr. Devereux gravely. “Shall we go?” And they followed in Will and Lucinda’s wake.
“What’s all this about the stream?” the former was demanding. “I mean, it’s just a stream. Dozens of ’em in Nether Wilden and I never heard you in alt about any of ’em before.”
Instead of answering, Lucinda stole a glance behind her. She had seen Patience and Mr. Devereux rise; now they were clearly engaged in lively and amusing conversation. Will peered round too and grunted. They trudged on in gloomy silence.
Silence, however, did not mark the encounter between Belle and Sir Charles. After going a short way into the wood, they had spied a rather picturesque fallen log and had seated themselves upon it. Unfortunately, his evil angel prompted Sir Charles to reproach Belle for her friendship with Miles Stratton. Miss Ryland sat up straighter. “What! Do you mean to criticize my behaviour, sir?”
Sir Charles began to retreat. “I didn’t mean anything of the sort, Belle, don’t—”
“And just what did you mean?”
“Dash it all, Belle, everyone knows about Stratton: you meet him everywhere, but he ain’t good ton. You ask Dev if—”
Her eyes flashing, Belle rose. “And by that, I suppose you mean I am not good ton?”
“No, no, I don’t! Nothing of the kind!” Sir Charles saw his hopes of a romantic interlude slipping away. “Wouldn’t even suggest such a thing—you know I wouldn’t.”
“I don’t know anything of the sort,” Miss Ryland said grandly. “But I do know I shan’t walk with anyone who thinks I’m not good ton. I shall continue on my own.” Head high, she swept off.
“Belle! Belle, wait!” he called, but she ignored him and he sank back on the log. “Oh, damn it all! ” said Sir Charles disgustedly.
Belle’s anger carried her forward for some minutes. But there was no one to admire her performance and the path was becoming too overgrown for outraged striding, anyway. She looked expectantly behind her. Really, who would have thought Charles was such a milksop? Well, she certainly wasn’t going back to him.
The path grew narrower and lost itself in a tangle of undergrowth. The wood was very silent, and Belle thought she had never before noticed how sinister such a place could be. Then there was a rustle by her feet.
Glancing down, Belle thought she saw a thin brown rope wriggling towards her. She shrieked loudly and fled, blundering her way through the bushes.
Ivor had just finished the end of his cigar. It had been a particularly mellow one and had capped a highly satisfactory lunch. He was now making his way back to the elm tree, a rather slow way as he knew ladies of a certain age did not like to be caught napping.
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