Beth Andrews (2 page)

‘I do not see what this has to say to anything, sir,’ Julian complained. ‘What can the history of Mr Woodford and his folly mean to us?’

‘Patience, nephew. I shall reveal all.’ Sir Jasper resumed his tale. ‘When Mr Woodford arrived, he brought with him his daughter….’

‘Aha!’ St George murmured. ‘Now we come to it!’

‘Please refrain from interrupting me,’ Jasper requested tartly, ‘or I shall never finish.’

‘I beg pardon. Let us return, then, to the Ouse.’

‘He brought with him his daughter,’ Sir Jasper repeated, his placidity restored, ‘who was then a child of perhaps six or seven years.’

‘Which would make her about nineteen at present ....’ Julian ruminated aloud. ‘What is she like, Uncle?’

‘That,’ he replied, ‘is for you to discover. And if you do, you will certainly know more than anyone else in the neighborhood.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mr Woodford,’ he explained, ‘is a recluse. And his daughter is kept locked and guarded in her Gothic abbey on the edge of the little town of Folbrook, like some enchanted princess in a fairy tale.’

As Henry continued, it transpired that the Woodford family received no visitors to their gloomy abode. Nor did they themselves ever call upon their neighbors. They did not attend church, though some believed that their household included a private chaplain of considerable age. They had but few servants, considering the size of their estate, and those few were not local people and mingled little with the villagers. When provisions were required, Mr Woodford himself purchased them, or sent his manservant or housekeeper, neither of whom were inclined to be loquacious.

Little was known about what went on up at Folbrook Abbey, and nobody had ever seen Miss Woodford in all the years she had lived there. There were whispers among the country folk. It was said that the poor creature was completely mad, and kept locked in a barred room in the abbey tower.

‘Good God!’ St George exclaimed. ‘Are you quite certain that you have not been reading Mrs Radcliffe again, Jasper? This sounds quite incredible.’

‘It is the absolute truth, I assure you. And now,’ he said, a faint smirk about his lips, ‘the question is, Julian, will you accept my wager?’

‘Perhaps I shall, if you would be good enough to tell me precisely what it entails?’

‘I will give you, say — one month — to become acquainted with the mysterious Miss Woodford and to use your considerable charm to win her affections.’

Julian paled. ‘What!’ he cried, staring at his uncle. ‘Seduce a woman nobody’s ever seen?’

‘And one who is scarcely accessible!’ St George chuckled. ‘Beware, Julian. The abbey may even contain an ogre, which you will have to slay to win the hand of this elusive creature.’

‘Not an ogre, St George, but a dragon,’ Sir Jasper was eager to inform them. ‘She is one Miss Rosalind Powell, an indigent female who is Miss Woodford’s constant companion and guardian: a formidable woman in her own right.’

Julian stared. ‘It sounds positively medieval, not to mention impossible.’

‘You cannot do it, then?’ Jasper’s smile broadened. ‘You refuse the wager?’

Julian looked from Jasper’s smiling face to Richard’s raised brows. ‘Damme,’ he said, ‘I can’t let it be said I refused! For all I know, the girl may be hideously deformed. But though she have three eyes in her head and eight fingers on either hand, I will endeavour to woo her.’

‘Let me at least allay your fears on that head,’ Sir Jasper assured him. ‘I am one of the fortunate few who has seen Miss Woodford.  It was but a brief glimpse, to be sure, but a memorable one.’

A mere three months before, he had been riding from town at dusk, having been to a blacksmith to have his favorite horse shod. When he encountered a most opulent carriage, he recognized it immediately as belonging to the Woodfords, having once seen it exiting the abbey gates. The blinds were not down and, as he drew abreast of it on the near-deserted stretch of road, he thought to see old Mr Woodford inside. Instead, as he turned his head, he was shocked to see a lovely young woman with golden curls and large blue eyes staring blankly out of the window. He had only a moment to enjoy the view, however, before her companion — almost certainly Miss Powell — reached over and closed the blind with such a vigorous snap that he was sure he heard it even above the pounding of the horses’ hooves.

‘Is she really a beauty?’ Julian enquired.

‘A veritable goddess.’

‘If you are trying to mislead me….’

‘What?’ Sir Jasper was reproachful. ‘Do you not trust your own uncle, whom you have known since you were in leading strings?’

‘Perhaps,’ St George suggested, ‘that is why he does
not
trust you.’

‘Well,’ Julian said, before his uncle could respond to this provocative remark, ‘I will accept your wager on one condition.’

‘And what is that?’

‘That St George here be allowed to accompany me and assist me in my ... quest.’

Sir Jasper considered the matter. ‘I have no objection,’ he said at last, ‘if St George is willing to lend you his aid.’

‘Will you, Richard?’ Julian asked him. ‘If this Miss Powell is the old harridan my uncle describes, I shall certainly need help in winning her fair charge.’

St George stood. ‘As your friend, I can hardly refuse. Besides which, I am undoubtedly intrigued by your uncle’s story. It is certainly more entertaining than anything I’ve heard for many a day.’

‘It seems to have cured your megrims,’ Julian said, with a smile.

‘For the moment.’

‘Then it is settled.’ Sir Jasper put out his hand. ‘The only thing that now remains is to state the terms.’

‘Did Papa deliver a speech?’

‘One worthy of Hamlet himself,’ Rosalind Powell replied.

‘He expects us to succumb to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune the moment his back is turned, no doubt.’

Rosalind folded her hands and raised her eyes roofward at the memory. ‘Dire prognostications fell from his lips at such length, and in such vivid detail, that I can only assume he had recently been reading the book of
Revelation.
’

Miss Cassandra Woodford furrowed her brow. ‘Now, my dear Rosalind,’ she pronounced, unsuccessfully attempting a deep masculine bass, ‘I know that I may rely on your good sense and plain rumgumption! I leave Cassandra to your care. You see to it that my girl comes to no harm, for well I know the dire evils that can befall a helpless female of tender years when she is unprotected and subjected to the tribulations which this world so amply affords!’

This was too much for Rosalind, who succumbed to a fit of giggles, only halting them to protest, ‘Really, you should not, Cass. There was never a father who so doted on his daughter, I am very sure.’

‘Indeed.’ The other girl sighed. ‘But in Papa’s mind I am a little girl still. I know that when he looks at me, he sees not a young woman of nearly twenty, but a freckled schoolgirl — or, worse yet, an infant scarcely weaned.’

‘Uncle Frederick only wants what is best for you.’

‘Which is why he insists on confining me to this draughty ruin of a house?’ Cassandra suggested, apparently unconvinced.

Rosalind Powell looked about her. They were seated in a large apartment, with a ceiling encrusted with a stucco interpretation of intricate fan vaulting. Rich French tapestries adorned the walls, their vivid colours depicting scenes of chivalric romance. The furniture was heavy and ornate, in keeping with the style of the architecture. But it was quite comfortable and testified to the wealth of its owner, if not his taste, for most of the furnishings had been designed by a fashionable architect and approved by Rosalind herself, Mr Woodford having neither the time nor the inclination for such ‘fripperies’, as he called them. Mr Woodford’s money, however, had not been lavished in vain, and the improvements to the original building were extensive, transforming a crumbling relic into a commodious but pleasing residence which yet managed to retain much of its fascinating antiquity.

Even in winter, Folbrook Abbey’s numerous fireplaces kept the chill at bay, and hardly ever sent smoke billowing throughout the house. Now, as spring was about to slip into the warm embrace of summer, it was as pleasant a place as any in England. Except for the line of columns and Gothic arches (original to the building) which adorned the western end of the extensive walled cloisters, there was not much which could, in all conscience, be described as a ‘draughty ruin’. The high, vaulted ceiling might be considered cavernous by some who would find it oppressive, perhaps, but Rosalind Powell was too practical and sensible to allow its austere grandeur to overpower her.

‘You see yourself as a prisoner, then?’ she enquired, pursuing Cassandra’s remark.

‘Am I not?’ Cassandra raised an eyebrow in challenge.

‘Perhaps.’ Rosalind paused a moment before continuing, ‘In which case, I suppose I must be cast in the role of your gaoler, like some dreadful female out of the pages of Richardson?’

‘Oh no!’ Cassandra’s distress was instantaneous. ‘Dear, dear Rosalind, forgive me if I seemed to say so. I could never, even for a moment, conceive of anything so dreadful!’

She was almost on the verge of tears, and Rosalind reached forward to take the pale, slender hands she held out. ‘Thank you, my dear.’ She squeezed the hands, and felt a corresponding pressure. ‘Nevertheless, there may be some truth in it. Folbrook Abbey is not a gaol. “Stone walls”, as the poet has said, “do not a prison make”. But I think your father and I are alike in this: that we see it as a hermitage — a defence, if you will — against the world outside its walls. We neither of us want to see you hurt.’

‘You have certainly managed to shut out the world here.’

‘I wonder,’ Rosalind murmured, ‘if that has been wisdom, or folly?’

A frilly white cap appeared round the edge of the large oak door just then, perched atop a smiling, russet-cheeked face.

‘Is dinner ready, Ellen?’ Rosalind asked, glancing up at the young maid.

‘Yes, Miss Rosalind. Cook’s just sent me from the kitchen to tell yer you’d better come along before it gets cold.’

‘We shall be there directly.’ Rosalind schooled herself not to laugh. ‘We dare not keep Cook waiting!’

Ellen immediately disappeared and the two girls stood up to make their way arm-in-arm towards the dining-room. This was really a large hall, with a table which could easily seat thirty guests. At one end of this, the two girls sat in solemn state, while the servants brought in a simple meal of mutton and potatoes, with a few side dishes.

‘I do miss Papa,’ Cassandra admitted, finishing off the last of the food before her. ‘It is unusual for him to leave us for such a length of time.’

‘Now do not be cast down,’ her friend cautioned. ‘One month will pass soon enough.’

‘It might be as much as six weeks,’ Cassandra reminded her. ‘We shall certainly be sadly in want of male company.’

‘I suppose it is fitting that we reside in an abbey,’ Rosalind quizzed her, ‘seeing that we live like nuns.’

Cassandra pouted. ‘Piety may be all well and good,’ she said. ‘But, for myself, I would welcome a visit from at least a monk — or two monks, perhaps, since I would undoubtedly monopolize a lone cleric, and would not want you to be excluded from any entertainment.’

‘Monks are not generally very entertaining, I believe.’

‘Two males, then,’ Cassandra amended, ‘whatever their vocation in life.’

Rosalind could not resist a smile. ‘Even one male visitor here would be unusual; two would have to be regarded as little less than a miracle.’

* * * *

Three days later, Miss Powell received a letter which spelt an end to the solitude which the ladies of Folbrook Abbey were enduring. Indeed, when Debenham handed it to her, she thought he must have been mistaken, but one glance at the direction disproved this theory. It was certainly addressed to Mr Woodford, and, as he had charged her to open any correspondence which might arrive in his absence, she paused only a moment to examine the exterior.

The large seal bore an imprint which seemed vaguely familiar to her. Rosalind could not deny a strong degree of curiosity as she hastily broke the seal and proceeded to decipher the contents. It required more than one perusal, however, for her to comprehend the fantastic tale before her.

‘Good God!’ she whispered under her breath at one point. ‘This must be the ravings of a madman.’

At last she allowed the missive to fall into her lap while she stared at the wall in consternation. A portrait by Gainsborough, depicting a stone-faced lady, luxuriously gowned and coiffed in the style of the previous century, stared back at her.

‘What shall I do?’ she asked the portrait, but the lady steadfastly refused to respond. What could one expect, however, from such a haughty dame?

Should she acquaint Cassandra with what she had just learned? Was it possible to conceal it from her? And what if it proved to be a cruel hoax of some kind? Nothing remotely resembling this had ever presented itself to her before, and she was sorely tempted to burn the hateful note and to make an attempt at least to put the entire incident from her mind.

A faint tap-tap at the door caused her to turn her head in time to see Cassandra entering behind her.

‘My dear, you quite startled me!’ she exclaimed.

‘Am I intruding?’ Cassandra halted just inside the door.

‘Not at all.’

‘I heard that the mail had arrived.’ She came forward, passing her hand along the arm of the chair opposite to Rosalind, and sat down. ‘More tradesmen’s bills, I suppose?’

‘Not exactly.’

Cassandra’s ears were ever sharp. She must have caught the hesitation in Rosalind’s voice, for she cocked her head knowingly, and demanded, ‘What is it, Lindy?’

Now was the moment for her to dismiss the matter and set Cassandra’s mind at ease. It would take only a word or two: a harmless subterfuge, which was all for the best.

‘I have received a letter for your father which purports to be from our neighbor, Sir Jasper Marchmont.’

‘Sir Jasper! What reason could he have for writing to us?’ Rosalind could not blame the other girl for her surprise. The surrounding families had long since abandoned any efforts to seek social intercourse with the Woodfords when it became obvious that even the kindest of invitations would be refused. The more top-lofty ones had never been more than mildly curious, in any case. For them to receive a letter from any of their neighbors was quite unprecedented.