Beth Andrews (4 page)

‘A pug!’

The disgust in Julian’s tone was too much for St George, who began to chuckle. This was the most deliciously absurd scene!

‘Welly!’ the lady called for the third time. ‘What is wrong? Is someone there?’

‘What are we to do now?’ Julian whispered urgently to his friend.

‘Screw your courage to the sticking place, lad,’ Richard advised. ‘You are a timid hunter, to be sure.’

‘Well, if it comes to that….’

‘Hush!’ Richard interrupted his outburst. ‘We have   our quarry in sight. One false move may ruin all.’

‘Oh.’ Julian looked decidedly confused.

‘I pray you,’ Richard called out loudly, ‘call off this ferocious animal, ma’am! We are not housebreakers. I assure you that we mean no harm.’

There was a moment of silence, before the elusive lady spoke once more to the dog, this time very sharply, insisting that he come to her
at once.
Apparently, the redoubtable Welly at last recognized the voice of authority. With one final, defiant
woof!
, he turned and scampered off into the courtyard toward his mistress.

‘You are perfectly safe now, gentlemen,’ she sang out, a moment later.

‘I think she means for us to approach,’ Richard suggested, since Julian hesitated.

With a lowering glance at his partner, he moved forward. In less than a minute, they had traversed the distance to the center of the courtyard, and turned to face the row of gothic arches from whence the lady’s voice had come. As they did so, a slim figure rose from a stone bench placed against the inner wall and came slowly towards them out of the shadows, the pug known as ‘Welly’ still growling behind her skirts.

As she stepped into the sunlight, Richard was not surprised to hear Julian catch his breath. She was one of the loveliest creatures he himself had ever beheld in a life filled with many pretty ladybirds. She was like a porcelain figurine come to life, in a pink-and-white muslin dress, with a pink-and-white complexion to match, and divinely blue eyes which seemed to look through rather than at them. Her voice, which they had already heard, was low-toned and pleasing, and her smile — now that they beheld it for the first time — was brighter than the sunshine, with small, even white teeth glistening between deliciously curved lips.

Had he been a younger man, Richard reflected, he might well have experienced something more than mere admiration. As it was, he acknowledged her undoubted charms and wished Julian every success. She was an English rose, waiting to be plucked.

‘Permit me to introduce myself, ma’am.’ Julian now hastened to attract the lady’s attention. ‘Julian Marchmont at your service.’

She turned her head towards him, but was prevented from commenting by Richard’s own tardy introduction. She did not acknowledge their bows, but stood there with her head slightly tilted to one side, as though considering the situation.

‘I,’ she said at length, ‘am Cassandra Woodford. Forgive me if I neglect my manners, but it is not often that I confront two strange men in my garden.’

‘We called here several days ago and presented our cards.’ Julian sounded aggrieved.

‘We never receive visitors, I’m afraid.’

‘Why not, Miss Woodford?’ Richard enquired.

‘It is my father’s wish.’

‘Forgive me, but that seems even more gothick than our present surroundings.’

She laughed: a curiously gay, carefree sound in the solemn stillness.

‘Are our surroundings so terribly gloomy?’ she asked.

‘You do not find them so?’ Julian looked about him at the high stone walls, adding, ‘But perhaps you have become accustomed to it all.’

‘It is not unattractive,’ Richard interjected. ‘But one must admit that it could hardly be referred to as “cheerful”. Would you not agree, Miss Woodford?’

‘As to that, sir,’ the young lady replied, ‘you would do better to seek Rosalind’s opinion.’

‘Rosalind?’ Richard was pleased to find her so free with her information.

‘Rosalind Powell,’ she elucidated. ‘She is my companion, though much more like an older sister to me. She helped my father oversee the reconstruction of the abbey before we moved here from Yorkshire. Most of the interior furnishings were chosen by her.’

‘She might be well qualified to pass judgement,’ Julian said persuasively, ‘but you surely must have some views on the subject. It is your home.’

‘True,’ she acknowledged. ‘But in such matters I confess that I do rely on Rosalind’s opinions. She is much more familiar with Folbrook Abbey than I am. I have never actually seen it, after all.’

‘Never seen it?’ Julian’s exclamation echoed Richard’s own surprise. He looked intently into the bright, inscrutable blue eyes of the goddess before them, holding his breath for a moment as he waited for her to respond.

‘No.’ She seemed to stare into the distance, at some invisible point between them. ‘You see, I am blind.’

St George had no doubt of Miss Woodford’s sincerity. The wonder was that he had not realized before. Poor Julian looked as though he had just seen a ghost. The truth was, they were so preoccupied with the lady’s beauty that they had failed to notice anything else unusual about her. Now it was painfully plain, and pity mingled with a kind of nervous embarrassment at the unexpected turn which their interview had taken.

What either would have said in response to her statement, they would never know. As they stood there in the sunshine, a strange hissing sound broke the sudden stillness. Almost simultaneously, a thin dark object streaked out of the sky to land with a thump on the grassy space between the stones at Richard’s feet.

‘Good God!’ Julian exclaimed, staring at the ground before his friend.

Richard’s gaze also lowered, but he made no comment as he surveyed the object — an arrow — its head buried in the earth where it had fallen less than twelve inches from the toes of his boots.

‘You would not happen to have any savage Indians from the wilds of America residing here, Miss Woodford?’ he asked, bending to retrieve the arrow.

‘Or a descendant of William Tell, perhaps?’ Julian suggested.

‘Oh dear!’ Miss Woodford put up a delicate hand to cover her lips. ‘That must have been Rosalind.’

‘Miss Powell has a most unusual way of greeting guests,’ Richard commented. ‘A few inches nearer and I would have become the new “Ghost of Folbrook Abbey”.’

Cassandra laughed outright.

‘Then,’ Julian added, ‘we might have asked, “Who killed Cock Robin?”.’

‘ “I, said the Sparrow — with my bow and arrow”,’ a voice answered from the shadowed colonnade. ‘ “I killed Cock Robin”.’

A moment later, the elusive Diana appeared. She was no sparrow, however, Richard considered: more like a peacock. Rosalind Powell was somewhat shorter than Miss Woodford, and, where Cassandra was divinely fair, her companion was possessed of lustrous dark hair and eyes to match. She had her own exotic beauty, more like a gypsy than a proper Englishwoman. She appeared to be about five-and-twenty, though that might be deceptive.

‘My compliments, ma’am.’ St George bowed to her. ‘A fine shot, indeed.’

‘But a little short of the target,’ she replied. Her eyes sparked with fire and she moved to link her arm with Cassandra’s, as though to protect her from them. A dragon indeed!

‘Nonsense!’ Cassandra seemed to find it even more amusing. ‘Papa says Lindy’s aim is deadly accurate. I’m quite sure that she never meant to harm you. She would not put an arrow through a visitor. At least, I do not think she would.’

‘I have no desire to contradict either you or your esteemed father,’ St George said smoothly. ‘And I am grateful for Miss Powell’s restraint.’

‘And may I ask,’ the redoubtable Miss Powell interrupted, ‘what you two are doing here?’

‘We were exploring the countryside, and happened upon this most interesting building.’

‘To which you gained access without permission,’ she shot back. ‘How did you get in?’

“With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls”,’ Julian said, dramatically.

‘That is from
Romeo and Juliet.
’ Cassandra Woodford correctly identified the quotation.

‘Then let me reply with something from
Macbeth,’
Rosalind was quick to respond. ‘“Stand not upon the order of your going, but go at once”.’

‘Do not be rude to our guests, dear Lindy,’ Cassandra chastized gently.

‘Guests!’ Rosalind arched delicate eyebrows. ‘Did you invite them, then?  I am very sure that I did not. And if love brought them hither, it must have been self-love — and it had better bear them hence just as lightly.’

‘No,’ the younger girl confessed, ‘I did not invite them, but they are here now and possibly tired from their long walk. Perhaps they would like some refreshment.’

‘Shall I fetch a pail of water, then?’

‘Your hospitality, Miss Woodford, is much appreciated.’  Richard ignored the last remark from Miss Powell. ‘But we do not wish to intrude where we are not welcome.’

‘Very wise of you,’ the dragon snapped.

‘Rosalind, remember that these gentlemen are strangers here.’ Cassandra smiled once more. ‘As Christians, it is our duty to treat them with kindness.’

‘My dear Miss Woodford, you are all goodness.’ Julian stepped forward, at which the little pug growled once more.

‘Nor do I blame your companions for guarding you so fiercely. It is rather to their credit.’

With that, he knelt down and called to Welly to come to him. The little dog hesitated for a moment; then, quite unexpectedly, he trotted forward and sniffed Julian’s outstretched hand before sitting quietly and allowing the man to stroke his head.

‘Well,’ Richard commented, smiling, ‘at least one of your companions is not as ferocious as first appears.’

‘Has he made friends with Welly?’ Cassandra enquired, apparently very pleased. ‘You are honored, sir. There are not many people whom he favors.’

‘I am indeed fortunate, then.’

‘I trust,’ Cassandra offered, a little diffidently, ‘that you have not been too offended by your reception today.’

‘Not at all,’ Richard assured her. ‘Our introduction might have been unorthodox but it was most entertaining.’

‘Then you would not be averse to joining us for supper … perhaps tomorrow evening?’

‘Cassandra!’ Rosalind Powell was clearly shocked.

‘Despite Miss Powell’s disapproval,’ St George quipped, ‘I think I speak for us both when I say that we would be delighted to accept your invitation.’

* * * *

‘How could you do something so foolhardy, Cass!’ Rosalind cried, as soon as the two men made their exit the same way they had entered. She followed them to the garden door and made very sure that it was securely locked behind them.

‘I am having such fun, Lindy!’ the other girl answered, eyes and cheeks aglow. ‘You must not spoil it for me now.’

‘You know their purpose in coming here,’ her companion reminded her.

‘What do they look like?’ Cassandra asked, ignoring this unnecessary comment.

‘What matter is it how they look?’

‘Well, if they are rakes,’ she reasoned, ‘they must be at least passably good-looking.’

Rosalind hesitated, dwelling on the recent encounter. Her mind’s eye pictured precisely how the two men had looked. Julian Marchmont was well proportioned with hair almost as fair as Cassandra’s, though his eyes were brown rather than the expected blue which usually accompanies such a complexion. Richard St George, however, was another matter. A few inches taller than his friend, he had the bearing of an athlete, with broad shoulders and lean hips. His brown hair was styled
à la Brutus
and his attire was of a severe but exquisite cut which no provincial tailor had produced: Weston, probably. But it was his eyes which she remembered best. Pure hazel, there was a mocking gleam in them which she found extremely irritating.

‘They are both remarkably handsome,’ she replied honestly to Cassandra’s question, though it cost her something to admit it.

‘How thrilling to be pursued by two such men! Do you not think so, Lindy?’

‘I feel like a fox being chased by two snarling hounds.’ Rosalind opened the door leading from the cloisters into a large, airy hall. ‘Such thrills I would gladly relinquish to some other unfortunate female.’

‘Mr Marchmont has a lovely voice,’ Cassandra said dreamily. ‘Manly, to be sure, but strangely warm and gentle. I can tell much from a person’s voice, and I know that he has a kind heart.’

‘No doubt he is a paragon of masculine virtue,’ Rosalind concurred with feigned sweetness. ‘Of course, one must overlook his occasional seduction of innocent virgins. Eccentric, perhaps, but wealthy young men must have their diversions.’

‘You are determined to dislike them,’ the younger girl chided.

‘That,’ Rosalind said, ‘requires no determination on my part at all: merely a knowledge of their character.’

‘Well, Providence has placed them in our path.’ Cassandra raised her chin in a gesture with which Rosalind was quite familiar. ‘And since such a romantic adventure is unlikely to come our way again, I intend to enjoy the situation thoroughly.’

‘Are you at all aware of the danger to you — to us both?’

Those blank blue eyes seemed alight with mischief.

‘My dear Lindy, that is what makes it all so exciting!’

‘I fear I cannot be so sanguine about it.’ Rosalind sighed. ‘The die is cast, however. We cannot withdraw your invitation — unless I were to send them a note claiming that you were suddenly taken ill.’

‘Then you would be telling a lie, which is hardly the Christian thing to do, is it?’

‘In this instance, I think my Maker would pardon a little subterfuge.’

‘But I would not.’

They had reached the end of the hall and entered a more intimate sitting-room where they made their way to a small settee and seated themselves. Rosalind looked again at the beautiful young girl beside her. She seemed more alive than ever. The advent of those two horrible men seemed to act on her like a tonic.

‘You know, Cass,’ Miss Powell observed, watching her keenly, ‘it is very strange that Debenham should have left that door into the cloisters unlocked.’