Beth Andrews Read online

  ‘And, presuming you are granted an audience with the man,’ Richard said, leaning forward a little to look him directly in the eyes, ‘are you going to reveal the true reason for our presence here in the country, and how we came to meet his daughter in the first instance?’

  Julian groaned. ‘That damned wager! If only I could turn back the clock, I would never have accepted something so outrageous.’

  ‘In which case,’ St George pointed out, ‘you would never have met Cassandra at all.’

  ‘How can I redeem myself?’ He was the picture of desperation. ‘How can I make myself acceptable to Mr Woodford?’

  ‘Are you even certain that Cassandra would accept an offer if you made one?’ St George countered.

  Julian hesitated for a moment. ‘I think — that is, I am almost certain that she has some feelings for me.’

  ‘Have you ever kissed her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I never took you for such a slow-top, my boy.’

  ‘Have you kissed Rosalind?’ Julian returned, stung.

  ‘That is hardly relevant at the moment.’

  Julian gave a grunt which might almost have been construed as laughter had he not looked so utterly dejected. ‘A fine pair of seducers we are!’

  ‘As far as our wager goes, I think we must admit defeat.’ St George shrugged carelessly. ‘For my part, it has ceased to be amusing.’

  ‘Have you any heart at all?’ Julian marvelled at his lack of concern.

  ‘Hearts are dangerous accoutrements,’ his friend replied. ‘They are too apt to be broken, as you are like to discover.’

  ‘At any rate, my uncle is welcome to his money. I am glad we lost this wager. Are not you?’

  ‘My fortune is large enough that I can well afford the loss.’

  ‘Is money all that matters to you?’ Julian was obviously growing irritated by this cool demeanor.

  ‘Do not play the moralist now, my lad,’ St George stood up and stretched lazily, like a restless cat. ‘It ill becomes you.’

  ‘Perhaps I am learning too late that those moralists I have been apt to deride are closer to the truth than I.’

  ‘In that case, there is only one thing to be done.’

  ‘What is that?’

  St George looked down upon him. ‘Gird your loins, acquit yourself like a man, and make a push to prostrate yourself before Papa Woodford and his daughter. When all else fails, sometimes one must resort to telling the truth. After that, it is in God’s hands.’

  * * * *

  While the two men were engaged in this unusual conversation, the ladies at the abbey were conducting one remarkably similar in nature. Having been subjected to a stony silence by Mr Woodford, they had been banished to their bedchambers with instructions to have a hot bath and rest. The inquisition could wait until the morrow. This threat did nothing to quiet the nerves of either girl; so, when Cassandra stole away to Rosalind’s chamber at midnight, opening the door just wide enough to speak through the aperture, she found the room’s occupant wide awake.

  ‘Lindy!’ she whispered, so as not to arouse anyone else. ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosalind also kept her voice low. The room was in darkness, but that would make no difference to Cassandra.

  ‘Come in, Cass, and close the door behind you.’

  She followed Rosalind’s instructions and made her way cautiously to the bed. Seated side by side, they were both silent for several minutes. Cassandra drew up her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them. In her white linen night garments, she was easy to spy even in the dim light trickling through the window.

  ‘Papa is very angry,’ she said at last.

  ‘With good reason,’ Rosalind answered. She had been lying on her side when Cassandra entered, but had pushed herself up in bed and leaned her back against the headboard.

  ‘Do you think that he will permit Julian and Richard to visit us?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pray do not try to spare my feelings, Lindy,’ Cassandra said pettishly. ‘Tell me honestly what you feel.’

  ‘Your father could hardly have arrived at a less propitious moment.’ Rosalind recalled the scene with something of the feeling that the survivor of a shipwreck might view the ocean. ‘The two of us drenched from head to toe — and the gentlemen in no better condition themselves. One can only guess what he must have been thinking.’

  ‘I shall never see Julian again!’ Cassandra sniffed, and Rosalind knew that her cheeks must be wet with tears.

  ‘You never have seen him.’ She attempted to treat the matter lightly, but their old jests were no longer amusing.

  ‘I love him, Lindy.’

  ‘No!’ Rosalind’s vehement cry caused the other to turn towards her sharply. ‘You cannot love such a man. You love only what you have imagined him to be. You have never been courted by a man before, and naturally it has turned your head. But only think what he really is — what we know him to be—and you will soon forget this foolish fancy.’

  A piercing, heart-wrenching cry was the only answer to this. It did not come from Cassandra, however, but from the kitten, who was feeling much neglected on the floor of the bedchamber. With some consternation, Rosalind looked down into the darkness. The kitten, catching hold of the bedclothes draped over the side, climbed up in a flash and deposited herself on Rosalind’s lap.

  ‘What have you named her?’ Cassandra asked, with a ridiculous descent into the mundane.

  ‘I thought Lady Hamilton. She seems to have an affinity with men and with water.’

  ‘Appropriate, but quite a mouthful.’ Cassandra considered the matter. ‘Since Welly is named for the Duke, perhaps we should simply call her Duchess.’

  She reached out one hand in the general direction of the purring sound on the bedclothes, and received the rough wetness of Duchess’s tongue. The cat’s intervention seemed to have soothed her. Her tears ceased and she answered more rationally.

  ‘My feeling for Julian is not a fancy. Nor do I think either of them as bad as they have been portrayed to us. If they were, neither of us could be so drawn to them.’

  ‘Us!’ Rosalind was determined to dispel this myth. ‘I have no feeling for either gentleman but irritation.’

  Cassandra gave a genteel kind of snort, indicating patent disbelief. ‘You may lie to yourself, Lindy,’ she said, ‘but you cannot pull the wool over my eyes.’

  ‘My emotions may not be entirely untouched,’ Rosalind confessed. ‘However, I am certain that once they are removed from our vicinity, we shall both soon be thankful that they are gone.’

  ‘Dearest.’ Cassandra was quiet and resigned as she leaned her head on her friend’s shoulder. ‘Dearest, you know as well as I do that you are speaking nonsense. For good or for ill, neither of us will ever be quite the same. For my part, I will never regret having known them.’

  But Julian had never kissed Cassandra, Rosalind thought. She had never looked deep into his eyes and felt as though she were falling into them — into him. Oh, why had Richard St George ever come into her life? What could ever come of it but misery?

  ‘I wish I had never laid eyes on either one of them!’ she cried honestly.

  ‘If only Papa had not returned so soon,’ Cassandra mused. ‘At least we might have had a few more days with them.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I wonder what made him change his plans?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What!’

  Cassandra drew away from her friend with such violence that it startled Duchess, who gave a loud ‘mew’ as if to scold her for such inconsiderate behavior. The young girl sat up in bed, turning her face towards her friend as if she could read every line and curve of her countenance.

  ‘I wrote to him the night we walked out into the garden,’ Rosalind said, the words like lead on her tongue.

  ‘But why?’

  Much to her own consternation, Rosalind felt the tears begin to stream down her cheeks. She could not remember
the last time she had wept. She had always despised women who cried at every little disappointment, and the lugubrious heroines in romance novels were the brunt of many jokes she had shared with Cassandra. To find herself behaving like one of them was disconcerting, to say the least.

  ‘I had to do it, Cass!’ She sniffed loudly. The kitten gave up and scampered off to the end of the bed for a more peaceful doze. ‘I did not know how long I could — I could resist him, if I did not.’

  Suddenly the two women were clinging together, each aware of the other’s sorrow and each attempting to ease it by whatever pitiful and unsuccessful means they could employ. It was a very long time before they both fell asleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sunlight streaming through the open window the next morning was not welcome. Rosalind hoisted heavy eyelids like useless sails on a ship becalmed in the Doldrums. She lay mute and motionless, staring up at the ceiling and trying to summon enough spirit to rise and face the day. Finally, by a supreme effort of will, she swung her legs to the starboard side of the bed and now sat staring at the wall — which was slightly more interesting, as it had an oval mirror which reflected her own image. She looked like a female Robinson Crusoe, cast up on the bed like human flotsam on the shores of some far-off Pacific isle.

  ‘What time is it?’

  Her exertions had disturbed Cassandra, who yawned and stretched lazily.

  ‘It must be past nine o’clock in the morning,’ Rosalind warned her.

  ‘So late?’

  ‘It was almost daylight when I fell asleep.’

  ‘Poor Lindy!’ Cassandra was instantly concerned. ‘And now we must face Papa.’

  That was an evil event which could not be put off much longer. Both women did their best, however, taking many minutes to choose an outfit and giving their maids as much trouble as possible over the arrangement of their coiffures. They each sipped a tepid cup of coffee and nibbled halfheartedly at a couple of scones before discarding them. At last there was nothing more to be done. Either they must remain confined to their bedchambers or venture out to meet their fate.

  Coming down the stairs arm-in-arm, it seemed that they might yet have a slight reprieve. The hall below was empty. Even as this thought occurred to Rosalind, a plump figure popped out of a doorway and trotted toward them. It was Ellen, who greeted them at the foot of the stairs with this portentous announcement:

  ‘The master wants to see you in the drawing-room. You’d best not keep him waiting.’

  ‘Both of us?’ Cassandra asked hopefully.

  ‘Yes, Miss Woodford.’ She nodded decisively. ‘Both of you.’

  * * * *

  Mr Woodford was discovered pacing back and forth about the room, his hands clasped behind his back. The dour look on his face gave Rosalind a moment’s pause, but she drew a deep breath and calmly bid her uncle good morning. He returned her greeting somewhat gruffly. Cassandra, eager to pacify and disarm him, if at all possible, went forward with her arms out. He embraced her briefly, but was plainly too perturbed to be easily distracted from his purpose.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said eventually, ‘it would be best if I spoke to Rosalind alone.’

  ‘Sending me away will serve no purpose,’ his daughter informed him. ‘You will merely put me to the trouble of listening outside the door.’

  This halted him for a moment, but was hardly designed to mollify him.

  ‘I have been too lax with you: with both of you,’ he began. ‘Allowing you to read whatever you please, indulging you beyond what is proper.’ Here he paused, planting his feet firmly and adopting the belligerent stance which inevitably preceded one of his famous lectures.

  ‘I know not by what arts these fiends have insinuated themselves into your acquaintance. You cannot possibly be aware of the kind of black-hearted knaves you have allowed to enter this hallowed haven of peace and tranquillity. I thought you safe here behind these noble walls, little thinking how the wiles of the serpent can so easily beguile the innocent. I had at least expected some measure of good sense from Rosalind—’

  ‘And you see,’ Cassandra interrupted, ‘that you were right to do so.’

  ‘Eh?’ He was quite thrown out of his stride by this.

  ‘Was it not Lindy’s letter which brought you home to rescue us from these … these rakehells?’

  ‘You should not be using such language, Cassy.’ His tone reverted to that of the exasperated parent, before he turned to address the older woman. ‘You should never have allowed them to be admitted within these walls, Rosalind.’

  ‘I assure you, Uncle—’

  ‘I was the one who let them in,’ Cassandra confessed. ‘Nor do I regret it in the least. We have had the most fun! Have we not, Rosalind?’

  ‘Daughter!’ King Lear never looked so stupefied at the thanklessness of Cordelia. ‘Can I believe what I am hearing? After I read the letter which the uncle of this young jackanapes so kindly committed to me, I found it hard enough to believe that either of you could have been so foolish….’

  He would undoubtedly have prosed on at much greater length, but was stopped by a commotion from the end of the hall. Someone was at the front door remonstrating with Debenham. The voice was clearly that of Julian Marchmont, and it was not difficult to discern that he intended to do whatever was necessary to gain admittance.

  ‘I must speak with Mr Woodford. I shall not leave until I have done so!’

  An unintelligible response from Debenham was followed by the sound of shuffling footsteps approaching. Debenham appeared in the drawing-room doorway, and had the pleasure of an audience which, though small, hung upon his every word. Alas, his words were few.

  ‘Mr Julian Marchmont desires—’

  That was the full extent of his speech, for Julian had quietly followed behind him and could now be seen by those in the drawing-room. At the same moment, Debenham realized that he was not alone. This was what halted his announcement, which, in any case, was now superfluous. Mr Marchmont himself was about to declare his desires for himself.

  ‘How dare you enter this house, sir!’

  Mr Woodford’s heroic stance would have gained applause at Govern Garden. He might have been the Commendatore’s statue stepping forward to drag Don Giovanni down to the nether regions. But Julian seemed unwilling to act the Don. He did not raise his voice, but his determination was evident to all.

  ‘Mr Woodford, sir,’ he said. ‘I beg you to hear me out before you evict me from your house.’

  ‘I fail to see, sir, what you can have to say which would in any way alter my intentions.’

  ‘I wish to explain—’

  ‘Your explanations,’ Mr Woodford said grandly, ‘are quite unnecessary. Your uncle’s letter laid bare your scheme with remarkable clarity.’

  ‘My uncle’s letter?’ the younger man repeated, obviously mystified.

  It was Rosalind who answered him this time.

  ‘Before you arrived in Buckinghamshire,’ she explained, ‘I received a letter from Sir Jasper Marchmont. It was directed to my uncle, but I had been instructed to open any correspondence which might arrive for him in his absence.’

  For the first time Julian was made aware of the duplicitous nature of his uncle’s scheme. His astonishment and chagrin as Rosalind related the rest of her tale could not be doubted. It seemed as though the revelation had robbed him of the ability to speak, and he swallowed before he did so, as though clearing his throat of some obstruction.

  ‘I cannot deny,’ he ventured at last, ‘that my intentions when I came here were the very reverse of what is open and honorable. There is no defending the arrogance and heartlessness of such an enterprise.’

  ‘I am glad to see,’ Mr Woodford said, ‘that you are capable of expressing such sentiments, though I am far from being convinced that they are genuine. Your behavior thus far has been unlikely to produce any confidence in anything which you might either say or do.’

  ‘At least grant that I may be capable of more ten
der feelings than my conduct would indicate.’ Julian was looking down at the rich parquet flooring as he spoke, but he raised his head to continue. ‘If I cannot excuse what I have done, at least allow that I may be able to repent of it.’

  Mr Woodford inclined his head in gracious acknowledgement that this might indeed be possible. Rosalind could see that he was wavering before responding to Julian’s words, and could almost read his mind at that moment. Should he offer a speech of gracious absolution for the young man’s sins? Should he deliver an oration on the dangers of pride, disdaining the young man’s plea for mercy and dismissing him from his sight forever? Which would have the most dramatic effect? It was a difficult decision. In the end, he must have decided that magnanimity was most suited to his situation — tempered by a short sermon on the dissipated habits of the younger generation, of course.

  ‘Far be it from me to withhold that degree of charity which all good Christian men should display in the face of such a petition.’ He paused to make a pontifical gesture. ‘I suppose that you are no worse than most of the fashionable fribbles which pollute the streets of town and have so lowered the moral tone of our Great Empire, even now sowing the seeds of our own future destruction.

  ‘At least you are man enough to stand and face those whom you have wronged, and to offer an apology — though perhaps too little and too late. Go on your way, and let me see no more of you.’

  ‘That I cannot do, sir,’ Julian answered.

  ‘What?’ This was clearly not the response which the older man had expected. This Marchmont fellow was definitely not playing the part as it should be done. This was the cue for his exit. Why did he linger?

  ‘I have a favor to beg of you, Mr Woodford — one which I do not deserve, admittedly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I wish to marry your daughter, sir. May I have your permission to pay my addresses to her?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, you may!’

  This immediate and most gratifying response did not issue from the lips of Mr Woodford however, but from Cassandra.

  ‘Silence, girl!’ This was probably the harshest tone Mr Woodford had ever used to her in all her life. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, sirrah?’ he demanded next, addressing her suitor.