Beth Andrews (13 page)

‘Here we are, Mrs Plummer!
’
Rosalind called out. She was but too tempted to be silent. The taste of him was still on her tongue, more sweet than she could ever have dreamed. But she knew it to be only wormwood.

He released her with such abruptness that she nearly fell. But his right hand remained around her left wrist. With a start, she realized that he was trembling. They both were. For her, it was hardly surprising, since her world had just been turned thoroughly upside down.

‘Coward!’ he chided her, beginning to regain his own composure.

‘“Conscience doth make cowards of us all,”’ she quoted, attempting a lighter tone.

‘Except for those of us fortunate enough not to possess a conscience.’

‘I am not one of the fortunate few.’

‘You cannot deny that you were tempted.’

‘I am human.’ She swallowed. ‘I was weak. But it will not happen again.’

“Some rise by sin,”’ he quipped, ‘“and some by virtue fall.”’

Rosalind pulled her arm from his grasp and tried to tidy her hair and her gown. Her shawl had fallen to the ground and Richard bent to retrieve it.

‘Ah! There you are.’ Cousin Priscilla descended upon them. ‘We have been looking for you this age. Cassandra was growing quite worried.’

‘Have you left her alone with Julian?’ Rosalind was near hysteria, wondering whether the young girl was being treated to the same kind of sauce that she had just been served.

‘They are right behind me,’ Mrs Plummer reassured her, and indeed at that moment the other two appeared out of the darkness.

Richard, meanwhile, placed Rosalind’s shawl carefully about her shoulders, deliberately trailing a finger along the nape of her neck as he did so. She stepped away at once.

‘We were having such a delightful conversation,’ he told the others, ‘that we quite forgot the time.’

‘What was it that engrossed you so completely?’ Julian raised an eyebrow, as if well aware of the nature of their discussion.

‘We were speaking of temptation — and of conscience.’

‘Forgive me,’ Rosalind told Cassandra, eager to turn the subject. ‘I did not mean to alarm you.’

‘It is quite all right.’ Cass hugged her friend.  ‘It was an inspired idea of Julian’s, was it not?’

‘Inspired,’ Rosalind repeated, barely suppressing a shudder at how near to ruin she had come because of it.

‘Of course,’ Cassandra continued, with her usual self-deprecating wit, ‘day and night are the same to me.’

‘But one can feel the difference in the night air,’ Julian reminded her. ‘The moon’s light is more gentle, the breeze caresses rather than invigorates.’

Cassandra had to agree with this. ‘Even the smells and sounds of the night are more subtle. There is a stillness, as though the world itself were resting.’

Rosalind felt as though she herself would never rest again. She could hardly wait for their guests to be gone. It was growing late, however, and her torment was short-lived. The party from the lodge soon departed. Rosalind knew that Cassandra would want to have a long coze with her, but she excused herself at once with the plea of being over-fatigued. Cass cocked her head to the side like an inquisitive bird. But if she doubted her friend’s veracity, she did not press the matter. Perhaps she understood something of the feelings inside the older girl’s breast — which was more than Rosalind herself could claim.

Shutting the door of her bedchamber firmly behind her, Rosalind went over to the small writing-desk in the far corner and sat down. With her elbow on the desktop, she leaned over and rested her forehead on her open palm. She felt ill. She felt wonderful. She felt changed in some indefinable way, and almost feared to face a mirror lest she not recognize her own countenance. What was she to do? She had worried so much that Cassandra might not come out of this adventure heart-whole. It had not really occurred to her that her own heart might be at risk — until now, when she feared it was already too late.

Sitting up straight and squaring her shoulders, she looked at the familiar, comforting objects on the desk: a small knife, some sealing wax, a fresh quill and an inkwell. It came to her then that she must do now what she should have done from the very first. Her only regret was that she had delayed for so long.

Mrs Plummer and the two men called at the abbey the next day. Cassandra and Welly greeted them enthusiastically. Of Miss Powell, however, there was no sign. Miss Woodford apologized for the absence of her companion, explaining that ‘poor dear Lindy’ was laid up in bed with a headache.

St George would have wagered that Rosalind had been perfectly well until she heard them arriving at the front door. Under other circumstances, he might have quizzed Cassandra upon this subject, but this time he refrained. In truth, he was conscious of a sensation of relief at the news.

Last night had revealed something of Miss Powell’s feelings for him. More importantly, however, they had shown him something of
his
feelings for
her,
which was far more disturbing. To begin with, everything had gone just as he planned: he had manoeuvred her into the garden with the skill of an old campaigner. He had handled her just as he ought, he judged: his candor had disconcerted her and caused her to let down her guard. Then he had kissed her — and his coldly calculated plan had flown out of the window.

Never had he encountered such a bewitching combination of innocence and passion. Not since his salad days had he known such ardor within himself. He lost all sense of time, of place, of the reason for his pursuit of her. Holding her in his arms, tasting the incomparable sweetness of her lips, he was aware only of his own growing desire. Not the most beautiful of his mistresses had ever moved him so. Normally, he was in complete control of his emotions. His conquests had been mere trophies, which ceased to interest him as soon as they were won. But there in the abbey garden, he had felt his self-control slipping away like a boat cut loose from its moorings in a hurricane. Indeed, there had been a tempest within him which raged with a fury beyond all he had ever experienced.

Perhaps it was best that he did not see Rosalind Powell again. Something in his mind flashed like a light warning sailors of a shoal ahead. There was more danger in this enterprise than he had at first imagined. With persistence, he might yet win that wager. Whatever else was true, he knew that he had stirred Rosalind Powell’s desire as much as she aroused his. On the other hand, he could afford the loss of a thousand pounds. It was a mere trifle compared to — to what? What did he stand to lose if he continued with this madness? His soul? He had quite forgotten that he possessed such a thing. He did not wish to be reminded of it now.

‘I do hope,’ Cousin Priscilla’s voice interrupted his musings, ‘that Miss Powell is not very ill. I knew a lady who went to head with a grievous bedache, and was dead within the hour.’

‘Miss Powell is perfectly healthy, I am sure.’ Richard frowned, more irritated than ever at his cousin’s ill-considered bibble-babble. ‘Perhaps she stayed awake too late last night.’

‘I fear that we have infected you both with our wicked London ways,’ Julian quizzed Cassandra. ‘Waltzes and moonlight walks ... such dissipation!’

‘Dear Julian!’ Nobody could mistake the warmth and sincerity in the lady’s voice. ‘You have no notion how much knowing you both has meant to Lindy and me. These weeks have been some of the happiest and gayest we have ever spent, and I am sure that neither of us will ever forget them — or you.’

‘You do not think, then, that we have caused the exhaustion of the long-suffering Miss Powell?’ It was St George’s turn to quiz her now.

‘She has an excellent constitution,’ Cassandra asserted. ‘I have no doubt that she will be up and about by tomorrow.’

‘Perhaps even sooner,’ he suggested.

‘Do you think she might be persuaded to join us for another outing?’ Cousin Priscilla enquired. ‘Julian and I have put our heads together and come up with the most delightful scheme.’

‘Oh!’ Cassandra cried. ‘Do tell me about it.’

‘But be warned,’ St George intervened, ‘it is most unlikely that the redoubtable Miss Powell will approve.’

‘Nonsense!’ Cassandra contradicted him with a laugh. ‘You may call her a dragon, sir, but I assure you the warmest thing about Lindy is her heart. Like Welly here, her bark is much more alarming than her bite.’

‘Nevertheless, I think you will find it hard to persuade her this time.’

* * * *

Cassandra soon discovered that St George had not   been mistaken in his prediction. Presented with the proposed plan, Rosalind flatly refused to have anything to do with it.

‘But think, Lindy! If you do not go, how can I?’

‘Really, Cass, I think it best if you do not go either.’

‘Do not be so stuffy.’ Cassandra knew that she was pouting, but she  had  recourse  to  all  her  weapons  in  this skirmish. ‘Cousin Priscilla says that the lake — or pond — is just over an acre in size and a lovely spot for a picnic.’

‘Suppose one of us happened to fall in?’ Rosalind was determined, it seemed, to view everything in the most gloomy light possible. ‘Neither of us can swim. And, in case you have forgotten the fact, you happen to be blind.’

‘I assure you, it is something I never forget.’

Cassandra had long ago determined not to dwell on her condition. Remembering that ‘what cannot be cured must be endured,’ she accepted her lot and never indulged in useless self-pity. Perhaps it was not quite fair to Rosalind to fling this spurious plea for sympathy at her. But what else could she do? How else was she to acquire her consent? What did it matter if her tactics were less than honest, so long as they were effective?

‘Forgive me, Cass.’ The remorseful response was instantaneous. ‘How unfeeling of me.’

Cassandra felt her friend’s affectionate and apologetic embrace. It occurred to her that Rosalind had been behaving strangely for several days. It was as if the older woman were avoiding her company. They had not even had an opportunity to discuss the evening party two days previously.

‘Do not ask me to go on this picnic, dearest,’ Rosalind pleaded. ‘I do not think my nerves will stand it.’

‘I have never known you to be nervous before.’ Cassandra was taken aback. This was a new Rosalind, one with whom she was not yet acquainted. ‘What happened between you and Richard in the garden the other evening?’

Rosalind drew away abruptly. ‘Why do you ask me such a question?’

‘It is obvious that something happened.’ She did not mince matters. ‘You have been most elusive since then, and your convenient headache today was quite unconvincing. I think you must go on this picnic, if only by way of apology to Julian and Cousin Priscilla.’

‘I did not mean … you do not understand.’ The normally fluent Miss Powell was plainly disconcerted.

‘Did St George … did Richard ... did he ... um ...
ravish
you that night?’

Cassandra waited with bated breath for the answer to this indelicate question. She was not disappointed.

‘No!’ Rosalind cried emphatically, then promptly spoilt this by adding, ‘Perhaps ... yes ... I don’t know.’

‘Well, I have never been ravished by a man.’ Cassandra’s brow furrowed in an effort of concentration. ‘But I should think I would know if I had.’

‘He kissed me. That is all.’

‘How wonderful!’ Cassandra was ecstatic at this news.

‘Wonderful!’ Rosalind repeated, her voice clearly expressing that this was not the word she would have used to describe it.

‘I am green with envy and feel quite ill-used,’ Cassandra complained. ‘Julian has never done more than hold my hand! He treats me with a degree of respect almost bordering on reverence — and, frankly, it is becoming unbearably vexatious.’

‘Cassandra!’ Rosalind’s tone was one of severe reproof.

‘Don’t pretend to be shocked, Lindy.’ Cassandra was growing impatient. ‘I would have kissed Julian myself, only I am doubtful of finding his lips. I should probably end up kissing his nose instead. I have even considered asking him to kiss me, but have not the courage.’

‘You sound as wanton as … as—’

‘Aholah and Aholibah?’ Cassandra finished, recalling the two ‘sisters’ in Ezekiel’s parable.

‘Perhaps not so bad as that.’

‘Are we harlots, do you think?’

‘No!’

‘You are not lusting after St George, like the Assyrians and Chaldeans, then?’ Cassandra was comically earnest. ‘Perhaps I am like Aholibah, the younger sister....’

‘Don’t be absurd!’ Rosalind admonished her, glad that Cassandra could not see the deep color in her face as she remembered how she had responded to St George. ‘We are not wanton women.’

‘Perhaps not.’ Cassandra caught delicate lips between her teeth. ‘But this is the closest to a real romance that I am ever likely to come, Lindy, and I do not want to live my life without knowing what it is like to be kissed — properly kissed — by a young man.’

‘Oh, Cass!’ There was a distinct tremor to her friend’s voice now, and Cassandra was astonished to realize that she was on the point of tears. This was quite unprecedented in the ruthlessly unsentimental Rosalind Powell.

‘If your reaction to St George’s kiss is any indication,’ Cassandra continued more gently, but with unflagging determination, ‘it must have been something quite out of the common way.’

‘Oh, it was.’

Then the whole story came tumbling from Rosalind’s lips. Cassandra, listening in something like awe, wondered how she could have kept it to herself even for these two interminable days. That her feelings for the man were stronger than anything she had ever known was apparent. For the first time, Cassandra began to question the wisdom of allowing themselves to become embroiled in the dishonorable scheme which Julian’s uncle had disclosed. It had seemed like a wonderful adventure, in which she had been prepared to risk her own heart: never had it occurred to her that she might be risking Rosalind’s as well. Rosalind was so strong-willed, so straitlaced. How could she have imagined such an outcome?

‘Dearest Lindy.’ She reached out and felt for the other girl’s arm, threading hers through it. ‘One thing you must not do is to let him see that he has any power over you. You must accompany us on this picnic, if only to prove this to him.’