happened to fall open.
“Forgot his vows, his faith forswore, / And Constance was beloved no more. / ‘T is an old tale, and often told.”
Catherine quoted from memory. “ ‘In vain for Constance is your zeal; / She—died at Holy Isle.’ The difference seems to be that Marmion did repent in the end.”
“And I do not? Are you so sure? Perhaps because her name was Milly and not Constance. So much less romantic! I have had little enough of poetry these last years, Miss Hunter. You must forgive me if I seem lacking in the nobler emotions.”
He closed the covers with a snap and held out the book. Catherine took it. Why would her hand not stay steady?
“Don’t you think you should leave, Mr. de Dagonet?”
“Without what I came for? I should hate to think that I’ve so upset the family for nothing. They are upset, I take it?”
“Your aunt, Lady Montagu, is in a constant nervous agitation, sir. Is that your wish?”
“I’m sorry to discompose her. Lady Montagu is not my object, in spite of the pearls. I would far rather it was George who suffered. Even though he cares nothing for it, he enjoys being lord and master of Lion Court a little too much, don’t you think? There’s a certain humility lacking in his manner.”
“No more than is lacking in yours, sir! How dare you come here like this?”
He laughed, but the sarcasm disappeared from his voice. “I would dare a great deal for Lion Court: every stone, every pane of glass, and every ivy leaf. The house looks too sad and the tenants work too hard.”
Catherine sat down. He had only stated what she herself had noticed. “What do you really want here?”
“A few honest words with Millicent Trumble’s sister. Mary’s keeping to the house; there’s no way I can approach her. I don’t want to frighten or coerce her, but I would like her to meet me. Would you give her a message?”
“No, I will not.”
He shrugged. “Then there’s no more to be said.”
“How can I lend myself to your schemes?”
“There’s no reason, of course, why you should.”
He stepped over to her and took her hand, executing a perfect bow as he did so. His lips barely brushed her fingers and they were released. In a moment he had stepped to the window and given her a charming smile.
“George really ought to lock the windows at night,” he commented lightly. “There’s no telling who might get in.”
He was gone.
Catherine sat for a few moments staring blindly at the book in her hands, waiting for her heart to stop thudding so uncomfortably in her breast. She knew for a fact that the butler locked all the doors and windows every evening and that Sir George followed, checking their security for himself. Yet the intruder had also eluded the menservants set to watch for him, and the dogs hadn’t barked—
Obviously he could come and go as he pleased, in spite of Sir George’s efforts. But then this had once been his home and his inheritance.
She could quite easily see how Devil Dagonet had gained his nickname. Yet in spite of everything, there was something about him that invited her trust. She knew she had almost given in and offered to help him. Well, thank goodness she had not! There was no reason at all for her to get involved.
Her resolution made, Catherine stood and left the room
When she arrived upstairs, Lady Montagu was asleep.
* * * *
Miss Amelia Hunter walked through Fernbridge the next morning without stopping at any of her favorite shops. She carried a little basket in which to collect wild berries. This strategy would take her past the gates of Stagshead, where it would be only natural for her to stop in for a few moments. She was very competently chaperoned by her little sister Annabella, who held her by the hand, except when something caught her attention and she skipped off for a moment before remembering that, at twelve, she was very nearly a young lady.
There was, however, no reply to Amelia’s tentative knock at the brass doorknob,
“Forgot his vows, his faith forswore, / And Constance was beloved no more. / ‘T is an old tale, and often told.”
Catherine quoted from memory. “ ‘In vain for Constance is your zeal; / She—died at Holy Isle.’ The difference seems to be that Marmion did repent in the end.”
“And I do not? Are you so sure? Perhaps because her name was Milly and not Constance. So much less romantic! I have had little enough of poetry these last years, Miss Hunter. You must forgive me if I seem lacking in the nobler emotions.”
He closed the covers with a snap and held out the book. Catherine took it. Why would her hand not stay steady?
“Don’t you think you should leave, Mr. de Dagonet?”
“Without what I came for? I should hate to think that I’ve so upset the family for nothing. They are upset, I take it?”
“Your aunt, Lady Montagu, is in a constant nervous agitation, sir. Is that your wish?”
“I’m sorry to discompose her. Lady Montagu is not my object, in spite of the pearls. I would far rather it was George who suffered. Even though he cares nothing for it, he enjoys being lord and master of Lion Court a little too much, don’t you think? There’s a certain humility lacking in his manner.”
“No more than is lacking in yours, sir! How dare you come here like this?”
He laughed, but the sarcasm disappeared from his voice. “I would dare a great deal for Lion Court: every stone, every pane of glass, and every ivy leaf. The house looks too sad and the tenants work too hard.”
Catherine sat down. He had only stated what she herself had noticed. “What do you really want here?”
“A few honest words with Millicent Trumble’s sister. Mary’s keeping to the house; there’s no way I can approach her. I don’t want to frighten or coerce her, but I would like her to meet me. Would you give her a message?”
“No, I will not.”
He shrugged. “Then there’s no more to be said.”
“How can I lend myself to your schemes?”
“There’s no reason, of course, why you should.”
He stepped over to her and took her hand, executing a perfect bow as he did so. His lips barely brushed her fingers and they were released. In a moment he had stepped to the window and given her a charming smile.
“George really ought to lock the windows at night,” he commented lightly. “There’s no telling who might get in.”
He was gone.
Catherine sat for a few moments staring blindly at the book in her hands, waiting for her heart to stop thudding so uncomfortably in her breast. She knew for a fact that the butler locked all the doors and windows every evening and that Sir George followed, checking their security for himself. Yet the intruder had also eluded the menservants set to watch for him, and the dogs hadn’t barked—
Obviously he could come and go as he pleased, in spite of Sir George’s efforts. But then this had once been his home and his inheritance.
She could quite easily see how Devil Dagonet had gained his nickname. Yet in spite of everything, there was something about him that invited her trust. She knew she had almost given in and offered to help him. Well, thank goodness she had not! There was no reason at all for her to get involved.
Her resolution made, Catherine stood and left the room
When she arrived upstairs, Lady Montagu was asleep.
* * * *
Miss Amelia Hunter walked through Fernbridge the next morning without stopping at any of her favorite shops. She carried a little basket in which to collect wild berries. This strategy would take her past the gates of Stagshead, where it would be only natural for her to stop in for a few moments. She was very competently chaperoned by her little sister Annabella, who held her by the hand, except when something caught her attention and she skipped off for a moment before remembering that, at twelve, she was very nearly a young lady.
There was, however, no reply to Amelia’s tentative knock at the brass doorknob,
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