The Lion Triumphant by Philippa Carr Page B

entertain priests in the household.
    When I remembered the fierce attitude of the Pennlyons I was apprehensive.
    I changed the subject by talking of the newcomer Richard Rackell.
    “He has gracious manners indeed,” I said. “I knew someone from the North once who came to visit my father. He did not speak or act as this young man does.”
    “People are never cut to a pattern,” said Honey comfortably.
    Then she began to talk about their neighbors and, fearing that this might lead to the Pennlyons, I rose and left them together.
    Every day Jake Pennlyon called. There was nothing subtle about him; he clearly came to see me.
    He noticed Richard Rackell on one occasion; he said: “I’ve seen that fellow before. I remember. He came to Lyon Court looking for work.”
    “And you had none for him.”
    “I don’t like the look of the fellow. More like a girl than a boy.”
    “Do you expect everyone to roar like a lion?”
    “I reserve that privilege for myself.”
    “Or,” I added, “bray like an ass.”
    “Which I leave to others, but I would look for neither a lion nor an ass in a servant. Some tale he had about coming from the North.”
    “Why should it be a tale? Edward believed him.”
    “Edward would believe anything. He has a mistaken idea that everyone else follows his fine mode of behavior.”
    “Perhaps it is more pleasant to believe the best than the worst of people before anything is proved against them.”
    “Nonsense. It is better to be prepared for the worst.”
    “As usual, I disagree with you.”
    “Which delights me. I dread the day when we are in complete agreement.”
    There was no doubt that he enjoyed our verbal battles. To my amazement, so did I.
    When he was late calling one day I found myself at the window watching for him, hoping, I kept assuring myself, that he would not come; but I couldn’t help the twinge of excitement I felt when I saw his white horse in the stableyard and heard his loud voice shouting to the grooms.
    We visited Lyon Court—that mansion which had been built by Sir Penn’s father. On either side of the porch were lions with ferocious expressions; and a lion’s face was molded over the porch. It was a younger house than Trewynd and its Gothic hall extended to the full height of the house; Lyon Court had its central block built around a courtyard and east and west wings; in these wings were the bedchambers and the living quarters. In the center block were the hall and the grand staircase leading to the gallery. It was impressive and rather ostentatious, what one would expect, I told myself, of such a family. The Pennlyons had not always been in possession of wealth and, therefore, that possession seemed something to boast of. It had been in Edward’s family for years and he had been brought up to accept it as a natural right.
    Still, I could not help being caught up in the enthusiasm of both Sir Penn and Jake Pennlyon for their magnificent house. In the Long Gallery there was a portrait of the founder of their fortunes, Sir Penn’s father, who sat uneasily in his fine robes, and of Sir Penn, very sure of himself; his wife, a rather fragile-looking lady with a bewildered expression; and Jake Pennlyon, jaunty, arrogant, his brilliant blue eyes the most startling feature on the canvas as they were in the flesh.
    The gardens were very fine. Sir Penn had numerable gardeners who were kept busy making his land the most outstanding in the neighborhood; the graveled paths were symmetrical; the flower beds immaculate, although less colorful than they would be in the heart of summer. There were still roses in the rose garden, though; and there was a herb garden which particularly interested Honey; I told Sir Penn that my grandmother was something of an authority on plants and herbs.
    “There was a witch in the village,” I told him. “My grandmother befriended her and before she died she gave her several recipes.”
    “Witches!” spat out Sir Penn. “I’d hang the