page, or the bones of her skeleton. There was music in the wind, in the sounds of the birds, in the silence of the countryside. There was beauty all around them, especially at Rosemoor, and she was foolish to ignore it so unremittingly.
Arabella must learn to exhibit some enjoyment in the world, in a manner that did not include disease, suffering, or death.
There, that was enough to start with, and she’d not yet begun on Arabella’s social graces. The girl needed to be slowed when it came to eating. She gobbled up her food as if it were going to disappear, or as if eating were a chore that, although necessary, was not enjoyable. She needed to learn to talk to other people. A simple inquiry as to the weather would suffice. She must not ask a stranger about his intestines, and please, for pity’s sake, let her learn that a diagnosis of impending death was not socially acceptable.
Playing the pianoforte was perhaps more than Gillian could hope for, as was any skill in watercolors, but Arabella was certainly capable of learning how to do many of the Scottish country dances.
But for now, she was tired of Arabella. She had a few hours of freedom, and instead of retiring to her room, she wanted to explore.
Gillian wasn’t entirely certain that what she was doing was proper or even acceptable. She was constrained by manners in the fact that she was the Earl of Straithern’s guest, but that thought did not stop her now. Curiosity drew her out the front door of Rosemoor and down the sloping lawn to the lake she’d seen on her arrival.
The lake was a perfect oval and quite obviously created by man at the lowest point of the lawn, and designed to reflect the building it fronted. The waterfowl didn’t seem to mind that the lake was created for artistic purposes. Instead, the geese and ducks were absolutely content to paddle around on the glassy surface.
Cattails surrounded the lake at the narrowest point and were obviously trimmed from time to time. So they would not mar the purity of the scene?
The building opposite the lake was large and square and constructed of white stone that gleamed in the morning sun. On either side of the tall arched doorway was a vaulted recess, each filled with a life-size alabaster statue of a woman dressed in a diaphanous garment. On the second floor was an entablature consisting of four statues: two men dressed only in a loincloth and holding spears, flanked by two women as scantily dressed.
Above the door, directly beneath the steeply pitched tile roof, was another statue, this one of a pair of lovers. The woman was bent back in the embrace of a powerful-looking male who was plundering her with a kiss. The inscription, carved into a ribbon of stone at the base of the figures, read “Virtue and Vice.”
It was all too easy to recognize that Vice was winning that particular battle.
Upon first seeing the building, she’d thought it to be some sort of crypt, but it was much too large. The structure was larger than Dr. Fenton’s house, but was dwarfed by Rosemoor.
The spring morning was chilly but not uncomfortably so. The call of the birds was the only sound, the soft swaying of the cattails the only movement. She might have stepped into a painting, something appropriately titled to reflect the earl’s wealth and prominence.
Slowly she encircled the lake, taking the path worn in the grass to the front door of the structure. At the bottom of the steps, she hesitated for a moment before grabbing her skirts in her fists and lifting them slightly. She took the first step, ignoring the voice of her conscience that warned her against being where she didn’t belong.
No one protested her arrival. No human voice called out in anger. No ghostly denizens decried her actions. She was alone with the statues, with the tall, arched, black-painted door and its brass knocker.
She pushed in the door, surprised to find that it was unlocked. Surely, if such a place was not open to visitors, it would be
Arabella must learn to exhibit some enjoyment in the world, in a manner that did not include disease, suffering, or death.
There, that was enough to start with, and she’d not yet begun on Arabella’s social graces. The girl needed to be slowed when it came to eating. She gobbled up her food as if it were going to disappear, or as if eating were a chore that, although necessary, was not enjoyable. She needed to learn to talk to other people. A simple inquiry as to the weather would suffice. She must not ask a stranger about his intestines, and please, for pity’s sake, let her learn that a diagnosis of impending death was not socially acceptable.
Playing the pianoforte was perhaps more than Gillian could hope for, as was any skill in watercolors, but Arabella was certainly capable of learning how to do many of the Scottish country dances.
But for now, she was tired of Arabella. She had a few hours of freedom, and instead of retiring to her room, she wanted to explore.
Gillian wasn’t entirely certain that what she was doing was proper or even acceptable. She was constrained by manners in the fact that she was the Earl of Straithern’s guest, but that thought did not stop her now. Curiosity drew her out the front door of Rosemoor and down the sloping lawn to the lake she’d seen on her arrival.
The lake was a perfect oval and quite obviously created by man at the lowest point of the lawn, and designed to reflect the building it fronted. The waterfowl didn’t seem to mind that the lake was created for artistic purposes. Instead, the geese and ducks were absolutely content to paddle around on the glassy surface.
Cattails surrounded the lake at the narrowest point and were obviously trimmed from time to time. So they would not mar the purity of the scene?
The building opposite the lake was large and square and constructed of white stone that gleamed in the morning sun. On either side of the tall arched doorway was a vaulted recess, each filled with a life-size alabaster statue of a woman dressed in a diaphanous garment. On the second floor was an entablature consisting of four statues: two men dressed only in a loincloth and holding spears, flanked by two women as scantily dressed.
Above the door, directly beneath the steeply pitched tile roof, was another statue, this one of a pair of lovers. The woman was bent back in the embrace of a powerful-looking male who was plundering her with a kiss. The inscription, carved into a ribbon of stone at the base of the figures, read “Virtue and Vice.”
It was all too easy to recognize that Vice was winning that particular battle.
Upon first seeing the building, she’d thought it to be some sort of crypt, but it was much too large. The structure was larger than Dr. Fenton’s house, but was dwarfed by Rosemoor.
The spring morning was chilly but not uncomfortably so. The call of the birds was the only sound, the soft swaying of the cattails the only movement. She might have stepped into a painting, something appropriately titled to reflect the earl’s wealth and prominence.
Slowly she encircled the lake, taking the path worn in the grass to the front door of the structure. At the bottom of the steps, she hesitated for a moment before grabbing her skirts in her fists and lifting them slightly. She took the first step, ignoring the voice of her conscience that warned her against being where she didn’t belong.
No one protested her arrival. No human voice called out in anger. No ghostly denizens decried her actions. She was alone with the statues, with the tall, arched, black-painted door and its brass knocker.
She pushed in the door, surprised to find that it was unlocked. Surely, if such a place was not open to visitors, it would be
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