Beth Andrews Read Free Page A

Rosalind,’ she pronounced, unsuccessfully attempting a deep masculine bass, ‘I know that I may rely on your good sense and plain rumgumption! I leave Cassandra to your care. You see to it that my girl comes to no harm, for well I know the dire evils that can befall a helpless female of tender years when she is unprotected and subjected to the tribulations which this world so amply affords!’
    This was too much for Rosalind, who succumbed to a fit of giggles, only halting them to protest, ‘Really, you should not, Cass. There was never a father who so doted on his daughter, I am very sure.’
    ‘Indeed.’ The other girl sighed. ‘But in Papa’s mind I am a little girl still. I know that when he looks at me, he sees not a young woman of nearly twenty, but a freckled schoolgirl — or, worse yet, an infant scarcely weaned.’
    ‘Uncle Frederick only wants what is best for you.’
    ‘Which is why he insists on confining me to this draughty ruin of a house?’ Cassandra suggested, apparently unconvinced.
    Rosalind Powell looked about her. They were seated in a large apartment, with a ceiling encrusted with a stucco interpretation of intricate fan vaulting. Rich French tapestries adorned the walls, their vivid colours depicting scenes of chivalric romance. The furniture was heavy and ornate, in keeping with the style of the architecture. But it was quite comfortable and testified to the wealth of its owner, if not his taste, for most of the furnishings had been designed by a fashionable architect and approved by Rosalind herself, Mr Woodford having neither the time nor the inclination for such ‘fripperies’, as he called them. Mr Woodford’s money, however, had not been lavished in vain, and the improvements to the original building were extensive, transforming a crumbling relic into a commodious but pleasing residence which yet managed to retain much of its fascinating antiquity.
    Even in winter, Folbrook Abbey’s numerous fireplaces kept the chill at bay, and hardly ever sent smoke billowing throughout the house. Now, as spring was about to slip into the warm embrace of summer, it was as pleasant a place as any in England. Except for the line of columns and Gothic arches (original to the building) which adorned the western end of the extensive walled cloisters, there was not much which could, in all conscience, be described as a ‘draughty ruin’. The high, vaulted ceiling might be considered cavernous by some who would find it oppressive, perhaps, but Rosalind Powell was too practical and sensible to allow its austere grandeur to overpower her.
    ‘You see yourself as a prisoner, then?’ she enquired, pursuing Cassandra’s remark.
    ‘Am I not?’ Cassandra raised an eyebrow in challenge.
    ‘Perhaps.’ Rosalind paused a moment before continuing, ‘In which case, I suppose I must be cast in the role of your gaoler, like some dreadful female out of the pages of Richardson?’
    ‘Oh no!’ Cassandra’s distress was instantaneous. ‘Dear, dear Rosalind, forgive me if I seemed to say so. I could never, even for a moment, conceive of anything so dreadful!’
    She was almost on the verge of tears, and Rosalind reached forward to take the pale, slender hands she held out. ‘Thank you, my dear.’ She squeezed the hands, and felt a corresponding pressure. ‘Nevertheless, there may be some truth in it. Folbrook Abbey is not a gaol. “Stone walls”, as the poet has said, “do not a prison make”. But I think your father and I are alike in this: that we see it as a hermitage — a defence, if you will — against the world outside its walls. We neither of us want to see you hurt.’
    ‘You have certainly managed to shut out the world here.’
    ‘I wonder,’ Rosalind murmured, ‘if that has been wisdom, or folly?’
    A frilly white cap appeared round the edge of the large oak door just then, perched atop a smiling, russet-cheeked face.
    ‘Is dinner ready, Ellen?’ Rosalind asked, glancing up at the young