Blossom Time Read Free

the house fell to Rosalind. There hadn’t seemed to be much time to find another husband.
    Dick had derived his comfort from riding, hunting, shooting, and those masculine activities of his class. He had recently found himself a lady and was engaged. Rosalind had struck up a friendship with the vicar and his wife and become active in church doings. Her solace, when she was alone, was reading, which soon led to trying her own hand at writing. She had always liked poetry and nature. She wrote about the beauty of the changing seasons. It was a diversion, something happy and peaceful to think about, to keep the blue devils at bay when she was alone.
    Harwell, watching as these thoughts left a trace of sadness on her face, said, “Haven’t brought him up to scratch yet, eh?”
    She jerked back to attention. “What? Oh, still harping on my imaginary beau? No, I was just thinking how quickly time passes.”
    “Very true. Time flies when one is with a pretty lady. I am referring, of course, to Sukey,” he added mischievously, as a light flush colored her cheek. He rose and stretched his long arms. “I must be off for a word with my bailiff. I’ll bring the cat tomorrow.”
    “Harry! You said kitten!”
    “Right, the kitten. Snow Flake.”
    “Snow Drop, you wretch! And she had better be pure white.”
    “I’ll touch her up with talcum powder before I come,” he said, and slanting his curled beaver at a dashing angle over his right eye, he left, laughing.
    * * * *
    It was good to be back home. He wondered who Roz’s beau could be. She had worn a very sly face as she denied his existence, so of course, she had someone in her eye. Whoever he was, he was making a wise choice. Roz was a fine, levelheaded lady.
    As he proceeded through the meadow toward the abbey, his thoughts turned to estate matters.
    In London, Lord Brampton had alerted him that old Anglesey was giving up farming. Too old for it, and no son to carry on. Anglesey had a fine line of milchers. He would pick up a couple for breeding purposes. Pity Anglesey had never married.
    It was time he began to keep an eye out for a wife himself, come to that. Maybe next Season would throw up a likely prospect.
     

Chapter Two
     
    Rosalind’s heart gave a little leap when she was handed the post at breakfast the next morning. She recognized the spidery writing on her one letter. It was from Lord Sylvester. When she tore it open and read the note, her leaping heart plummeted.
    “Good God! He’s coming here!” she exclaimed.
    “Who? Uncle Ralph?” Dick asked, glancing up from his gammon and eggs. Dick and Rosalind were not usually taken for twins by strangers, but one could see at a glance they were related. They shared their late mama’s brown hair and tall build. In Dick, Mrs. Lovelace’s deep green eyes were faded to hazel, while his complexion was akin to a hazelnut from his outdoor activities. He was usually mistaken for Rosalind’s younger brother.
    “He’s due for his annual holiday,” he continued. “Put him in the yellow suite, send up a case of claret, and you’ll never know he’s here.”
    “Not Uncle Ralph! Lord Sylvester!”
    “Who the deuce is Lord Sylvester? Oh, that magazine fellow who’s printed your poems? Jolly good. It will be nice for you to meet him in person.”
    “No, it won’t, Dick. Have you forgotten he thinks I’m a man? You’ll have to pretend you’re Francis Lovelace. Will you do it?” She knew even as she spoke the words that Dick couldn’t fool a child, let alone a scholarly gentleman like Lord Sylvester. But who else was there to do it?
    “A man? How can he think that?”
    “I told you, I called myself Francis, with an i. You’ll have to be Francis—just for the visit. Don’t do much talking.”
    “Me pose as a poet?” he cried in horror. “A man scribbling verse. I couldn’t do it. I’d be the laughingstock of the parish if it ever got about.”
    “It won’t get about. And Lord Byron is hardly a