Household Read Free

17—and had been given the ball that took place just before he was sent off to study for the ministry, she had saved most of her dances for Fulke.
    She had told the wounded swain he had been at the time, “I hear you’re off to be a minister, Dickie. ’Tis a noble calling to be sure, but I’m not cut out for that sort of cloth myself.” She had flung back her golden head and laughed. He had hated her.
    He smiled. To his certain knowledge, Christina was not wed yet. She would be 23 and perhaps would be expecting him to come and pay his respects to his late brother’s fiancée.
    He doubted that she’d have been receiving much in the way of respect from Fulke. They had been betrothed for something less than a year. Perhaps, just for curiosity’s sake, he’d pay his old love a brief visit before going off to London.
    He glanced at his brother’s portrait and seemed to see a corroborating gleam in those tigerish eyes—though that, he hoped, was only the glow from the tallest of the three candles. Without looking at the rest of his ancestors, Richard strode out of the gallery and went downstairs. In a few more minutes, he was waiting for his horse to be saddled and a few minutes after that he was galloping in the direction of Dysart Manor.
    Years ago the Manor had pleased him considerably more than the Hold. It had been erected at the end of this century, and though like the castle it had been constructed of stone, it was all of a piece—not sprawling all over its land like the Hold, which had suffered both Tudor and Cromwellian additions as well as the wear and tear it had sustained in the 500 years of its existence. A pleasant stretch of grounds led up to the Manor, and Richard could remember when he and Christina had raced their horses up its winding length, the last race taking place when she was 17 and he 16. He had won and lifted her down from her horse, claiming the prize of a kiss. She gave it to him readily enough, flinging her arms around his neck and whispering, “Well run, Sir Knight.”
    She had loved the Hold, he also remembered, loved it as a child because its high slit windows figured in their game of “Damsel in Distress.” He had always been her knight in those days with Fulke scorning to join in their silly “child’s play.” He preferred jousting and tumbling with the rough lads of the village. Richard frowned. Banishing these encroaching memories, he spurred his horse up the curving road, thinking that even given the fact that it was close on November the place had a desolate look he never recalled having seen before, almost as if the grounds themselves had gone into mourning over Fulke’s death.
    The servant who obsequiously ushered him into the hall was gone a long time before returning with the information that Sir Gerald and his lady would be delighted to receive him in the small drawing room. Joining them, it seemed to him that her ladyship looked very peaked in the black she wore for the late bridgegroom, and also she seemed to be both discomfited and pleased to see him. She was at pains to tell him that Christina, currently resting in her room, would be down very soon. She added that though the girl was naturally grieved over the death of Fulke, she had recovered her spirits to some extent although as was only natural she had her good and bad days. She stopped talking midsentence and went off to fetch her daughter, something she might have delegated to a servant but which she obviously preferred to do.
    Sir Gerald, who had mumbled a greeting of sorts, glowered at Richard and then made a palpable effort to produce a smile. He had been, Richard noted, looking extremely gloomy and downcast, a condition which could have been attributed to his gouty leg. Now, with an effortful smile, he cleared his throat twice before saying, “Remember how close you and m’daughter used to be. That’s true, ain’t it?”
    “We were, sir,” Richard agreed. “Before I commenced studying for the