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Authors: Cartland Barbara
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some imaginative place of her own so that she did not hear the long, laboured discourse which usually took the best part of two hours.
Yet now she wondered whether religion should have meant more to her. The prayers she had said as a child had seemed adequate enough, yet beside the flame which was driving Phillida into rebellion against her father and the life in which she had been brought up they seemed insignificant and paltry, like Francis’ poetry.
Was Francis’ interest in Elita love or the intrigue of religion? Lizbeth thought of her father’s face if he should suspect that two of his children were caught up in the toils and tangles of Popery, and even as she tried to conceive his horror, she heard a step outside her window. It was Francis returning, she was sure of that, and when she hurried across the room and pulled back the curtains, she saw that her assumption was right.
The clouds had cleared a little from the sky and the moon, pale and watery, was shedding its rays over the garden. The shadows were thick and dark and the silver light gleamed on the wet paving stones and the puddles in the drive. Francis was just below her now. She could see the darkness of his cloak and hat pulled low over his forehead. He was trying the door, which he had left unlocked. Though he twisted and turned the heavy circular handle it would not open.
With a sudden fear which for the moment made it impossible for her to move, Lizbeth guessed what had happened. After Francis had gone from the house, someone had closed and locked the door behind him. She felt a sudden constriction in her throat and her heart began to beat very fast. Someone, then, knew that Francis had gone out!
She heard Francis turn the handle again, saw him push with all his strength against the door, and then, as he stepped back, surprised and alarmed, Lizbeth gave a low whistle. He looked up quickly at her window. She knew that he could see her face in the moonlight, and she set her finger against her lips. He understood and pointed to the door.
She nodded her head and moving from the window, snatched up a warm shawl which lay over the chair and wrapped it round her shoulders. She opened the door of her room – the passage was in darkness save for the moonlight coming through the high, diamond-paned window on the stairway.
Swiftly, on tiptoe, Lizbeth ran along the passage, then, with her hand on the broad oak banister, she started to descend the stairs. The rushes in the hall tickled her feet, they rustled too, as she moved across them to the front door. As she anticipated, the heavy bolt had been drawn and the big iron key turned in the lock.
It took all her strength to move them, but when she had done so, the door was open and Francis stepped over the threshold, drawing his hat from his head.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Even though the words were hardly breathed, Lizbeth shushed him into silence. She closed the door and strove to shoot the bolt, but it was too heavy for her. She beckoned to Francis and he moved it into place, making a faint sound which caused Lizbeth to say again,
“Hush!”
He smiled at her. It was as if he scorned her fears. He bent to kiss her cheek as if in gratitude for what she had done for him. His lips were warm and she smelt the fumes of wine upon his breath. He had been drinking, she thought, not heavily, but enough to make him careless and not so fearful as he might be at other times.
The most dangerous part of their journey now lay before them. As they walked across the hall, Lizbeth looked down at Francis’ boots. Would it be best, she wondered, for him to remove them before he went up the stairs? And even as she considered whispering to him to do so, she saw Francis’ eyes widen as he looked towards the head of the stairs.
The expression on his face made her look up with a sudden sense of horror and what she saw made her draw in her breath with a sudden, audible gasp. The door of her father’s room was open and
Yet now she wondered whether religion should have meant more to her. The prayers she had said as a child had seemed adequate enough, yet beside the flame which was driving Phillida into rebellion against her father and the life in which she had been brought up they seemed insignificant and paltry, like Francis’ poetry.
Was Francis’ interest in Elita love or the intrigue of religion? Lizbeth thought of her father’s face if he should suspect that two of his children were caught up in the toils and tangles of Popery, and even as she tried to conceive his horror, she heard a step outside her window. It was Francis returning, she was sure of that, and when she hurried across the room and pulled back the curtains, she saw that her assumption was right.
The clouds had cleared a little from the sky and the moon, pale and watery, was shedding its rays over the garden. The shadows were thick and dark and the silver light gleamed on the wet paving stones and the puddles in the drive. Francis was just below her now. She could see the darkness of his cloak and hat pulled low over his forehead. He was trying the door, which he had left unlocked. Though he twisted and turned the heavy circular handle it would not open.
With a sudden fear which for the moment made it impossible for her to move, Lizbeth guessed what had happened. After Francis had gone from the house, someone had closed and locked the door behind him. She felt a sudden constriction in her throat and her heart began to beat very fast. Someone, then, knew that Francis had gone out!
She heard Francis turn the handle again, saw him push with all his strength against the door, and then, as he stepped back, surprised and alarmed, Lizbeth gave a low whistle. He looked up quickly at her window. She knew that he could see her face in the moonlight, and she set her finger against her lips. He understood and pointed to the door.
She nodded her head and moving from the window, snatched up a warm shawl which lay over the chair and wrapped it round her shoulders. She opened the door of her room – the passage was in darkness save for the moonlight coming through the high, diamond-paned window on the stairway.
Swiftly, on tiptoe, Lizbeth ran along the passage, then, with her hand on the broad oak banister, she started to descend the stairs. The rushes in the hall tickled her feet, they rustled too, as she moved across them to the front door. As she anticipated, the heavy bolt had been drawn and the big iron key turned in the lock.
It took all her strength to move them, but when she had done so, the door was open and Francis stepped over the threshold, drawing his hat from his head.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Even though the words were hardly breathed, Lizbeth shushed him into silence. She closed the door and strove to shoot the bolt, but it was too heavy for her. She beckoned to Francis and he moved it into place, making a faint sound which caused Lizbeth to say again,
“Hush!”
He smiled at her. It was as if he scorned her fears. He bent to kiss her cheek as if in gratitude for what she had done for him. His lips were warm and she smelt the fumes of wine upon his breath. He had been drinking, she thought, not heavily, but enough to make him careless and not so fearful as he might be at other times.
The most dangerous part of their journey now lay before them. As they walked across the hall, Lizbeth looked down at Francis’ boots. Would it be best, she wondered, for him to remove them before he went up the stairs? And even as she considered whispering to him to do so, she saw Francis’ eyes widen as he looked towards the head of the stairs.
The expression on his face made her look up with a sudden sense of horror and what she saw made her draw in her breath with a sudden, audible gasp. The door of her father’s room was open and
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