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Authors: Cartland Barbara
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light was streaming forth from it on to the passage at the top of the stairs. For just one second Lizbeth watched it, fascinated. Then into the passage came first her stepmother holding a silver candlestick in her hand, and behind her Sir Harry with his night-cap on his head and also carrying a candle.
Catherine wore a peignoir of white silk over her nightgown and her hair was in two long plaits on either side of her face. Her eyes were dark and spiteful, her lips were smiling as if she was delighting in the scene that was about to take place. It was enough for Lizbeth to look at her to know who had bolted the door.
Sir Harry, despite the fact that he was wearing only a nightshirt, was awe-inspiring. He stood leaning against a heraldic newel at the head of the stairs, his candle in his hand, his face red with anger, his heavy eyebrows almost meeting across his forehead. He stared down into the hall at Lizbeth and Francis and then his voice rang out in a sudden roar.
“Come here, both of you!”
It seemed to Lizbeth that the stairs ascended endlessly. She felt as if she and Francis would never reach the top. As they walked up step by step, Francis’ boots making enough noise now to raise the whole house, Lizbeth could feel his courage and the elation and happiness of the mood in which he had returned home ebbing away from him slowly but surely.
He had never been able to stand up to his father. He had always been afraid of him since he was a little boy, and long before they reached the top Lizbeth knew that he was trembling and his lips were dry so that he must moisten them with his tongue, not once but continuously.
“Now, sir, perhaps you will explain to me where you have been,” Sir Harry said as Francis reached the top step.
Lizbeth could see her brother’s face in the light of the candles. He was pale now and his eyes were blinking as if they were dazzled and also as if he were ashamed. He looked stupid and insignificant and for a moment Lizbeth could understand what her father was feeling. Red-faced, pompous and overbearing, he was yet a man! In his youth he must have been good-looking, but that had not mattered beside the dash and courage he had shown, whether he was enjoying a fight or seducing a woman.
Lizbeth realised that, if Francis could say he had been to London to see some fair lady, or even avow he had been courting some village maiden, his father would forgive him and be proud of him. But it was not love which made him go to the Keens – it was something which she feared even as she knew their father was afraid of it.
“Well, speak up, where have you been?” Sir Harry asked again.
“ To – to – to Dr. Keen’s, sir.”
“God’s death! I knew it. I might have guessed that you would disobey my orders. I told you that I would not have you going there to listen to seditious talk, to be involved in some Papist plot. I forbade you the house, did I not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“ And yet you have defied me. You creep out when I am asleep, leaving and entering the house like a thief or a servant rather than as a gentleman. Well, I must teach you a lesson, for I cannot trust you, it seems. You will not go back to Oxford next term, but you will sail with Master Rodney Hawkhurst in his ship for which I have just subscribed a substantial sum of money. We will see if the sea can make a man of you.”
“No, I won’t go, I won’t!” Francis spoke passionately, but his protest lacked conviction. His voice rose shrilly, the voice of a boy, not a man.
“You will obey my orders,” Sir Harry replied harshly. “I shall send a letter to Master Hawkhurst to-morrow apprising him of your arrival. You will get your clothes together and start for Plymouth as soon as it can be arranged. In the meantime you are under orders not to leave this house. Do you understand, you are not to leave this house, nor will you have any communication with Dr. Keen or his daughter. That is my command. If you don’t obey me,
Catherine wore a peignoir of white silk over her nightgown and her hair was in two long plaits on either side of her face. Her eyes were dark and spiteful, her lips were smiling as if she was delighting in the scene that was about to take place. It was enough for Lizbeth to look at her to know who had bolted the door.
Sir Harry, despite the fact that he was wearing only a nightshirt, was awe-inspiring. He stood leaning against a heraldic newel at the head of the stairs, his candle in his hand, his face red with anger, his heavy eyebrows almost meeting across his forehead. He stared down into the hall at Lizbeth and Francis and then his voice rang out in a sudden roar.
“Come here, both of you!”
It seemed to Lizbeth that the stairs ascended endlessly. She felt as if she and Francis would never reach the top. As they walked up step by step, Francis’ boots making enough noise now to raise the whole house, Lizbeth could feel his courage and the elation and happiness of the mood in which he had returned home ebbing away from him slowly but surely.
He had never been able to stand up to his father. He had always been afraid of him since he was a little boy, and long before they reached the top Lizbeth knew that he was trembling and his lips were dry so that he must moisten them with his tongue, not once but continuously.
“Now, sir, perhaps you will explain to me where you have been,” Sir Harry said as Francis reached the top step.
Lizbeth could see her brother’s face in the light of the candles. He was pale now and his eyes were blinking as if they were dazzled and also as if he were ashamed. He looked stupid and insignificant and for a moment Lizbeth could understand what her father was feeling. Red-faced, pompous and overbearing, he was yet a man! In his youth he must have been good-looking, but that had not mattered beside the dash and courage he had shown, whether he was enjoying a fight or seducing a woman.
Lizbeth realised that, if Francis could say he had been to London to see some fair lady, or even avow he had been courting some village maiden, his father would forgive him and be proud of him. But it was not love which made him go to the Keens – it was something which she feared even as she knew their father was afraid of it.
“Well, speak up, where have you been?” Sir Harry asked again.
“ To – to – to Dr. Keen’s, sir.”
“God’s death! I knew it. I might have guessed that you would disobey my orders. I told you that I would not have you going there to listen to seditious talk, to be involved in some Papist plot. I forbade you the house, did I not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“ And yet you have defied me. You creep out when I am asleep, leaving and entering the house like a thief or a servant rather than as a gentleman. Well, I must teach you a lesson, for I cannot trust you, it seems. You will not go back to Oxford next term, but you will sail with Master Rodney Hawkhurst in his ship for which I have just subscribed a substantial sum of money. We will see if the sea can make a man of you.”
“No, I won’t go, I won’t!” Francis spoke passionately, but his protest lacked conviction. His voice rose shrilly, the voice of a boy, not a man.
“You will obey my orders,” Sir Harry replied harshly. “I shall send a letter to Master Hawkhurst to-morrow apprising him of your arrival. You will get your clothes together and start for Plymouth as soon as it can be arranged. In the meantime you are under orders not to leave this house. Do you understand, you are not to leave this house, nor will you have any communication with Dr. Keen or his daughter. That is my command. If you don’t obey me,
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