hardened. “I’ll go into the army, of course.”
“Then don’t bother to speak to my uncle,” she returned with ominous calm. “I won’t marry you.”
“Frances! You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
And there it was. He looked at the slender loveliness in front of him. He could snap her in two with his hands, but he could not break her will. It was a granite wall, firm, categorical, unassailable. He tried once more. “You may have to marry me.”
Her eyes were grass green. “No, I won’t,” she lied determinedly. “I am all right.”
Ian fought to get a grip on his anger. He wanted to shake her. Worse, he wanted to throw her down . . . Frances correctly read the look in his eyes and stepped backwards. She knew that terrifying temper. “Don’t touch me,” she said breathlessly.
A mask of control came down over his features, almost but not quite hiding the passion beneath. “I have no intention of touching you,” he said coldly. “I will give you a warning, though, Frances. This is the last time I’ll ask you to marry me. You won’t get a chance to change your mind.”
Her face suddenly blazed. “Go marry the army!” she shouted, as angry now as he. “That’s your true love.”
He stared at her for a few silent moments and a nerve quivered in his cheek. “Goodbye,” he finally said in the same cold voice as before. He crossed the room and went out, shutting the door behind him. Outside he paused for a minute, his head bent; there was no sound from within. He straightened and walked quickly down the hall, his stride long and even as usual.
Frances listened to him go. “He’ll be back,” she said to her portrait as the sound of his steps died away. “I know he will.”
* * * *
After he left Frances, Ian went directly to the house of Andres Bello, where he was fortunate enough to find Simon Bolivar. They had a long and serious conversation. The next day, when Colonel Bolivar sailed for South America in a British man-of-war, Ian Macdonald was with him.
It was left to Douglas to break the news to Frances. He had not had an opportunity to talk to Ian. There had been a letter for him at the breakfast table yesterday morning, and one for Ian’s mother. In his letter to Douglas Ian had spelled out his reasons for accompanying Bolivar. “I have spoken to Colonel Bolivar at length,” he wrote. “There are many things about the situation in South America that I do not understand, but I do recognize the desire for independence is something worth fighting for. And Bolivar is, I believe, a great man. He will be to South America what Washington was to the United States. The opportunity to join an enterprise of such magnitude is irresistible.” He mentioned Frances only indirectly, in his concluding remark. “After all, there is nothing for me at home.”
So now Douglas had to face her, and he was not looking forward to the task. He asked to see Lady Mary first and briefly explained his mission . She sent for Frances to come to the drawing room and, after an anxious look at her niece, left the room. “Mr. Macdonald has some news for you, my dear,” she said softly. “If you want me I will be in the morning parlor.”
Douglas was left alone with Frances. He had worried all day yesterday about this encounter. It was the first time, so far as he knew, that Frances had not gotten her way. He did not know how she would react; Frances, under the sweet serenity she presented to the world, had a temper almost as dangerous as Ian’s. Douglas, who had watched and loved her for years, was one of the few to realize that.
“What is the matter, Douglas?” She looked pale but composed.
“Frances.” It had to be said. “Frances, Ian has gone to South America with Colonel Bolivar. He sailed yesterday.”
“What?” Her long green eyes stared uncomprehendingly at Douglas’s concerned face. “South America?”
“Venezuela, to be precise. Caracas has
“Then don’t bother to speak to my uncle,” she returned with ominous calm. “I won’t marry you.”
“Frances! You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
And there it was. He looked at the slender loveliness in front of him. He could snap her in two with his hands, but he could not break her will. It was a granite wall, firm, categorical, unassailable. He tried once more. “You may have to marry me.”
Her eyes were grass green. “No, I won’t,” she lied determinedly. “I am all right.”
Ian fought to get a grip on his anger. He wanted to shake her. Worse, he wanted to throw her down . . . Frances correctly read the look in his eyes and stepped backwards. She knew that terrifying temper. “Don’t touch me,” she said breathlessly.
A mask of control came down over his features, almost but not quite hiding the passion beneath. “I have no intention of touching you,” he said coldly. “I will give you a warning, though, Frances. This is the last time I’ll ask you to marry me. You won’t get a chance to change your mind.”
Her face suddenly blazed. “Go marry the army!” she shouted, as angry now as he. “That’s your true love.”
He stared at her for a few silent moments and a nerve quivered in his cheek. “Goodbye,” he finally said in the same cold voice as before. He crossed the room and went out, shutting the door behind him. Outside he paused for a minute, his head bent; there was no sound from within. He straightened and walked quickly down the hall, his stride long and even as usual.
Frances listened to him go. “He’ll be back,” she said to her portrait as the sound of his steps died away. “I know he will.”
* * * *
After he left Frances, Ian went directly to the house of Andres Bello, where he was fortunate enough to find Simon Bolivar. They had a long and serious conversation. The next day, when Colonel Bolivar sailed for South America in a British man-of-war, Ian Macdonald was with him.
It was left to Douglas to break the news to Frances. He had not had an opportunity to talk to Ian. There had been a letter for him at the breakfast table yesterday morning, and one for Ian’s mother. In his letter to Douglas Ian had spelled out his reasons for accompanying Bolivar. “I have spoken to Colonel Bolivar at length,” he wrote. “There are many things about the situation in South America that I do not understand, but I do recognize the desire for independence is something worth fighting for. And Bolivar is, I believe, a great man. He will be to South America what Washington was to the United States. The opportunity to join an enterprise of such magnitude is irresistible.” He mentioned Frances only indirectly, in his concluding remark. “After all, there is nothing for me at home.”
So now Douglas had to face her, and he was not looking forward to the task. He asked to see Lady Mary first and briefly explained his mission . She sent for Frances to come to the drawing room and, after an anxious look at her niece, left the room. “Mr. Macdonald has some news for you, my dear,” she said softly. “If you want me I will be in the morning parlor.”
Douglas was left alone with Frances. He had worried all day yesterday about this encounter. It was the first time, so far as he knew, that Frances had not gotten her way. He did not know how she would react; Frances, under the sweet serenity she presented to the world, had a temper almost as dangerous as Ian’s. Douglas, who had watched and loved her for years, was one of the few to realize that.
“What is the matter, Douglas?” She looked pale but composed.
“Frances.” It had to be said. “Frances, Ian has gone to South America with Colonel Bolivar. He sailed yesterday.”
“What?” Her long green eyes stared uncomprehendingly at Douglas’s concerned face. “South America?”
“Venezuela, to be precise. Caracas has
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