had the better eyesight. “No, it is a man.”
Folie squinted. But the stream’s silver glare misted the detail of the woods. “I can’t see him.”
Melinda shook her head. “He’s gone now.” She frowned slightly. “Do you suppose it was him?”
“I couldn’t tell anything.”
“I believe he was there all along,” Melinda said uneasily. “I only noticed him when he moved.”
“Fishing, no doubt.” Folie smiled. “Now wouldn’t that be a typical gentleman for you, fishing for days while his houseguests languish?”
“Let us go in, Mama.” Melinda pushed away from the wall. “I wish to dash a note to Miss Vernon.”
Folie glanced at her. “If you like.”
Melinda swept her skirt up around her ankles. “I’ll race you to the door!” she cried gaily. Her bright hair bobbed beneath her pink and white straw hat as she began to run.
“Unfair! Head start!” Folie picked up her hem and pelted after.
Melinda’s idea of “dashing a note” was to spend three hours crossing and recrossing the pages of her letters to her droves of schoolroom friends. She sat at a desk in the drawing room, framed by a carved pagoda infested with chinamen and peacocks. While she bent her head in silent concentration over her voluminous correspondence, Folie toyed with a cup of tea. Folie had no one to whom she cared to write. Somehow she could not summon the desire to pen a note to the Misses Nunney. What was there to say, after all? “Our rooms are quite pleasant. The house is outlandish, the host a madman, and we see no one but ourselves at breakfast, tea, and dinner. Give my regards to Pussy. (And pray keep her out of my vegetable garden!)”
There had been a time when she had thought of nothing but the letters she would write. Folie gazed out the tall window. The lawn and shrubbery gleamed green, faintly distorted by the glass panes, as cheerful and English as the room she sat in was dim and mysterious with its pagodas and silent Chinamen.
She smiled wistfully, remembering the days she had spent composing her letters to India in her mind, when such simple tasks as mending and polishing the plate had been infused with a new glamour as she thought of how she might describe them to him. This is how I do it, first the whiting with the soft leather—we always use the same piece, as it gets better with time—the coating rubbed in hard and let to dry all dull and gray, and then with linen cloths I wipe it off, and polish round and round, so that a hundred silvery colors begin to gleam through. She had always imagined him looking over her shoulder with great attentiveness as she executed these banal offices—as if he would be interested in such dull things! She had never actually written of those everyday occurrences, of course— but she had narrated her whole day to him in her mind. It had been a way of keeping him with her, walking beside her, a real presence in her world.
She shook her head a little. How she had delighted in discovering some episode that she could actually write about, something that would please and entertain him. Those she had cherished and cultivated, polishing them to as fine a sheen as the silver plate before she ever set pen to paper.
Near the wall of glass-fronted bookcases, a delicate desk ornamented in red chinoiserie awaited the unknown lady of the house. Folie stood up and wandered past the tightly bound new volumes. She paused by the desk, stroking her finger over the glossy, enameled surface. She lifted the stopper on the inkpot and found it full.
Drawing up a chair, she opened the top and took out a pen. The paper was heavy and rich, impressed with a crest and the name of the house. She mended the pen with a silver knife and paused.
Sweet knight, she wrote.
And stared at it. But then she thought, of course I am not going to post this to him. Not to the Robert Cambourne in this house.
To the Robert in her mind she could write what she pleased. She ached to do so.
Folie squinted. But the stream’s silver glare misted the detail of the woods. “I can’t see him.”
Melinda shook her head. “He’s gone now.” She frowned slightly. “Do you suppose it was him?”
“I couldn’t tell anything.”
“I believe he was there all along,” Melinda said uneasily. “I only noticed him when he moved.”
“Fishing, no doubt.” Folie smiled. “Now wouldn’t that be a typical gentleman for you, fishing for days while his houseguests languish?”
“Let us go in, Mama.” Melinda pushed away from the wall. “I wish to dash a note to Miss Vernon.”
Folie glanced at her. “If you like.”
Melinda swept her skirt up around her ankles. “I’ll race you to the door!” she cried gaily. Her bright hair bobbed beneath her pink and white straw hat as she began to run.
“Unfair! Head start!” Folie picked up her hem and pelted after.
Melinda’s idea of “dashing a note” was to spend three hours crossing and recrossing the pages of her letters to her droves of schoolroom friends. She sat at a desk in the drawing room, framed by a carved pagoda infested with chinamen and peacocks. While she bent her head in silent concentration over her voluminous correspondence, Folie toyed with a cup of tea. Folie had no one to whom she cared to write. Somehow she could not summon the desire to pen a note to the Misses Nunney. What was there to say, after all? “Our rooms are quite pleasant. The house is outlandish, the host a madman, and we see no one but ourselves at breakfast, tea, and dinner. Give my regards to Pussy. (And pray keep her out of my vegetable garden!)”
There had been a time when she had thought of nothing but the letters she would write. Folie gazed out the tall window. The lawn and shrubbery gleamed green, faintly distorted by the glass panes, as cheerful and English as the room she sat in was dim and mysterious with its pagodas and silent Chinamen.
She smiled wistfully, remembering the days she had spent composing her letters to India in her mind, when such simple tasks as mending and polishing the plate had been infused with a new glamour as she thought of how she might describe them to him. This is how I do it, first the whiting with the soft leather—we always use the same piece, as it gets better with time—the coating rubbed in hard and let to dry all dull and gray, and then with linen cloths I wipe it off, and polish round and round, so that a hundred silvery colors begin to gleam through. She had always imagined him looking over her shoulder with great attentiveness as she executed these banal offices—as if he would be interested in such dull things! She had never actually written of those everyday occurrences, of course— but she had narrated her whole day to him in her mind. It had been a way of keeping him with her, walking beside her, a real presence in her world.
She shook her head a little. How she had delighted in discovering some episode that she could actually write about, something that would please and entertain him. Those she had cherished and cultivated, polishing them to as fine a sheen as the silver plate before she ever set pen to paper.
Near the wall of glass-fronted bookcases, a delicate desk ornamented in red chinoiserie awaited the unknown lady of the house. Folie stood up and wandered past the tightly bound new volumes. She paused by the desk, stroking her finger over the glossy, enameled surface. She lifted the stopper on the inkpot and found it full.
Drawing up a chair, she opened the top and took out a pen. The paper was heavy and rich, impressed with a crest and the name of the house. She mended the pen with a silver knife and paused.
Sweet knight, she wrote.
And stared at it. But then she thought, of course I am not going to post this to him. Not to the Robert Cambourne in this house.
To the Robert in her mind she could write what she pleased. She ached to do so.
Similar Books
