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  After such a callous piece of flippancy as this, it was only to be expected that when Amanda accompanied her protector downstairs to the coffee-room she should do so with all the air of a Christian martyr.

  The landlord had been profuse in apologies for his inability to offer Sir Gareth a private parlour. The only one the White Lion possessed was occupied already by an elderly gentleman afflicted with gout, and although the landlord plainly considered Sir Gareth more worthy of it, he doubted whether the gouty gentleman would share this view.

  But Sir Gareth, in spite of having thrown a judicious damper over Amanda’s sudden access of maidenly modesty, was a great deal more aware of the perils of her situation than she, and he had no desire to add to the irregularity of this journey by dining with her in a private parlour. The landlord, relieved to find him so accommodating, assured him that every attention would be paid to his comfort, and added that since the only other visitor to the inn was one very quiet young gentleman he need not fear that his ward would be exposed to noisy company.

  The coffee-room was a pleasant, low-pitched apartment, furnished with one long table, a quantity of chairs, and a massive sideboard. The window-embrasure was filled by a cushioned seat, and this, when Sir Gareth and Amanda entered the room, was occupied by the quiet young gentleman, who was reading a book in the fading daylight. He did not raise his eyes from this immediately, but upon Sir Gareth’s desiring the waiter to bring him a glass of sherry, he looked up, and, his gaze falling upon Amanda, became apparently transfixed.

  ‘And some lemonade for the lady,’ added Sir Gareth unthinkingly.

  He was speedily brought to realize that he had been guilty of gross folly. Amanda might be forced to acknowledge him as her guardian, but she was not going to submit to such arbitrary treatment as this. ‘Thank you, I don’t care for lemonade,’ she said. ‘I will take a glass of sherry.’

  Sir Gareth’s lips twitched. He met the waiter’s understanding eye, and said briefly: ‘Ratafia.’

  Amanda, having by this time discovered the presence of the quiet young gentleman, thought it prudent to refrain from further argument, and relapsed into dejection. The quiet young gentleman, his book forgotten, continued to gaze at her exquisite profile, in his own face an expression of awed admiration.

  Sir Gareth, already aware of his presence, was thus afforded the opportunity to study him at leisure. He would not ordinarily have felt it necessary to pay much heed to a chance-met traveller, but his short acquaintance with Amanda had taught him that that disastrously confiding damsel would not hesitate to turn any promising stranger to good account.

  But what he saw satisfied him. The quiet young gentleman, whom he judged to be perhaps eighteen or nineteen years of age, was a slender youth, with a damask cheek, a sensitive mouth, and a pair of rather dreamy gray eyes. He was attired in a riding-dress whose cut, without aspiring to the heights achieved by Weston, or Schultz, or Schweitzer and Davidson, advertised the skill of a reliable provincial tailor. Tentative ambition was betrayed by a waistcoat of such bold design as might be relied upon to appeal to the taste of Oxford or Cambridge collegiates; and the intricate, if not entirely felicitous, arrangement of his neckcloth exactly resembled the efforts of Mr Leigh Wetherby to copy the various styles affected by his Corinthian uncle.

  As though conscious of Sir Gareth’s scrutiny, he withdrew his rapt gaze from Amanda, and glanced towards him, blushing slightly as he realized that he had been under observation. Sir Gareth smiled at him, and addressed some commonplace to him. He replied with a little stammer of shyness, but in a cultured voice which confirmed Sir Gareth’s estimate of his condition. An agreeable, well-mannered boy, of good-breeding but little worldly experience, decided Sir Gareth. Too young to appear to Amanda in the light of a potential rescuer, but he might serve to make her forget her injuries, he thought. In any event, since he would shortly be sitting down to table with them, he could not be ignored.

  Within a very few minutes, the young gentleman, his reading abandoned, had joined his fellow-guests beside the empty fireplace in the middle of the room, and was chatting easily with his new acquaintance. Sir Gareth had seemed to him at first rather awe-inspiring, clearly a man of fashion, possibly (if his highly polished top-boots were anything to go by) a top-sawyer, but he soon found that he was not at all proud, but, on the contrary, very affable and encouraging. Long before the covers were set on the table, the young gentleman had disclosed that his name was Hildebrand Ross, and that his home was in Suffolk, where, Sir Gareth gathered, his father was the squire of a village not far from Stowmarket. He had got his schooling at Winchester, and was at present up at Cambridge. He had several sisters, all older than himself, but no brothers; and it was not difficult to guess that he was at once the hope and the darling of his house. He told Sir Gareth that he was on his way to Ludlow, where he expected to join a party of college friends on a walking tour of Wales. His intention had been to have spent the night at Wellingborough, but he had been attracted to the White Lion by its air of antiquity: did not Sir Gareth think that in all likelihood the inn had been standing here, just as it did today, when Queen Katherine had been imprisoned at Kimbolton?

  This question could not fail to catch Amanda’s attention, and she temporarily abandoned her rôle of martyred innocence to demand further information. Delighted as much to expound what appeared to be a favourite subject as to converse with the most stunningly beautiful creature he had ever beheld, Mr Ross turned eagerly towards her. Sir Gareth, thankful, at the end of a wearing day, to be relieved of the necessity of entertaining his charge, retired from the conversation, enjoying his sherry in peace, and listening, in a little amusement, to Mr Ross’s earnest discourse.

  Mr Ross seemed to be a romantically minded youth, with a strong liking for historic subjects. He thought that there was promising matter for a dramatic tragedy, in blank verse, in the Divorce and Death of Queen Katherine of Aragon. Only, did Amanda feel that it would be presumptuous for a lesser poet to tread in the steps of Shakespeare? Yes (blushing), his ambition was to enter the field of literature. As a matter of a fact, he had written a quantity of verse already. Oh, no! not published! just fugitive fragments written when he was quite young, which he would be ashamed to see in print. He rather thought that his talent was for Drama: at least (blushing more fierily), so one or two knowledgeable persons had been kind enough to say. To own the truth, he had already written a short play, while still at Winchester, which had been performed by certain members of the Sixth. Mere schoolboy stuff, of course, but one of the situations had been considered powerful, and he fancied that there were several passages that were not wholly contemptible. But he must sound like a coxcomb!

  Reassured on this point, he confided that he had for long nursed an ambition to write a Tragic Drama about Queen Katherine, but had hitherto put the project from him, fearing that until he had gained experience and knowledge of the world he might not do justice to his subject. The moment now seemed ripe; and the sight of Kimbolton, where, as Amanda was of course aware, the unfortunate queen had died, had put one or two very good notions into his head.

  Amanda, who had never before met an author, much less a dramatic poet, was impressed. She begged Mr Ross to tell her more; and Mr Ross, stammering with mingled shyness and gratification, said that if she was sure she would not think him the greatest bore in nature, he would very much value her opinion of his play, as he at present conceived it.

  Sir Gareth, lounging in a deep chair at his ease, with his shapely and superbly booted legs crossed at the ankles, watched them with a smile lurking at the back of his eyes. An attractive pair of children: the boy a little shy, and obviously dazzled, the girl quite free from any sort of self-consciousness, and pretty enough to turn far more seasoned heads than young Ross’s. She was having much the same effect upon him as she had had upon Joe Ninfield, but she couldn’t do much damage to his heart in one evening. As for the budding
dramatist’s play, it seemed uncertain whether it would turn out to be a chronicle, starting with Katherine’s marriage to Prince Arthur (because that would make a splendid scene), and taking, according to Sir Gareth’s silent estimate, at least three nights to perform, or a shorter but much gloomier production, starting with a divorce, and ending with an autopsy. The young couple, rapidly arriving at a comfortable state of intimacy, were hotly embroiled in argument by the time the covers were set on the table. Mr Ross, in thrilling accents, had told Amanda the story of Katherine’s exposed heart, so indelibly blackened that not all the efforts of the chandler sufficed to wash it clean. And then the chandler had cut it in twain, and behold! it was black right to the core, with a nameless Thing clutching it so tightly that it could not be wrenched away. Amanda listened to this horrid tale with her eyes growing rounder and rounder, and was enthusiastic in her appreciation of it. Mr Ross said that it had taken strong possession of his mind also, but he doubted whether the scene would prove suitable for dramatic production. Amanda could see no difficulty. The autopsy would be performed, naturally, on a dummy, and a sponge, well soaked in pitch, would make an excellent heart. She was persuaded that no other dramatist had ever hit upon so splendid and original a final scene. But Mr Ross, while conceding the splendour and the originality, was inclined to doubt whether it would take the public’s fancy.

  At this point, Sir Gareth, who had been controlling himself admirably, caught the waiter’s astonished eye, and burst out laughing. As two startled faces turned towards him, he got up, saying; ‘Come to dinner, you young ghouls! And I give you fair warning that anyone offering me blackened hearts as an accompaniment to roast chicken will be instantly banished from the table!’

  Mr Ross, taking this in good part, grinned, but even as he rose to his feet he noticed that a distressing change had come over Amanda. A moment earlier she had been all animation and interest, her expressive eyes full of sparkle and the enchanting smile, with its hint of mischief, never far from her lips; now, as though at the waving of a wand, all the liveliness had vanished from her face, her eyes had clouded, and she looked as though she had awakened suddenly from a pleasant dream to very disagreeable reality. For an anxious moment Mr Ross wondered whether he could possibly have said anything to offend her. Then Sir Gareth, waiting behind the chair which he had pulled out for her at the table, said, not exactly imperatively, but in a voice of authority: ‘Come along, my child!’

  She rose with obvious reluctance, and, as she took her place at the table, cast a look up at her guardian which considerably surprised Mr Ross, so resentful was it. He could only suppose that there had been some disagreement between them. Sir Gareth seemed to be very pleasant and good-humoured, but perhaps, under his charm of manner, he was a stricter guardian than one would guess. This conclusion was almost immediately borne out by his refusal to permit Amanda to fetch her kitten down to the coffee-room. Hardly had she seated herself than she started up again, saying that Joseph must be allowed to share the repast. She would have left the table on the words, but Sir Gareth’s hand shot out, and caught her wrist. ‘Oh, no!’ he said.

  He sounded amused, but the colour rushed up into Amanda’s face, and she tried to wrench free, exclaiming in a low, shaking voice: ‘I wasn’t! I didn’t even think of – Let me go!’

  He released her wrist, but he too had risen, and he obliged her to sit down again, his hands on her shoulders. He kept them there for a minute. ‘Joseph shall join us after dinner,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we want him at table.’

  He went back to his place, and, as though nothing had happened, began to talk to Hildebrand.

  Had he been asked to consider the question dispassionately, Hildebrand would have given his vote against the inclusion of a kitten at the board, but confronted by Amanda’s mortified face it was impossible to be dispassionate. She was biting her pretty lip, her eyes downcast, and her cheeks still flushed, and these signs of discomfiture made Sir Gareth’s conduct seem a little tyrannical. However, he had seen his sisters behave in very much the same way when thwarted, and he thought that probably she would recover from her pet if no heed were paid to her, and he resolutely turned his eyes away from her, and listened to what Sir Gareth was saying to him.

  Meanwhile, Amanda, rejecting the soup, was struggling with her emotions. Mr Ross had been quite right in thinking that she had been jerked back to disagreeable reality. While she had been listening to his delightful anecdotes of Queen Katherine, she had forgotten what the future held in store for her. Sir Gareth’s voice had recalled her, and all the evils of her situation came rushing in on her with such force that she almost burst into tears. A bitter sense of frustration possessed her, and the fact that Sir Gareth, who was its author, was as good-humoured as ever did nothing to soothe her. It made her very angry to be treated as though she were a child whose troubles were trivial, and would soon be forgotten; and the look Hildebrand had seen her cast at him had indeed been resentful. She had toyed with the notion of refusing to sit down to dinner, but had found herself, to her further annoyance, obeying that pleasantly spoken yet determined summons. She didn’t quite know why, but it hadn’t seemed possible to do anything else. Then he had refused to let her fetch her dear little kitten, because he had suspected that she was going to run away again. Since she really hadn’t any such intention, this seemed to her the height of injustice, and made the cup of her wrongs flow over. And now, instead of trying to atone for the insult by coaxing her to drink her soup, and wooing her with soft words, as Grandpapa would certainly have done, he was paying no heed to her at all, but talking to Mr Ross instead. This was treatment to which she was quite unaccustomed, for although Neil had never tried to coax her out of a tantrum his methods of dealing with her had not so far included ostracism.

  The sense of ill-usage grew. Not even the budding playwright, who had seemed to have a great deal of sensibility, cared a button whether she ate what was set before her, or starved. He was telling Sir Gareth all about his horse, which had been given him as a birthday present by his father. The noble animal was even now in the stable attached to the White Lion, for he was riding to Ludlow, which was far preferable to going by a stuffy coach: did not Sir Gareth agree? His mama had not liked his going off quite by himself, but Father perfectly understood that one wanted to be free to go where one chose when one was enjoying the Long Vacation. He was a great gun: not at all like some fathers one had met, who were always finding fault, or getting into a grand fuss, merely because their sons had forgotten to write home for a week or two.

  How odious Sir Gareth was, thought Amanda, to encourage young Mr Ross to forget all about her! It was all of a piece: no doubt he was making himself agreeable just to spike her guns, in case she should try to enlist Mr Ross as an ally. That was what he had done at Whitethorn Farm, turning even kind Mr Ninfield against her, and inducing him to believe all the shocking lies he had uttered.

  But Mr Ross had not forgotten her. He had been covertly watching her, and he now ventured to turn his face fully towards her, and to smile at her. She smiled back at him, but so pathetically that he became convinced that something must be very much amiss.

  She grew rather more cheerful after dinner, for her stern guardian permitted her to bring Joseph down to the coffee-room, and after Joseph had been regaled with a portion of minced chicken he very obligingly diverted the company by engaging in a protracted form of guerrilla warfare with a ball of screwed-up paper.

  In the middle of this entertainment, Trotton came in for any final orders his master might wish to give him, and while Sir Gareth was talking to him Mr Ross seized the opportunity to whisper: ‘I beg pardon, but – is anything amiss?’

  His fears were then confirmed. Amanda’s eyes flew towards Sir Gareth in a way that clearly showed her dread of him, and she whispered in reply: ‘Everything! Hush!’

  He was obediently silent, but he resolved to pursue his enquiries as soon as Sir Gar
eth gave him the chance to speak to her alone. Unfortunately, Sir Gareth gave him no chance, but very soon dashed all his hopes by breaking up the party at an early hour. He said that since she had had a long and tiring day, and would have another tomorrow, Amanda must to go bed in good time.

  ‘But I don’t wish to go to bed, for I am not in the least sleepy!’ objected Amanda.

  ‘I’m sure you’re not, but I am, and you can see that Joseph is too,’ returned Sir Gareth.

  The very speaking look she exchanged with Mr Ross, as she reluctantly rose from her chair, was intended to convey to him her opinion of persons who ordered her to bed as though she was a baby, but he interpreted it as an appeal for aid, and his chivalry was fired.