Eva Ibbotson

“I think the less said about that the better. I found Harriet half-starved and confined like a prisoner because she tried to have a life of her own. If you would like me to tell the students of the state in which I found her, I should be happy to do so.”

“How I treat my daughter is none of your business. Harriet is sick in her body and sick in her soul—” But he took an involuntary step backward, aware of a sudden menace in the stranger’s stance. “Who are you anyway?” and rallying: “I won’t be blackmailed. Harriet is under age—”

“Professor Morton, it is only because you are Harriet’s father that I have not actually throttled you. Anyone else who had treated her as you have done would not have lived to tell the tale. I choose to believe that you are misguided, pompous and opinionated rather than sadistic and cruel. But unless you sign this document without delay I will take you out into the courtyard, debag you and throw you into the fountain.”

The look of expectancy on the students’ faces changed to one of deep and utter happiness.

“You wouldn’t dare!” blustered the Professor.

“Try me,” said Rom. He looked down at the row of upturned faces. “I can do it myself, but it would be easier if I had help. If anyone is willing to help me debag the Professor, would they put up their hand?”

There were fourteen students in the lecture room and thirteen hands shot up without an instant’s hesitation. Then Ellenby, sole support of a widowed mother, shook off his moment of cowardice and also raised his hand.

“I think you should sign, you know,” said Rom pleasantly. “After all, it’s no tragedy to have your daughter installed as mistress of Stavely.”

“Eh? What?” The Professor peered at the document and registered the fact that Harriet’s suitor was Romain Paul Verney Brandon of Stavely Hall, Suffolk. “Good heavens!”

If the Professor had continued to defy him, had kept up his bluster, Rom might have felt a reluctant respect for the detestable man. But over Professor Morton’s face there now spread a look of servile amazement and awe—and unscrewing his fountain pen, he signed his name.

He was, however, not destined to resume his lecture. Rom might have left the room, but he had shown the students a lovely and fulfilling vision; he had unleashed primeval forces which were not to be gainsaid.

Blakewell rose first and even when he became a bishop he was to speak with nostalgia of this moment of release. Hastings followed—then Moisewitch, whom the Professor had humiliated in front of the entire tutorial group, took off his spectacles and laid them carefully on the window sill. No words were necessary as every student in the hall moved as one man toward the rostrum.

“His trousers first,” said Blakewell. “Start with his trousers…”

Rom drew back the curtains and looked out on Stavely’s moonlit avenue of beeches, the silver pools of light in the meadows of the park, drank in the sharp clean smell of the air with its first touch of frost. He was back home and with every reason to rejoice. To the place he had left as a penniless and rejected youth, he had returned as master—and he had brought his future bride. Away to the left he could see the chimneys of Paradise Farm, but no light showed from the house. Isobel was back, having sulked all the way across the Atlantic, but she had decided to remain in London and spend some of the allowance Rom had bestowed on her. Her son was with her now, but a message from the housekeeper had informed Rom that he could expect Master Henry at the end of the week. Clearly it was not going to be difficult to keep an eye on his nephew!

He stayed for a while, still, by the window, but the dreams he had had for Stavely eluded him. It was probably just reaction from the constant exercise of will, the long journey and fruitless delay in Russia, that made him feel both restless and weary. What else could ail him, after all—and knowing that he would not sleep, he nevertheless turned from the window and began to prepare for bed.

He was interrupted by a knock at the door—quiet, but not noticeably timid—and Harriet, still in her Aunt Louisa’s appalling nightgown, entered the room. At which point Rom became aware of what had ailed him… and ailed him no longer.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” said Harriet, “but I woke up and I wondered if I could make a request of you?”

She had folded her hands and now with a rush of expectancy he looked down at her feet which she proceeded to fold also.

“What request would that be, Harriet?” he asked, matching her own grave and measured tones.

“Well, you said we were going to be married tomorrow, didn’t you? Because of the special license?”

“Yes, I did say that. If you wish it, that is?” he teased.

How did she manage to look like that after the ordeal she had been through? Did she somehow consume and metabolize love; this extraordinary girl?