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       Chapter Four

      Adam glanced up at the tree, now devoid of toys and looking somewhat smaller than he remembered. It stood just at the edge of the Drakes’ cottage garden, its extensive roots creeping down the bank and into a small stream that ran alongside the lane towards Mowbray. The cottage was strategically situated at a fork in the lane that connected Mowbray with both Delacort Hall and Rowena’s old home, Nesbit House. Adam had passed it more times than he could remember.

      It was rather peculiarly proportioned, with the bottom half rather long and sprawling and the upper storey built on only half the cottage. That was, if he remembered correctly, where the poet was rumoured to live and work, often not appearing for days or even weeks on end. The children had all slept, cooked, eaten and played downstairs, in a world separate both from their parent and often from the outside world. Years ago the cottage had been surrounded by an unkempt wilderness which had been extremely useful for games of hide-and-seek. Now the lawn was trimmed and a profusion of vivid summer flowers crowded neat flower beds along the short gravel path to the house and under the front windows. Despite its small size, the garden looked lush and cheerful and the cottage itself had lost its ramshackle air. It seemed Miss Drake had tamed more than her own appearance and behaviour.

      This was the first time since his arrival that he had ventured off Delacort land aside from his trip into Mowbray the previous day. He planned to go riding with Nicholas later, but for the moment he just wanted to walk down the familiar lanes. When his family had first moved to the town he had found every excuse to remain in his students’ lodgings in Oxford, but from the moment he had laid eyes on Rowena, his dedication to the classics had melted under the heat of his infatuation for the local beauty. That last summer he had spent every available moment in Mowbray, vying with her many admirers for the privilege of a smile.

      As a poor relation of the old Lord Delacort, effectively living in Mowbray on his charity, Adam had had few illusions about his ability to compete. He should have been suspicious when Rowena started encouraging his attentions, but at the time he had only been convinced that love was triumphing over lucre.

      She had played him skilfully, ultimately convincing him that an elopement was their only chance for happiness. Yet he’d found their ‘secret’ rendezvous near the White Hart had been transformed into a scene from the worst music-hall farce with Rowena playing the kidnapped belle, himself as villain, Lord Moresby as Sir Galahad and most of Mowbray as either condemning chorus or avid audience.

      He clearly remembered the scene, with his mother standing shoulder to shoulder with old Lord Delacort, demanding he leave that very day, while his father had stood mutely by, eyes downcast. And then there’d been the anticlimax of the farce as the young Miss Drake had elbowed her way past Lord Delacort and demanded that Rowena admit she had planned this all along. Rowena had cleverly fallen into a swoon, judiciously finding herself in Lord Moresby’s arms, and Adam’s fate had been sealed.

      ‘Not Carthage! Dido is done to death!’ a voice exclaimed and Adam turned around, dragged back from his memories. A man of about sixty was walking down the lane, slightly hunched and with his hands clasped behind his back. He caught sight of Adam and stopped, one hand on the cottage gate, the other extending an accusing finger in Adam’s direction.

      ‘Carthage will just not do! A different setting is called for!’

      His eyes were a paler green than Miss Drake’s, but this was unquestionably the acclaimed poet William Drake.

      ‘What about Glasgow?’ Adam offered.

      ‘Glasgow?’ the poet asked, aghast.

      ‘It is certainly different,’ Adam explained.

      They both turned at the sound of a husky laugh.

      ‘Why not, Father? You might start a new literary fashion,’ Alyssa said as she stepped out of the cottage and headed up the short gravel path towards the gate.

      ‘Are you acquainted with this philistine?’ Mr Drake demanded.

      ‘This is Lord Delacort, Father. Lord Delacort, this is my father, Mr William Drake.’

      ‘Aha! You are the hedonist!’

      ‘Father!’ Alyssa exclaimed angrily, but Adam merely laughed.

      ‘You honour me, Mr Drake, but I doubt the original Greek hedonists would consider me worthy of the title. And I don’t think philistine is quite appropriate either. Perhaps you might care to try again? Third time lucky?’

      Alyssa giggled and her father threw her a venomous look, swinging open the cottage gate, which gave a squeal of protest.

      ‘Alyssa, did you find the name of Aeneas’s brother-in-law?’

      ‘Alcathous, Father.’

      ‘Alcathous, of course. Well, I am not to be bothered further today. My Aeneas is at a most delicate stage. Good day, Lord Delacort.’

      Alyssa remained standing by the gate as her father stalked into the cottage.

      ‘I am so sorry he—’ she began ruefully, but he cut her off.

      ‘Don’t apologise. You are not accountable for him.’

      She frowned at the annoyance in his voice and pushed slightly at the gate, which squealed again.

      ‘Fine. I won’t. You are as bad as he is anyway.’

      ‘Now, that is a worthy insult. Much more effective than your father’s.’

      She smiled reluctantly and as her eyes settled on the book in his hand she flushed.

      ‘I was wondering if you planned to return my book. Mr Milsom was mortified when he realised you hadn’t delivered it as promised.’

      ‘I almost didn’t. I am only on the fifth chapter. But form prevailed. Do you mean to say this book is for you? Somehow I had thought it must be for your father.’

      Her eyes lit up with laugher once more, but there was embarrassment there as well.

      ‘Hardly. Father does not indulge in reading fiction. He considers all contemporary writing outside of his own to be a waste of ink and paper.’

      ‘How very broad-minded of him. Still, tales of intrigue in the Sicilian court are hardly conventional reading material for a young woman.’

      She shrugged and the light was extinguished from her eyes, as if a cloud had passed between her and the sun.

      ‘You are an authority, then, on young women’s reading habits? Why shouldn’t a woman read, or even write, about adventures, and travel...or whatever she wishes?’

      Adam raised his hands in surrender.

      ‘I’m not saying they can’t or shouldn’t. Merely that they usually don’t, that is all. I should have known no standard definition would apply to you. I apologise for even suggesting it might.’

      ‘Your apologies are almost worse than your insults, Lord Delacort. Admitting that I might be right on the grounds that I am peculiar is hardly flattering. If that was even your objective, which I doubt!’

      ‘Not peculiar. Special,’