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proximity. The trees were beautifully scattered at random as nature intended, with stretches of grass between. Two deer looked up in surprise and dashed off, their white scuts visible in the deepening shadows.
    As the carriage rounded a curve in the road, the stone walls of the Abbey loomed in the near distance. It had been given a new facade a century before, so that it did not look at first glance like an ancient heap. The facade was long, with rows of identical tall, mullioned windows on two stories. A tower in the center and at both ends rose another story, the central one topped with a spindled balustrade. It seemed the Harwells had always been egotistical. The ancestor who had refashioned the facade had had his initials, E.G., carved in fretted stone atop the central tower. The letters stood out against the paler sky. The family name was Gaunt. The E, she had been told, stood for Edward, the traditional Christian name of the eldest son, though she had never heard anyone call Harwell Edward.
    “We should have that done at Apple Hill, Dick,” Annabelle said.
    Rosalind turned to see where she was looking. As she feared, it was at the initials atop the Abbey. Rosalind was relieved that Dick laughed.
    “Using initials is all the crack,” Annabelle informed them. “I saw in a book a letter Queen Bess had written, and it was signed E.R., for Elizabeth Rex. The Rex means queen.”
    “Rex means king, don’t it?” Dick asked Rosalind.
    “I believe the R stands for Regina,” Roz replied.
    “Oh, was that her family name?” Annabelle said, dismissing the whole conversation to wonder again who else would be dining with them and whether there would be dancing.
    They were soon deposited at the oaken door with the massive iron knocker fashioned in the shape of the family crest. It was only when one was inside that any lingering sense of the Abbey’s history was felt. The arrogance of the exterior was transformed to quiet serenity within, with touches of elegance that did not overpower the senses.
    There were no Grecian statues sequestered in their niches, but old tapestries hanging on white walls. A lovely carved prie-dieu and six chairs were the only furnishings in the entrance hall. The prie-dieu was of ancient vintage; Harwell had casually tossed his curled beaver, York tan gloves, and riding crop on the hand rest.
    “An odd sort of table,” Annabelle said with a tsk. “And not even a flower arrangement. What this place needs is a woman’s touch.”
    The sound of Lord Sylvester’s fluting voice issued from the saloon. When they were shown in, Rosalind’s gaze traveled first to Lord Sylvester. He had changed for evening into a gold velvet jacket that she thought a little too flashy for true elegance, but it looked well with his golden curls. Harwell wore a simple bottle green jacket and dark gray pantaloons. He looked massive and dour beside Sylvester’s more brilliant presence.
    When she glanced at Harwell’s face, she noticed he wore an air of utter ennui that he did not bother to try to conceal. Of course, he would be bored with anything cultural. No doubt it was being rescued from intelligent conversation that brought that smile to his face and caused his warm greeting as he rushed forward to welcome the new arrivals. He made the necessary introductions, wine was served, and while Miss Fortescue subjected Lord Sylvester to a catechism, Harwell got Rosalind aside for some private conversation.
    “I was never so glad to see anyone in my life,” he said, and wiped his brow.
    “I take it that is less a compliment to myself than a disparagement of Lord Sylvester’s conversation,” she replied, already angry with him.
    “Conversation? He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. I have been subjected to an hour’s monologue on the Faerie Queene. Did you know it’s about King Arthur, among other heroes? Who would have thought that rousing tale could be made so tedious—in six books? Sylvester was lamenting that