Miss Joanna Rowntree sat very straight in the drawing room of her father’s house near Oxford, her eyes fixed painfully on the mantel clock. There was nothing in the appearance of this rather handsome timepiece to explain the anxiety in her expression, nor did the room yield a clue. It was an elegant, comfortable apartment, not quite in the first stare of fashion, a Londoner might aver, yet showing taste and the means to command some of life’s luxuries. The deep cream of the walls, the dark blue velvet hangings, and the French furniture formed a pleasing contrast to the rolling green fields visible through the long windows.
The slender girl sitting stiffly before the fireplace ignored these familiar surroundings. A diminutive brunette, Miss Rowntree kept her large brown eyes on the clock, which now read six minutes to eleven. Her tightly folded hands had crumpled her pink morning dress, and one of her glossy brown curls had fallen down over her shoulder, but she noticed none of this. It was not until the drawing room door opened and her mother came into the room that Joanna roused a little; but even then, she merely turned her head slightly before going back to gazing at the clock. Her expression became a bit more soulful, perhaps, and her hands twisted in her lap, but she said nothing.
Mrs. Rowntree, also a very attractive brunette who had retained her figure through twenty years of marriage and three children, frowned slightly and watched her only daughter with lips pressed together. She seemed undecided about something, but finally she said, “Joanna,” in a tone calculated to command the girl’s immediate attention.
Joanna turned, her eyes growing even larger. “Oh, Mama,” she replied in a soft, languishing voice. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Did you not indeed?” said her mother. “And I suppose you also forgot that you were to help Mrs. Harwood with the linens this morning? She looked for you for quite half an hour.”
Joanna stared at her in amazement. “Linens? Oh, Mama, it lacks but three minutes to eleven. They are at the church even now, and you talk to me of linens?” She looked down and brought her clasped hands to her bosom.
A spark of sympathy showed in Mrs. Rowntree’s eyes, and she sighed. She started to speak, thought better of it, and went to sit down beside her daughter. She took one of Joanna’s hands and patted it, but when she spoke, her tone was firm. “Joanna, you are being silly. These die-away airs do no one any good, I promise you. Please do stop. I am going into Longton; come along, and we will see if we can find a new dress length at Quentin’s.”
“Longton!” echoed the girl, with a distaste for the neighboring village she had never before exhibited. “Mama, how can you be so unfeeling!” The clock struck eleven, and Joanna started convulsively: “At this moment, Peter is being married, and you wish me to go to Longton and look at dress lengths. Oh, Mama!”
Sympathy showed again in Mrs. Rowntree’s face, but she answered only, “Well, well, you were not really engaged to Peter, you know, my dear.”
Joanna raised her head. “Not engaged? But it has been understood since we were children that we would marry. Indeed, he told me before he went to London in March that we would be married when he returned.”
Her mother’s lips came together again. “Well, he was very wrong to do so without a word to your father. And you were wrong to listen to him. You see where such behavior leads. A great deal can happen to a young man during a London season, and you would have done better to have told him that you would see about that when you came to town yourself next year.”
“Oh, I shan’t go now,” said Joanna, turning to gaze out the window and avoid her mother’s censorious glance.
Her diversion was successful. “Not go? Of course we shall. You have been eighteen these two months, Joanna. Naturally, I shall present you in London next season. Indeed, I would take you now if it were not already June.”
“Mama, I could not. He is there. With his…his wife.”
“Well, I daresay they will both be here very soon, if it comes to that,” responded her mother unencouragingly, “so you had best become accustomed to the idea of meeting them.”
“Here?” cried the girl, horrified.
“Yes, of course. I suppose Peter will wish to show her his house.”
Joanna leaped to her feet. “Oh, what shall I do? You must take me away, Mama.”
“Nonsense. You will meet Peter and his wife calmly and with dignity. Do you wish to set the whole neighborhood talking? Have a little conduct, Joanna, and stop acting a Cheltenham tragedy.”
“But, Mama, I love him!”
Her mother smiled skeptically. “You do not, you know. You have no more idea of love than Frederick does.”
“Frederick! Why he is only a—a grubby little schoolboy.”
Mrs. Rowntree nodded equably, accepting this characterization of her youngest child without demur.
“He—he is a perfect toad,” her daughter went on, nearly inarticulate with outrage. “How can you compare my feelings to his? I do love Peter, I do!” She stamped her foot.
The older woman’s lips twitched. “I know you think you do, Joanna, but in a few weeks, you will see that it was all a take-in. Calf love.”
The delightful pink in Joanna’s cheeks deepened. She was about to pour out an impassioned defense of her feelings when the drawing-room door opened once more and one of the maids came in. “Excuse me, ma’am,” she said to Mrs. Rowntree, “but a gentleman has brought Mr. Frederick home. Covered with dirt, he is, and he’s hurt his ankle.”
“Oh dear,” said her mistress, getting up. “I wonder what he has been at this time.” And leaving her daughter fuming, Mrs. Rowntree walked quickly out of the room.
Joanna stood tapping her foot for a full minute, then curiosity got the better of her anger, and she went out to the landing and looked down into the hall. Her thirteen-year-old brother was indeed covered with dirt, and his face showed that he was in some pain. A footman had just lifted him and was starting up the stairs. Her mother was talking to a stranger in buckskin riding breeches and a brown coat. Joanna wrinkled her nose in disdain. His appearance was so far from being fashionable that she could not imagine where he had purchased his clothes. Even in Oxford, there were tailors who could manage a better cut.
“Do come upstairs,” her mother was saying.
Joanna quickly retreated to the drawing room again.
The others entered soon after. “This is Jonathan Erland, Joanna,” said Mrs. Rowntree. “Only fancy, he is our new neighbor at the Abbey. Mr. Erland, my daughter Joanna.”
The gentleman made a rather awkward bow, his eyes showing clear appreciation of Joanna’s petite good looks, and she surveyed him with more interest than before. The Abbey was the largest house in the neighborhood, though sadly run down at present, and since its owner’s illness and death last winter, there had been much speculation as to whom it would fall.
Mr. Erland was an open-faced young man, just above middle height. His complexion was ruddy, his hair brown, and his eyes a clear gray. He had none of the airs of a fashionable exquisite, but there was something in his manner that Joanna found unfamiliar, almost foreign. He seemed about five and twenty.
“Tell Mr. Rowntree we have a visitor,” her mother was saying to the maid. “Ask him to come up.” They all sat down, and Mrs. Rowntree continued, “I collect you have only recently arrived in the neighborhood, Mr. Erland. My husband would certainly have called if we had known.”
The gentleman smiled, his rather commonplace countenance lighting charmingly. “Just this week. The news of my uncle’s death, and of my cousin’s, which I had not previously heard, did not reach me till then. I was rather out of the way.”
Joanna started to ask where he had been, but her mother spoke first. “I thank you again for rescuing Frederick. What a poor introduction to our family you have had.”
“Not at all,” answered Erland. “Frederick seems a very promising lad—full of pluck.”
Mrs. Rowntree shook her head. “He is that.”
“What happened to him?” asked Joanna.
“The tiresome boy took it into his head to trespass at the Abbey. He fell from a crumbling wall in the ruins and sprained his ankle. I’ve sent Nurse to see to him.” Mrs. Rowntree turned back to their guest. “You mustn’t think me unfeeling, Mr. Erland. Frederick comes home injured more often than not. I have concluded he is indestructible.”
The man laughed. “He is certainly durable at any rate. It was quite a fall he took.”
“Well, if he will climb everything he sees, he is certain to fall,” said Joanna severely. “Why did he wish to poke about in the ruins of the Abbey?”
“He tells me there is a rumor going about the neighborhood that my Uncle Thomas buried his fortune somewhere there,” answered Erland. “Would that it were true.”
Mrs. Rowntree smiled. “All boys long for such a chance. It is all nonsense, of course.”
He made a wry face. “I fear you are right, and it is most unfortunate for me. The place has gone to rack and ruin since I saw it ten years ago, and a treasure is clearly required to set it to rights. I wish that my uncle had left one.”
“Oh, but he was such a clutchfist; did he not leave you a fortune?” asked Joanna before she thought. She colored as Erland turned to her.
“Joanna!” said her mother.
“No, no, it’s quite all right. I’d rather everyone knew just how I’m placed; I like to have things out in the open. My uncle left me the estate and a competence, nothing more. I would like above all things to renovate the Abbey, but I doubt that it will be possible. I hope the neighborhood will not be disappointed.” He smiled again.
“How funny,” said Joanna. “We always assumed he was excessively rich. How mistaken one can be in people.” This reflection reminded her of her melancholy, and she sank into a brown study.
Her mother was about to speak when the drawing-room door opened slowly and a tall, thin man with pale brown hair and abstracted gray eyes came into the room. “Hello, dear,” said Mrs. Rowntree. “Here is Jonathan Erland, the new resident of the Abbey. Mr. Erland, my husband George Rowntree.”
Mr. Erland stood and bowed.
Mr. Rowntree murmured something unintelligible, standing beside the open door as if puzzled; then his brows drew together, and he struck the palm of one hand with his fist. “Of course,” he said decisively, “sulfate of ammonia.” His eyes lit, and he turned as if to leave the room.
Jonathan Erland cast a perplexed glance at Mrs. Rowntree.
“George,” she said firmly, “come and sit down, dear.”
Mr. Rowntree started and turned again. “Emma,” he said, as if surprised. “I have solved it, the problem I was explaining to you at breakfast. It is sulfate of ammonia. You see…”
“That’s wonderful, dear. I’m so pleased. But here is Jonathan Erland to see you. He has just come to live at the Abbey.”
Mr. Rowntree seemed to see their guest for the first time. “The Abbey, is it?” he replied, with no sign of embarrassment over his unconventional welcome. “Splendid. Perhaps we can persuade you of the pressing need to document the contents of the ruins there. It is vital, you know, to investigate such sites scientifically. Careless curiosity seekers destroy countless things every day. Even now, much of it is utterly spoiled. One must have method, order, or all is lost. Surely you agree?”
“Why, ah, yes,” said Erland, “but I’m not sure I…”
“Capital! Old Tom Erland would never listen to me. Hidebound and closed-minded, he was. He had one or two ideas, and he held to them, no matter what harm came of it. Inflexible. It’s the worst of faults, perhaps.” His gaze shifted. “We can get up a digging party next Thursday. Young Templeton will be overjoyed. And I suppose Carstairs will want to come along, though he’s a sloppy thinker.” His voice trailed off as he frowned in concentration.
Mr. Erland was looking a bit lost.
“We are so glad to have you at the Abbey,” put in Mrs. Rowntree. “It will be a pleasant change to have a young man there. Do you have a family?”
Turning to her gratefully, Erland started to speak, but Mr. Rowntree looked up at that moment and exclaimed, “Jonathan Erland. The old man’s nephew?”
Their guest nodded, looking slightly apprehensive.
“We have met, have we not?” continued Rowntree. “It’s been some ten or fifteen years, I daresay, but you are the young man who was to go to the colonies, aren’t you? Or perhaps there was another nephew?”
“No, sir. That was I. I have lived in Canada for nearly ten years.” He turned to smile at Mrs. Rowntree. “I have had no time to think of marrying; too busy trying to make my fortune. Unsuccessfully, I fear, though I had a fine time at it.” He looked back to his host. “We must have met when I stayed at the Abbey just before I sailed, Mr. Rowntree. I was but fifteen when my uncle paraded me about the neighborhood.”
“Of course, of course,” replied Rowntree abstractedly. “Canada, now. That is most interesting, most interesting. In what area did you reside?”
The younger man smiled again. “All parts, at one time or another, sir. Through the good offices of my uncle, I had a position in the eastern settlements for some time. But for the last several years, I have lived in the Northwest Territories.”
Mr. Rowntree leaned forward and put his clasped hands on his knees. “Really! The territories, you say—fascinating. You have been a member of the exploration parties, I take it?”
Erland nodded. “I was with Thompson.”
His host’s pale eyes glowed, and he seemed scarcely able to keep his seat. “Thompson! Why, he is one of the greatest explorers now living, and you have traveled with him? You must tell me all about it, everything.”
Mr. Erland laughed. “That would take me some time. But I confess I am surprised. Few Englishmen have heard of Thompson, I believe, and fewer still would be interested if they had.”
“My husband is a scholar,” said Mrs. Rowntree.
Waving her explanation aside, Rowntree said, “Tell us about Thompson.”
“I am happy to tell you whatever you like. I have the greatest admiration and respect for David Thompson. He taught me more than anyone else in my life. He just completed a long river expedition in the Northwest, you know, on which I was privileged to accompany him. I have never seen such country. We were right in the midst of the Rocky Mountains.”
Mr. Rowntree eyes sparkled. “Indeed. Did you find the Northwest Passage at last, perhaps?”
“No,” laughed Erland. “I doubt that anyone will find that mythical route. We must still sail north or south, into the ice or the storms. But we found a river route into the interior of the continent, albeit a difficult one, and saw a great many marvelous things. Thompson is a friend of the native tribes in that area, and they help him find his way, you see.”
“The Indians,” breathed Joanna, her interest caught at last.
“Yes,” responded Erland, smiling at her warmly, “do you…”
“Tell me about the country,” said her father. “It is coniferous forest?”
Erland nodded, turning away from Joanna a bit reluctantly. “For the most part.” He paused, and his eyes grew faraway. “The river we traveled this trip was called the Kootenay by the natives. I don’t recall what that means; I am not well acquainted with the native language unfortunately. But the water was unlike anything you can see in England: pale green because it comes down from the ice fields and glaciers. Snow and ice stays the whole year on some of the mountains, yet the valleys are green and lush.” He sighed. “It is beautiful.”
Joanna echoed his sigh; Mr. Rowntree nodded wisely. “The elevation,” he murmured.
“Yes,” agreed the younger man. “The mountains rise almost straight out of the plains to the east, an amazing sight, and the river is right among them. I can’t describe it properly, it is so breathtaking. I wish you could see Thompson’s journals. He tells everything so well.”
“Ah, wouldn’t that be splendid,” cried his host. “I must tell you, Mr. Erland, that ideas are the chief joy of my life. To exchange opinions and observations with a man such as he would indeed be exciting.”
As always when her father began to go on in this way, Joanna felt bored. Her thoughts turned back to London. It was nearly twelve and Peter would be married now and they would be at the wedding breakfast. She wondered what his wife was like and whether she was prettier. I hope she is not very tall and blond, she thought. If she is, she will make me look like a wretched little dab of a thing, and I shall feel even worse. She knew very little about the woman Peter Finley had chosen over her. They had received the news via an announcement in the Morning Post, and they knew only that Adrienne Denby, now Mrs. Finley, was the sister of Sir Rollin Denby, a man one of their neighbors characterized as an “ugly customer,” whatever that meant. He had added that Miss Denby’s portion was substantial and that young Peter was doing very well for himself in that regard, though he might still regret the match.
Joanna frowned. She had not understood why he said that either, though several others in the room at the time had looked at each other significantly. But she indignantly rejected the idea that Peter had married for money. He did not care for such things. Had he not been ready to marry her, with next to no fortune at all? Joanna sighed. No, Peter had simply fallen out of love with her when he met someone he liked better. And hard as that was to bear, she hoped he would be very happy. She herself would dwindle into an old maid, she supposed, looking after her brothers’ children and, possibly, knitting. I must learn to knit, she decided. She assumed a martyred expression and sat up a little to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the drawing-room mirror. It was very affecting. She sighed again, then noticed that Mr. Erland was looking at her with a smile on his lips, and blushed fiercely, looking down.
Their guest stood. “I must go,” he said. “I am sorry, but I was with my bailiff when I heard Frederick calling for help. He will be impatient.”
Mrs. Rowntree rose immediately. “And we have kept you from your business. You should not have allowed it. But I hope you will come to dinner one day soon.”
Mr. Erland professed himself grateful for the invitation. “My uncle’s old housekeeper is not much of a cook.”
“Mrs. Smith?” Mrs. Rowntree laughed. “I daresay not. Do you get on with her?”
“I am terrified of her,” replied Erland, and everyone laughed.
Any other father might have inquired why his youngest son had been calling for help, but Mr. Rowntree said merely, “Come whenever you like.” His tone was very cordial. “You’re a great addition to the neighborhood. An intelligent man. You must attend one of my meetings. I have recently formed a Philosophical Society to discuss topics of general interest, you know. Several fellows of the Oxford colleges attend. My eldest son is trying for a fellowship at Magdelan this year. A very bright lad, if I say so. Has some wonderful ideas. Thursday nights. Just come along.”
“Why not come to dinner this Thursday?” asked his wife. “Then you can join the meeting afterward.” She smiled at him. “Or not. Just as you like.”
“Of course he will join us,” said Mr. Rowntree. “A splendid idea. Do come.”
Mr. Erland bowed his thanks and accepted, then took his leave of them. When he was gone, Mr. Rowntree said, “A fine young man. Not at all like most of the frippery fellows these days, interested in nothing but some ridiculous oversprung vehicle or the height of their collars. I approve.” He turned toward the door. “I must go back to my study, my dear. I am working on a very interesting little problem, very interesting indeed.”
His wife nodded. “Of course, George. The sulfate of ammonia.”
He whirled. “What? What did you say?”
“Sulfate of ammonia?” repeated Mrs. Rowntree. “You said when you…”
“That’s it!” cried her husband. “Sulfate of ammonia!” And he rushed out of the room without shutting the door behind him.
Mrs. Rowntree looked startled for a moment, then shook her head and laughed. She went back to sit beside her daughter on the sofa. “I agree with your father,” she said, “though for different reasons, I fear. Our new neighbor is a very pleasant young man. Didn’t you think so, Joanna?”
The girl shrugged but said nothing. “Really, Joanna.” Her mother frowned at her. “You were very quiet. You should try to talk more when we have guests.”
Joanna looked at her reproachfully, but the older woman did not notice. She was looking thoughtful. “Perhaps we will give a dress party to welcome him to the Abbey. He could meet all his neighbors at once, and we could give him a proper welcome. Yes, I think that would be nice.” She glanced at her daughter. “You would like that, would you not, Joanna? We can have some of the young people and perhaps organize a bit of dancing. After all, you are to come out in the spring. You should learn how to go on in a crowd.”
“I couldn’t dance,” answered Joanna dramatically. “I pray you won’t ask it of me, Mama.”
“Don’t be silly. You love dancing.”
“No more.” The girl looked down and shook her head. “I shall never dance again.”
Her mother made an exasperated noise. “I have no patience with you when you are in one of your romantical moods, Joanna. Try for a little common sense, I beg you, and do not be mooning about the house all day. Go for a walk, or take your mare out for a good canter in the fields. I must go and see how Nurse is getting on with Frederick.” And with that, she left Joanna alone again. The girl leaned back on the sofa once more. But her motive for watching the clock was gone, and it was indeed a fine June day. The scent of early roses drifted in through an open window. After a few minutes, Joanna jumped up and went to fetch a sunshade. She would go for a walk down to the stream and look at the water lilies. They would match the melancholy of her mood precisely.