I don’t believe I have ever felt so low in my life. Rosalind is really angry with me. When we reached home again after our picnic, she went directly to her room to lie down, and she has not come out. I knocked once, but there was no reply, and the door is locked. Perhaps she was asleep, but I don’t believe it.
I have never quarreled with Rosalind before in my life. Indeed, she was always the kindest older sister. Portia can be quite sharp, and, of course, James and I were always arguing about something. But Rosalind has the sweetest temper. It must be all my fault that we are at outs.
Yet I heard what Philip said to her. She cannot deny that. Except that I cannot tell her, or she will think I am an odious snoop as well as quarrelsome. What shall I do?
* * *
I went to look for Alan, but he is nowhere about. Philip has taken him off to look at some horse somewhere. It feels as if I am the only person in this great drafty pile of a castle. I never imagined that living in a castle could be so dreary. In the books I have read they do not mention the drafts and chilling damp that comes off stone walls. And for all their talk of flowing gowns and lace, I should like to know what the heroines wore under them, for they never seem to have icy hands and ankles as I do most of the time. Even my flannel petticoat does no good.
What sort of shoes did they wear? Perhaps, actually, they had high boots, rather like Hessians, but lined with fur, which kept them warm as toast right to the knee? That would be the thing for Clairvon! And I quite see now why they wrapped veils all about their necks. I thought it unattractive, but it must be cozy in winter.
I shall set my book in a hot climate. Possibly Egypt, or the Indies. I think Egypt. The heroine will be taken there by her parents, who would not dream of leaving her behind, and then she will be overtaken by an ancient curse. I shall have to find a book on Egypt to discover what sort of curse it might be. No doubt Philip has one. He has books on every sort of history.
You might think we could talk about that, since I like history so myself. But he brushed me aside when I tried to say something about Hadrian’s Wall. I suppose he thinks I am silly and stupid, but I listened to Papa’s classical stories, as Rosalind never did! Or even James. Papa says I have a sharp mind and a fine memory. I might even have learned Greek had not Papa been sick to death of it. He never even taught James. He left it all to schoolmasters. Philip doesn’t like me. He has never even tried to. The truth is…
* * *
I have been for a walk. It was too melancholy sitting in my room alone worrying about Rosalind, and it does not get dark until very late here in the summer.
I suppose I should not have gone outside the park. Clairvon is surrounded on three sides by a tall stone wall, and within it are the gardens and stables and such. But I have walked everywhere there. I have seen the roses and the pine grove and the sea cliffs. And so I went out the front gate and around the wall to explore what might be along the cliffs that way.
The landscape exactly suited my mood. Clouds were coming in from the sea, obscuring the brief sunshine we had this morning and making the prospect all browns and grays. The cliffs twisted on and on ahead, throwing great shadows over the water, and the seabirds made the most mournful cries.
I found a path that runs along the shore and walked for a while. I was thinking about Rosalind, and not really heeding where I went, so that I was startled to come upon a building set in a cleft or ravine where a stream flows into the sea. I thought, at first, it was someone’s cottage, but then I saw that it was in very poor repair—one corner falling in and holes from missing roof slates. Philip has complained about abandoned outbuildings on the estate, and the work that is necessary to repair them all. I believe his father did not manage well, because he was so ill.
But the odd thing is this. When I made my way down to the place, just to look in, I found a great fierce mastiff chained in the doorway. His head was as high as my waist, I swear, and he growled and barked and threw himself against the chain in a really frightening way. I was very glad his tether was thick and sturdy, for his teeth and the look in his eye made me back away as fast as I could (James has told me never to turn my back on a hostile animal, for then they see that you are afraid).
Thinking of James made me wonder if this dog was being kept for fighting. James has seen a cock fight, in London, even though they are forbidden, and he says there are sometimes dog fights as well. Men have such peculiar tastes. The very idea of watching two animals tear at each other makes me shudder, and yet James says it was very exciting, with everyone shouting and wagering on their favorite bird. I daresay Forbes would like cock fighting. Perhaps it is his dog?
I could not see inside the building; the mastiff would not let me close enough. So I could tell no more about it. I didn’t like to walk past either, in case he should somehow get loose, so I returned home and found everything just as I left it. Forbes glowered at me when I came in, and actually asked me where I had been! I told him nothing, of course. I had only time to write this before dinner. I do hope Rosalind has gotten over being angry with me by now. I shall apologize.