It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. Before her stretched blank spaces, dotted with running people coming toward her, and below them railings and a statue. Sheppard. A boy no older than she, Gianfrancesco’s cousin, whispered what he would like to do to her when she stole into the hallways near the women’s chambers to fix herself. I won’t tolerate any foreign tongue in this house, least of all that confounded French. Soon they came to treat Lucy almost as mother, pulling hard at her brown curls and laughing delightedly as they sprang back into their spiral shape. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. Had it come already? Chapter XXVII JOHN FERRINGHAM, GENTLEMAN “Confess, my dear husband,” Annabel said lightly, “that you are bewildered. Gerald tried it. I wasn’t.
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