The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir Rowland. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. ‘That’s what started the fracas,’ Gerald admitted ruefully, nursing his injured hand as he recalled it. “It is true. But the fall was too great, and he abandoned the attempt. ‘Go on up to the boy, my dear. ‘It must have been so, Melusine, or I wouldn’t have kissed you.
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