Lady Rosamond's book

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

I feel well acquainted and at ease with him now, however, and shall, I hope, be more so. 'Tis settled that next week we are all—that is my father, mother, Harry and myself—to go to Tremador to take possession, and see what is to be done in the way of repairs and the like. Master Penrose journeys with us. My father would gladly have taken Master Ellenwood, on whose judgment he relies greatly in business matters, but Master Ellenwood expects his brother from Amsterdam to make him a visit. Master Jasper is said to be a wonderful scholar, a friend of Erasmus, and very deep in the new learning, both Greek and Latin.

My mother, who has been in Amsterdam with her first husband, says she fears our housekeeping will seem very rough and sluttish to Master Jasper's Dutch notions. She tells me that in Holland they strew no rushes on the floors even of their dining-halls, but that the floors are made of fine inlaid woods or stones, and the same are washed or rubbed with fine sand every day, and then waxed till they shine like glass. Madam herself is counted over particular by our men and maids because she will have all the rushes renewed and the rooms thoroughly swept every week instead of every month, as used to be the way. Also, we will have no rushes in her chamber or mine, saying that they breed fleas and other vermin, and hide the dust. Certainly the air in our house is far sweeter than I remember it formerly. But it seems a great deal of trouble to wash floors every day, and I should think would be damp and unwholesome. Probably in Holland a little water more or less does not matter.

My Lady has told me much of the comfort and splendor in which the Dutch merchants live, of their beautiful pictures, presenting flowers and other objects in all the hues of life, of their noble collections of books, and the quantities of fine house linen, garments, and other things which their wives lay up and provide against the marriage of their daughters. I remember Mother Monica telling Amice and me that in her day the merchants of London lived in far more comfort than the nobles and courtiers.

This journey into Cornwall, which seems like a perilous adventure to me, my Lady makes nothing of, save as she seems to enjoy the thoughts of it. My father is going to stop on the way at the house of Sir John Carey, who hath long owed him a sum of money. He is a kinsman of our neighbors at Clovelly, but they know little of him, save that he last year lost his only son in some very sad way, that I did not clearly understand. Sir John is now old and feeble, and hath more than once sent asking my father to come and see him, but it hath not been convenient hitherto.

[CHAPTER XXXII.]

July 20, Tremador, in Cornwall.

HERE we are, at this grim, sad old house, which yet hath a wonderful charm to me, maybe because it is my house. It seems such a surprising thing to call a house mine. We have been here three or four days, and I am not yet weary of exploring the old rooms, and asking questions of Mistress Grace, my aunt's old bower-woman. The good soul took to me at once, and answers all my queries with the most indulgent patience. Albeit I am sometimes sore put to understand her. Mistress Grace, it is true, speaks English, though with a strong Cornish accent; but some of the servants and almost all the cottagers speak the Cornish tongue, which is as unknown as Greek to me. Master Penrose, or Cousin Joslyn, as he likes best to have me call him, who is very learned, says the language is related to the Welsh.

Mistress Grace has also been very much interested in dressing up poor Joyce. She has made the child a nice suit out of an old one of her Lady's, combed and arranged her tangled hair, and so forth, and 'tis wonderful how different Joyce looks. She is really very lovely. She seems to like me well, but clings most to my Lady, whom she would fain follow like a little dog, I think. I wish she would get over that way of shrinking and looking so scared when any one speaks to her; but I dare say that will come in time, poor thing. My mother says 'tis a wonder she hath any sense left. But what a way is this of writing a chronicle! I must begin, and orderly set down the events of our journey as they happened.