Free Cynthia Bailey Pratt by Gentlemans Folly Page A

trying to stand on his hands for the edification of some girls. Jocelyn darted off across the green grass, thinking furiously about what Helena had said. Matt Hodges at the church on Thursday! Mrs. Hodges found it impossible to get her husband there even on Sundays, so it was very odd that he should . . .
    Watching her friend fly away, Helena said, with a return to her natural style, “I am glad to have no younger brothers when I see Arnold Luckem. How do you manage him, Mr. Fletcher?”
    “Not very well, I’m afraid. Only long experience would help me with him, and I’ve no brothers, younger or older.” He could not help flashing a swift look toward Mr. Fain, still talking to his parishioners. Mr. Fletcher stepped a trifle closer to the girl. The strong sun turned her eyes hazel. “Miss Fain,” he said, becoming more intense, “I wonder if you are—”
    “Helena?” the vicar called, coming down the steps. Mr. Fletcher saw her nervous start and the blank expression she turned upon her brother. Taking her arm, Mr. Fain said, “You must come and speak to Mrs. Gleason about the Organ Fund. Good day, Mr. Fletcher,” he said pointedly, turning Helena about.
    “Good day, Mr. Fletcher,” she echoed. Her gaze rested on him briefly as she was pulled away.
    The tutor stood looking after them for a moment before turning toward home, kicking a rock away from the neat border of the path.
    * * * *
    At the priory Arnold dressed in a rough costume of old knee breeches and a wilted shin. He then made his escape, scorning the easy, familiar routes. Out of range of any authority he rumpled his hatefully slicked hair and dug his toes deeply into the moist soil, enjoying the squish. For no reason he then ran as fast as he could down the garden path and leapt the low stone wall, landing squarely and joyfully in more mud, knee and toe.
    Beyond the garden wall the grass grew lushly next to the sown fields. Flowers made a clandestine appearance among the sprouting crops, illicit gillyflowers and cornflowers and very small poppies, nodding on long stalks, like spies in the enemy camp.
    Arnold traveled in the general direction of a young river where he spent all last summer. It came down through the Luckem property in a boyish way, turning all the way round itself once or twice as it sought the big river that ran purposefully through Libermore. The water flowed higher this year than last and faster, rushing along, but not too busy to play.
    Arnold crouched by the root-tangled bank, looking on while the river showed off. The surface ran marvelously smooth except where mysterious dimples appeared. It did not disturb his pleasure in the least to know that he had lied to his cousin, telling her he would be in his room studying and that he could get his own tea later. This was the best place to be.
    The water swirled down over rocks and lapped flippantly against roots thrust out from the narrow rows of weedy trees and sprawling bushes on either side. Arnold remembered that one year he built a dam, both for stepping across and for the fun of seeing the water come down, smooth, rounded, and full of color, like the Roman goblet his father found. Was this the same place? Perhaps not. Everything had changed since last summer.
    Arnold liked wild things. They never repeated themselves or acted like fools because that’s how they’d always acted. He didn’t like grown-ups in the least, and every time he went where they came together, he confirmed his opinion. Think as he might, though, there didn’t seem to be any way of getting rid of them.
    “I could poison their hymnals.” He entertained himself with the thought of them all falling down dead in church. Probably go right up to heaven. He’d like to see that. Arnold caught at his throat and gagged, swaying from side to side.
    “That’s a fairly disgusting idea,” said a laughing voice.
    Arnold turned around in a defensive crouch. His first idea was that Mr. Fletcher had come to drag him