Free Carola Dunn by The Magic of Love Page B

from a forget-me-not decorated chamber-pot with a broken handle to an exquisite ivory horse from China; from odd forks and spoons of both silver and Sheffield-ware to a ship’s compass. Alan found a gold watch with a repeater mechanism. He listened to its chime, and was regretfully replacing it on the shelf when he saw the perfect gift.
     The small vessel was the exact shape of Aladdin’s lamp in the illustration in his mother’s favourite book. Pointed at one end, it was rounded at the other, with a curving handle and a circular foot. It would amuse her, and it only needed a wick and oil to be useful, too.
     Taking it from the dim depths of the shop over to the counter at the front, Alan saw that his find was heavily coated with verdigris. Cleaning it was going to be quite a chore.
     “How much?” he asked.
     “A crown.”
     “Five bob? But it’s green with age!”
     “Proves it’s copper or brass, not just tin.”
     “There may be nothing left once the corrosion is cleaned off.”
     With a grunt, the dealer prodded the lamp. “Tell you what, I’ve had it lying around for years. Half a crown.”
     “A shilling.”
     “A florin.”
     “Eighteen pence,” said Alan hopefully.
     “One and nine,” the man countered.
     “All right, if you’ll wrap it for me.”
     Grudgingly the old man nodded. He produced brown paper and string, while Alan dug the coins from his thin purse.
     The parcel safe in his coat pocket, Alan continued along Holywell Street and across the grounds of Magdalen College to the footpath on the bank of the Cherwell.
     

Chapter I
     
     “A perfect day, and amazing warm for May,” Lady Beatrice said gaily, as the boat slid out from the willows’ shade into a patch of sunshine. Conscious of the admiring gaze of a shabby young man tramping along the river-bank path, she adjusted her pink and white parasol to frame the golden curls beneath her Leghorn hat. “A punt is a delightful mode of transport, is it not, Miss Dirdle?”
     Her companion and ex-governess nervously surveyed the smooth, grey-green surface of the River Cherwell. “Delightful,” she murmured in a tone utterly lacking in conviction.
     “I shan’t upset you, ma’am, never fear!” cried Cousin Tom, the young gentleman wielding the punt pole. “Punting’s safe as houses.”
     “It’s my turn, Tom,” insisted Lord Wendover. Tom’s best friend and a fellow-student at Magdalen College, he was madly enamoured of Bea, and always trying to impress her. Impeccably dressed in fawn trousers and a blue morning coat, he had tied his starched white cravat so high it held his chin up at an uncomfortable angle.
     Tom, in buckskins, a shooting jacket, and a red Belcher kerchief, said scornfully, “Don’t be a sapskull, Windy, you can’t punt in that rig-out.”
     Resorting to nursery language, Lord Wendover snapped, “Can too!” as he stood up and reached for the pole.
     A brief tussle rocked the boat, till Miss Dirdle’s cry of alarm made Tom let go. A moment later, Lord Wendover was left clinging to his trophy as the punt moved on without him. Tom made a grab for his friend, the punt tilted, and Bea found herself floundering in the chilly Cherwell.
     Annoyed, but not particularly alarmed, for Tom had taught her to swim years ago, Bea quickly found her feet in three feet of water. She looked around, recovering her breath. The punt, tenantless, was heading downstream for the Isis. Lord Wendover still clutched his pole as it slowly tilted riverward. Tom stood waist-deep laughing at him, heedless of the plight of his cousin and her companion.
     “Miss Dirdle!” Where was she?
     “I have her, ma’am.” The shabby fellow from the footpath emerged from the river like Neptune from the waves, the elderly gentlewoman coughing and spluttering in his arms. “Just let me carry her to the bank and I’ll come back to give you a hand.”
     “Thank you, sir!” Bea exclaimed gratefully. She started to wade