The Chateau on the Lake Read Online Free PDF Page A

are lords and ladies or light-skirts and their patrons? Even Mama is charmed by the snatches of music and singing coming from a number of Greek temples secreted in the copses that edge the walks.
    ‘Oh, look!’ says Lydia, clasping my hand.
    Hurrying forward through the groups of revellers we exclaim in delight at the sight of picturesque ruins, arches and columns, with nearby a cascade tumbling over rocks into a pool edged with ferns.
    ‘We must take our seats for supper before sunset,’ says Mr Jephcott.
    The shadows are lengthening as the sun lowers itself in the sky and we make our way back to the Grove, now thronged with masked guests sitting in the dining alcoves. The aroma of roasting chicken is drifting on the air and waiters are hurrying hither and thither with trays of cold meat and pies held aloft.
    ‘The food is plain but good,’ says Mr Jephcott, as we place our order. ‘And we shall have a bottle of the best French wine.’
    I’m amused to see that the glue adhering his enormous black moustache to his top lip has melted in the warmth and it hangs awry.
    ‘Harold?’ murmurs Mrs Jephcott, touching her top lip and giving him a meaningful nod.
    ‘Jephcott, perhaps this is a good time for you to explain some of your new ideas for the Academy to my wife?’ says Papa.
    ‘But, of course,’ says Mr Jephcott, patting his moustache back into place. ‘I’ve long been interested in the education of women, who, I believe, are vastly underrated in what they can achieve.’
    ‘It’s so important to catch the girls while they are young and before their heads are full of foolish notions, don’t you think?’ says Mrs Jephcott.
    Mama nods in agreement.
    ‘I’m most impressed by the reputation of your school,’ continues Mr Jephcott. ‘But I believe it could be enhanced if you were to offer a boarding facility. This would allow you to foster more entirely an atmosphere conducive to learning. My dear wife would act as Matron and take responsibility for the girls’ pastoral care.’
    ‘Under Mrs Moreau’s direction, of course,’ says Mrs Jephcott. ‘And I would also be happy to give singing lessons,’ she adds.
    Her husband gazes fondly at her. ‘My dear Eliza has the singing voice of a nightingale.’
    She blushes rosily and smiles at Mama. ‘Mr Jephcott has a particular fondness for Italian opera.’
    ‘And our Lydia studies Latin and has an uncommon interest in natural science,’ he continues.
    On the other side of the Grove sits a boisterous group of young men in naval uniform, singing ‘The Lass Who Loved a Sailor’.
    Our waiter returns with a tray piled high with wafer-thin ham, cold chicken, salads and pies. My stomach begins to growl in anticipation.
    ‘They shave the ham so thinly here that you can read a newspaper through it,’ says Mr Jephcott, holding up a scrap of meat on his fork.
    The sun has almost disappeared behind the trees but it’s still very warm. I pluck at my mask, which is hot and sticky against my face since there is no breeze to dispel the humidity.
    ‘There’s a surprise in store for you, Lydia and Madeleine,’ says Papa, his eyes twinkling.
    It’s growing dark and there is a general air of expectation amongst the guests. The party of young men begins to bang their knives on the table and to chant, ‘The lamps! The lamps!’ Several of the other diners join in until it’s impossible to speak above the din. The orchestra ceases playing Handel’s
Water Music
.
    ‘What’s happening, Papa?’ I shout.
    Before he can answer a whistle blows and a great roar of approval reverberates around us as lights begin to glimmer almost simultaneously in the thousands upon thousands of lamps hanging from the trees and suspended around the buildings in the Grove.
    I catch my breath at the magic of it. ‘It’s like the Arabian Nights,’ I gasp. ‘How do they do that?’
    Mr Jephcott laughs. ‘A clever trick, don’t you think? A series of fuses lead from lamp to lamp and,