“What did they write it on and can we read what they wrote?” Hermione enquired.
“They used papyrus and later parchment,” the Marquis said. “The Priests of Thebes in Egypt had three hundred and forty-five wooden statues, each of which represented an ancestor of a distinct generation.”
“That must have been fun,” Hermione exclaimed. “I would like to have statues of our family. But there would not be many of them. I suppose you have hundreds, my Lord?”
“Thousands more likely,” the Marquis said complacently, “and, of course, the Romans studied genealogy to show the distinction between the Patricians and the Plebeians.”
“Which we are,” Rowena said sharply, “and now it is time, my Lord, for you to rest. Come along, Hermione, you know you should be laying the table.”
“I always have to go and do something else just when I am really interested,” Hermione replied resentfully. “I am sure it is better for my mind to listen to his Lordship than count how many cups and saucers there are on the table.”
Nevertheless, because she always obeyed Rowena, she went out of the room, giving the Marquis a glance over her shoulder as she said,
“I want to hear a lot more, my Lord, and I would like to see your Family Tree.”
“I will show it to you,” the Marquis promised.
Rowena adjusted the blind so that the bright sunshine should not disturb the Marquis.
“I am sorry that my hobby does not interest you,” he said from the bed.
“It’s not that,” Rowena corrected him.
She turned back from the window and walked towards him.
“Then what is it?” he asked.
“I know you mean to be kind, my Lord,” she replied, “and I appreciate everything you have given us since you have been here.”
She paused to choose her words with care as she continued,
“But I don’t want you to encourage the children to the point where they will miss you so much when you have left that their home will seem a very dull place.
“I think you are flattering me,” the Marquis grinned.
“I am not doing that,” Rowena retorted sharply, “I am only realising very clearly that, while we are not of the least importance in your life, you are becoming very important in ours.”
She gave a little sigh before she went on,
“Mark can talk of nothing but your horses and your groom has let him ride one or two of them. How do you think he is going to feel when there is only old Dobbin to jog about on, when my father is not using him to visit his patients?”
“Surely you think it’s good for a boy of Mark’s age to be interested in horseflesh?” the Marquis asked.
“Interested – yes!” Rowena retorted, “but obsessed – no! Especially with the kind of horses that he is never likely to see again, let alone ride.”
The Marquis did not answer and after a moment she continued,
“Hermione, as you know, thinks that you are the most attractive and exciting man in the world! With you as her standard of what a man should be, is she ever likely to be content with the very ordinary young men she is likely to meet in a year or two’s time?”
“Again you are flattering me,” the Marquis said.
“I am not thinking about you,” Rowena said. “You will go away, you will return to the life that should never have encroached at any time upon ours.”
The Marquis made a restless movement, but he did not interrupt and she went on,
“Doubtless within a few weeks of leaving here you will have forgotten our very existence and will never so much as give us a passing thought! But I am afraid, very afraid, that the impression you leave behind may be – inerasable.”
Now there was something like a sob in her voice and after a moment the Marquis said,
“There are two members of the family whom so far you have not mentioned – Lotty and yourself.”
“Lotty will miss the peaches and all the other good things she has been provided with,” Rowena answered, “but she does not really constitute a problem like Mark and Hermione.”
“And what about yourself?”
“I shall forget you, my Lord, as quickly as possible!”
“And you think that will be easy?”
“I am sure it will be. A meteor does not often pass through the sky and even lightning is said never to strike twice in the same place.”
“If I said that I would find it hard to forget you, would you believe me?” the Marquis asked.
“I would find it far easier to believe in Aphrodite and all the Greek Gods rolled into one.”
Rowena walked towards the door before she added,
“It’s now time for me to go downstairs and collect your tea. I hope that your Lordship will remember what I have said and not encourage either Hermione or Mark.”
She left the room before the Marquis could reply, but his eyes were on the door and apparently he was thinking deeply.
*
The following afternoon Mr. Ashburn, having made his usual morning call, returned with a box filled with manuscripts.
They were set down beside the Marquis’s bed and, after the secretary had left, Rowena came into the room and glanced at them curiously.
“I thought that you might be interested in seeing my Family Tree, which you were so busy disparaging,” the Marquis said. “It is something I have worked on for a very long time and I am considering compiling an Almanac of the ancient families of England.”
Rowena did not reply and he said,
“As you are so interested, I might inform you that the Almanach de Gotha has been published in Germany since 1763 and contains details of all the Sovereign, Princely and Ducal families of Europe.”
“And you think that one is necessary for England?” Rowena asked.
“Why not?” the Marquis said. “It would certainly be of interest. Do you realise that everything we wish to know about our families has to be culled from the Parish Registers, which were not kept before 1538 when Cromwell made it compulsory for all British Priests to keep a register of births, baptisms and burials.”
“I still think, my Lord, that you should concern yourself with the living and see if you can help them,” Rowena replied. “Now the War is over, there are thousands of men maimed and crippled who need assistance and medical treatment. If the newspapers are to be believed, there is a crying need for orphanages and homes for children.”
“There are several orphanages on my estates,” the Marquis replied, “and I believe that the Duke of Wellington is very concerned about those wounded in battle. Much as you may disapprove, Rowena, I still enjoy the history of my antecedents.”
He opened the box as he spoke and drawing out a large manuscript held it out towards her.
Automatically she took it from him, but, when she saw it, her expression, which had been one of disdain, changed.
Never had she seen anything so beautiful as the way the manuscript was illustrated with flowers and figures all painted in colours and gold with a precise perfection that was almost that of a miniaturist.
“This represents the part of my family tree,” the Marquis explained, “that was compiled in the fourteenth century by Sir Robert Swayne, who was a direct descendant of the Swaynes who invaded these shores with the Army of William the Conqueror.”
“It is certainly very beautiful,” Rowena conceded.
She found it hard to oppose the Marquis when she was looking at anything so lovely.
When he brought manuscript after manuscript from his box, she exclaimed over the decorations with minutia and the historiated initials with the same excitement that Hermione might have shown.
There were some illuminated in the French Gothic style that the Marquis said was stimulated by the Patronage of King Louis IX.
There were several English scripts of the fourteenth century with scenes of fantasy and naturalistic foliage like those of the Tickhill Psalter.
There was an exquisite product of Flemish
artists of a century later, which showed how the Dukes of Burgundy were related to the Swaynes.
“This one is really lovely!” Rowena had to exclaim. “But how lucky that they have all been preserved!”
“Our family records have been kept very carefully and safely all down the ages,” the Marquis replied. “My father was interested in them, but not to the extent that I am. I have been collecting these for years.”
He smiled as he added,
“We are even mentioned in a history that was written in France by a Father Anselme de St. Marie. It was through that work that I discovered many of the French branches of the Swaynes.”
“Are any of them still alive?” Rowena asked.
“A few,” he replied.
He showed her several more manuscripts and then replaced them in the carved box that they had come in.
“Now do you understand why I find this hobby absorbing?” he asked.
“To a certain extent,” she admitted. “I suppose it makes you even prouder than you would be otherwise.”
“Of course!” he answered. “My family now has twenty-five quarterings. My mother was an O’Brien, a family that is directly descended from the Kings of Ireland. Who would not be proud in similar circumstances?”
“I can quite see how hard it will be for you to find a wife for yourself unless you aspire to the Royal Family,” Rowena commented with a slightly sarcastic note in her voice.
“I had thought of it,” the Marquis replied with a twinkle in his eyes, “but the Princesses at Buckingham House are so exceedingly plain that I would find it hard to tolerate their portraits amongst my collection of beautiful ancestresses.”
“You could always close your eyes when you kissed her,” Rowena teased, “and recite her Family Tree under your breath.”
“That is quite a practical suggestion,” the Marquis retorted and then laughed.
He looked at Rowena as she stood beside the bed.
The sunshine seemed to have been captured by her hair and there was a translucence about her eyes that he had not seen before.
“While we are on the subject of marriage,” he remarked, “who do you think you will choose for a husband?”
“As I have such a large selection, you can imagine it is difficult for me to answer that question!”
“Good God! There must be young men somewhere in this part of the world!”
‘There is Colonel Dangerfield,” Rowena answered, “who tried to kiss me the last time I took him the Parish magazine. He must be getting on for eighty and is nearly crippled with arthritis, so it was easy to escape his attentions!”
There were two dimples in her cheeks as she went on,
“Then there is a dashing young blade from the livery stables at Aston Ripley who sometimes comes this way. He offered me a free ride if ever I needed one, but I had the feeling that I would have to pay very heavily for the privilege!”
The Marquis made a sound that she could not quite interpret and, as she looked at him enquiringly, he said,
“Surely you have some relations who would have you to stay and offer you a different sort of life?”
To his surprise Rowena seemed to freeze.
Then, with the obvious intention of changing the subject, she said,
‘There is a great deal for me to do downstairs, my Lord. Is there anything you want?”
“Yes, I would like a glass of champagne. Tell Johnson to bring it up.”
“Papa said you could drink in moderation and you have already had claret for luncheon today.”
“Which I intend also to have for dinner,” the Marquis replied. “A glass of champagne is a good appetiser.”
He saw Rowena’s lips tighten and he said,
“Are you really concerned with my health or are you perhaps thinking that I shall retard my recovery and therefore stay with you longer?”
“I am concerned with both,” Rowena replied. “You have already had one relapse, my Lord, and I have no wish for you to have another.”
“Come here!” the Marquis ordered in a tone of authority.
A little surprised she obeyed him and, when she reached his side, he put out his hand.
Because he seemed to compel her to do so, she laid her fingers on his.
“I do not wish you to think I am ungrateful,” he said. “Sir George has told me in no uncertain terms that I could not have been in better hands than your father’s. He also commended the excellent way that I have been nursed. Thank you, Rowena.”
There was a note in his voice that told her he was in fact sincere.
Then he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
The blood rose in Rowena’s cheeks and, because she suddenly felt shy and strangely embarrassed, her eyes fell before his.
“There is no need to – thank us, my Lord,” she said in a rather breathless little voice, “we have – simply done our – duty.”
She took her hand away as she spoke.
Then, because her heart was beating unaccountably fast and there was a constriction in her throat, she turned and went from the room without looking back.
*
Dr. Winsford finished his dinner with an absent-minded look in his eyes that told Rowena he had not in fact really appreciated the delicious food that had been brought from Swayneling Park.
There had been trout, which had been caught in the lake and chickens so plump and so succulent that Rowena felt that they bore little resemblance to the scraggy cockerels that they purchased locally.
The raspberry fool had been made with thick Jersey cream from his Lordship’s herd and for dessert there were huge Muscat grapes and black cherries.
“Are you worried, Papa?” she asked.
“I have a difficult case where Mrs. Lacey is concerned,” Dr. Winsford replied. “As you remember, Rowena, she had twins last week, but she is not recovering as she should, although the twins are thriving.”
“They would be!” Rowena replied.
“I am wondering who is going to feed them. Sam Lacey has not done any work for the last year and there are six other children to feed. You would think that he would make an effort to find employment.”
Her father sighed.
“I grant you he is a ne’er-do-well,” he said, “but Mrs. Lacey is an excellent mother. I am just wondering whether, if I should go back there this evening, there is anything I could take her.”
“I am sure that there is some soup, Papa,” Rowena said automatically, “and I daresay that there will be some chicken over, although I must leave enough for Mrs. Hanson.”
“It will certainly be a help,” her father said.
Rowena looked at him sharply.
“You have not been giving Sam Lacey money, have you, Papa?”
Her father immediately looked self-conscious and she knew that she had hit the nail on the head.
“Oh, Papa! You promised me over and over again that you would not give away money that we cannot afford.”
“I should have thought we could afford it at the moment, considering how much the Marquis is paying,” the doctor remarked.
“His Lordship’s contribution has paid our back debts and I have a little, a very little, in hand for the future,” Rowena said. “You know as well as I do, Papa, that we shall soon be back to counting every penny piece and often finding it impossible to buy the food we need.”
“I am sorry, Rowena, but I had to help him,” Dr. Winsford said quietly.
He rose from the table as he spoke and then bent to kiss his eldest daughter’s forehead.
“Don’t be too angry with me,” he said with a smile and left the room before she could answer him.
It was always the same, she thought, her father would never face facts! She had been thinking for a long time that they must save money so that Mark could go to school.
He was being taught by a retired teacher in the village and by the Vicar when he could exert himself.
The Vicar was in fact a very erudite man who had taken
First Class Honours at Oxford University, but he was extremely idle. The only thing he really enjoyed was hunting in the winter when anyone could be cajoled into supplying him with a mount.
At the same time in his own way he was fond of Dr. Winsford and grateful to him for curing his wife when she had been extremely ill two years ago.
But even with these two teachers Rowena was aware that Mark not only required a far more intensive education than he was receiving, he also needed to mix with boys of his own age.
There were none in the village except the ordinary village lads when they were not working in the fields and most of them were very rough.
Rowena longed for her brother to be able to go to a Public School such as Harrow or Rugby, where her father had been educated.
‘Surely we could manage it somehow,’ she thought to herself, but it was difficult to see how.
Although her father agreed in principle that they must save, that did not prevent him from frittering away money on hopeless families like the Laceys.
One thing she told herself was that, since the Marquis had been with them, she had managed to save almost every shilling that came into the house from other patients;
There were a few conscientious families, who tried to pay the doctor a shilling or so after a confinement and even as much as three or four shillings after he had set a broken leg or stitched a damaged head.
This constituted what Rowena thought to herself as ‘Mark’s Fund’. It was locked away in a box in her bedroom and, however hard-pressed they were for housekeeping money, she would never encroach on it.
At the same time there was not nearly enough for the fees of any reputable school.
Whatever she might have said about the Marquis’s effect upon the household, she could not help feeling that his accident might prove to have been a blessing.
But she thought despondently that, even if they could pay for Mark to go to Rugby for one term, they could not carry on with the payments unless wealthy patients like the Marquis dropped out of the skies every other month.
There was no doubt, now that the Marquis was getting better, he would be thinking of leaving.
When she went upstairs to take him a warm drink, which she knew would make him sleep well at night, Rowena decided to express something that she had been turning over in her mind.
A Duel With Destiny Page 4