by Jane Ashford
Her father fell back onto the pillows. “Why does no one come to see me?” he asked. “Chatton might stop by, I would think, knowing I’m ill.”
Well aware that he was referring to the current marquess’s father, and indeed to a time before they’d fallen out, Fenella didn’t know what to say. The first time he’d complained of this, she’d told him his old friend-foe was dead. But he never remembered.
“Or Pierson,” her father added. “Many’s the good turn I’ve done him. He might spare me half an hour’s visit.”
It would be good for him to see familiar faces, Fenella thought. But the Piersons had moved to Kent years ago. Her father had no friends left nearby. She’d send for the vicar again. His conversation could soothe, when it didn’t infuriate.
“But I’ve only you,” he went on. “If you’d been a son, as you were supposed to be, I wouldn’t be laid low like this. And no one to come after me on the estate.”
Resisting the urge to argue with him, Fenella went to change her dress and then discover where Simpson was lurking so that they could discuss what to do.
* * *
When he reached home, Roger found his mother entertaining a visitor to Chatton Castle. Their neighbor Harold Benson was sitting with her in the small drawing room that overlooked the sea. Benson, short and round and bald, always reminded Roger of the drawings of Humpty Dumpty in children’s picture books. Now, he jumped up and offered a bow, proving that he did bend in the middle.
“Roger, just in time!” said his mother. “We are talking about the historical pageant on Lindisfarne at the end of August. I’ve been telling Mr. Benson that of course we will do all we can to help.”
If his mother had had a coat of arms, that might have been the motto engraved upon it, Roger thought. Her impulse was always to help. The problem was that the consequent obligations piled up until she was hard pressed to fulfill them all, and then she bounced from one to another like a fly trapped by a closed window, buzzing with anxiety. Waving Benson back to his chair, Roger sat down beside her, wondering if he could keep her from going distracted over this pageant. A happy smile lit her face. Fair-haired and slender, her features scarcely lined, she didn’t look her fifty years of age.
“It’s to be bigger than I realized,” she went on. “With Romans and Vikings and Saxons. And monks, of course.”
“Isn’t that a poor place to hold a festival?” asked Roger. “The road out to Lindisfarne is underwater at high tide.”
“There’s a well marked path,” said Benson. “People only need to take care and mind the tides. And the holy isle has been the scene of a positive panorama of British history.” Benson was an avid scholar, their local expert on just about everything. Particularly in his own opinion. On his small neat estate just south of Roger’s lands, Benson inhabited a house overrun by books.
Roger’s mother clasped her hands. “There will be a special presentation of speeches from Macbeth by a leading London actress. Only think!”
Their visitor’s plump cheeks creased with distaste, making him look like a dyspeptic chipmunk. “Very dramatic, I’m sure. Of course Shakespeare got that story wrong in almost every respect. The chronicles give no hint of such machinations. Macbeth was an unexceptional king of Scotland. And nothing at all is known about his wife!”
“What day is it to be?” asked Roger before Benson could launch into a lecture on medieval politics north of the border.
“The last day of August,” answered Roger’s mother.
“I’m glad it’s all going smoothly,” said Roger, hoping to plant the notion in her mind that not too much help was needed.
“Ah,” said Benson.
The concern he packed into that brief syllable told Roger that the bad news was coming.
“We do have rather a problem over who is to portray Saint Cuthbert. Such an important figure in our local religious traditions, you know.”
“I’d think some vicar or bishop would be pleased to do so,” said Roger.
Benson made a wry face. “Precisely. Too pleased. A rather fierce, ah, competition has developed in the church over the role. I understand that a parish priest and a canon nearly came to blows. Shocking. I’ve thought of suggesting that it should be a great man of the neighborhood instead.”
“You don’t mean me?” said Roger, horrified at the thought.
Their visitor looked equally perturbed. “No! That is, no, Lord Chatton. I would never… There’s no thought of that.”
Roger sat back, relieved and somehow a bit piqued at the vehemence of Benson’s rejection.
“I certainly hope you will take a part in the pageant,” Benson added quickly. “There are all sorts of roles. Viking raiders, marauding Saxons or Scots.”
Was he seen as so bellicose, Roger wondered. But since he didn’t want a part in the least, it didn’t matter.
“I think Roger should be a Roman commander,” said his mother. “With a toga and a chariot.”
He choked back a horrified laugh. Where had that idea come from?
“Ah, strictly speaking, the Romans were not a force this far north in England,” said Benson. “And chariots, you know, would never have been used on—”
She went on without seeming to hear. “You could use one of the swords hanging above the hall fireplace,” she said to Roger.
“Those are claymores,” said Benson. “The two-handed medieval sword, you know. Nothing to do with the Romans.”
“And I’d be hard pressed to wield one,” said Roger. “Lord knows what they weigh.”
“The Romans carried a much shorter weapon called a gladius,” said Benson. “But as I said, we had few Romans hereabouts.”
He spoke as if Roger was longing for a role but was worried about taking it. Roger set to work to dispel that wrong-headed notion and managed to avoid promising any sort of participation in the August pageant, amusing his mother even as he annoyed their scholarly neighbor.
Two
The following day brought a surprise to Chatton Castle. As Roger was looking over a list of rent rolls, he was informed that a traveler had arrived and was asking for him. The card he was handed startled him, but when he went to the front hall he discovered that Lord Macklin was indeed in his house.
“I’m on my way to Scotland for some fishing,” said the newcomer. “When I found we were passing your home, I thought I’d stop to see you.”
“Splendid,” said Roger, and found he truly meant it. He’d recalled the dinner in London quite often since the spring. The occasion stood out in his mind as both unusual and, somehow, comforting. He was genuinely glad to see the earl. “I hope you’ll stay a few days.” He noted Macklin’s traveling carriage standing outside. An older man who was clearly a valet waited beside it, along with a homely youngster Roger couldn’t immediately categorize.
“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” said Macklin.
“Not at all. We’ll be glad of the company.” Roger turned to the footman. “Have Lord Macklin’s carriage taken to the stables,” he said. “And tell my mother and Mrs. Burke that we have a visitor.” He handed over the earl’s card to be delivered with this news. Only then did he remember his mother’s youthful romance with their guest.
Macklin had stepped over to the east windows and was gazing out at the cliffside and the expanse of the North Sea beyond. “This coast has an austere beauty,” he said. “I haven’t been here before.”
Roger went to stand next to him. “Yes,” he agreed. He knew some found the landscape bleak, but it was his home country and he loved it. “And some unique vulnerabilities. Denmark is there.” He pointed directly east. “A matter of five hundred miles for the invading Danes to sail. And Norway is about the same distance there.” He pointed northeast. “Once full of marauding Norsemen. That’s why Chatton is a fortification rather than an estate house. But we do have an up to date wing. We’ll ma
ke you comfortable, I promise.”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“Arthur Shelton!” declared a melodious female voice.
They turned to find Roger’s mother framed by the arched stone doorway that led to the more modern part of the castle. One hand was pressed against the bodice of her rose-colored gown. The other held Macklin’s visiting card. Her blue eyes were sparkling.
“Of course you will remember my mother,” said Roger.
“The dowager marchioness,” she said with a throwaway gesture, as if to show how ridiculous she found this designation. “Helena Ravelstoke that was.”
Macklin blinked, and Roger was suddenly worried that his mother would be humiliated. He’d always accepted her tales of social success. But what if they’d been inflated in her memory?
“Helena Ravelstoke,” repeated the earl. He moved forward, holding out his hand. When he grasped Roger’s mother’s fingers he bowed over them in the style of an earlier age. “Mademoiselle Matchless, the toast of the ton.” Without letting go of her hand, he turned back to Roger. “She had every young sprig in London pining at her feet.”
She retrieved her hand, but her answering smile was brilliant.
“There was Falconhurst and Gregg.” Macklin began counting off on his fingers. “Summerford and Dawes and Wingate, and others too numerous to mention. The Prince called you delectable.” He glanced over his shoulder at Roger. “Now the Regent,” he explained.
“My mother didn’t leave me alone with him,” replied Roger’s mother. “Papa was livid when he mentioned me in that way, but Mama was quite up to the mark. She was pretty well acquainted with the queen, you know.”
“Didn’t Lensford compare you to Botticelli’s Venus?” Macklin said. “Or shouldn’t I mention that?”
She laughed. “Such a shocking thing to say.” She didn’t seem at all bothered by this fact, however.
Was that the painting with the lady on the half shell clothed only in her long hair? Roger rather thought it was. Not a proper image to describe a young lady, especially one’s mother. He banished it from his mind.
“Many hopes were dashed when your mother accepted your father’s proposal,” Macklin said. “Lensford threatened to shoot himself.”
“Of course he didn’t mean it,” she replied. “He was such a dramatic young man. I wonder what’s become of him.”
“Gone to fat,” answered the earl promptly. “Lives in Somerset. Breeds prize sheep.”
“Oh no!”
Macklin nodded. “Married Wrenly’s daughter.”
“I did know that. But sheep! Couldn’t it have been hunting dogs, at least? What about his poetry?”
The earl shrugged. “He may still write it. But he never published another volume after the one that critic called unmitigated bilge.”
“He was crushed,” said Roger’s mother sympathetically.
“More of a sulk, I thought.” The earl smiled at her in a way that recalled a far younger man.
She gestured. Roger could almost see a fan in her hand, extended to rap the older man’s knuckles.
“I was among those spurned,” Macklin said to Roger. He didn’t seem particularly regretful, however. More amused and nostalgic.
“Hardly that,” Roger’s mother replied. “And it seems to me you were courting Celia Garthington well before I married.”
He acknowledged it with a nod as the Chatton Castle housekeeper bustled in.
“Is Lord Macklin’s room ready, Mrs. Burke?”
“Yes, my lady.” The housekeeper turned to Macklin. “Your valet is already above, my lord. Would you care to go up?”
He accepted with a nod and a punctilious farewell.
When Roger and his mother were left alone she said, “How extraordinary that he came all this way to visit me.”
“I don’t think… He said he was on the way to Scotland for some fishing.”
“Well, he needed an excuse,” she replied. “But why else stop at Chatton?”
“To see me, he said. I had dinner with him the last time I was in London.”
“You did?”
“I was surprised at the invitation,” Roger admitted.
His mother looked thoughtful. “Would he go so far as to make friends with you so that he could visit here? Now that I’m a widow.”
“Papa has been dead for more a year.”
“Indeed. A proper period of mourning, which shows great sensitivity on Arthur’s part.”
Roger thought she was wrong. He was pretty sure Macklin had been startled to find her here. This could grow awkward. He began to worry that he’d made a mistake in extending the invitation to stay.
* * *
Only a few miles away Fenella Fairclough was also welcoming a visitor, though this one was officially expected, if not quite invited. Fenella’s eldest sister had decreed that her son would spend the summer school holiday at his grandfather’s home. Her letter had simply assumed the boy was welcome, and Fenella knew there was no arguing with Greta, not without a monumental fuss.
The ten-year difference in their ages meant that she barely knew her sister. Greta had married at seventeen, in her first season, and produced a son and heir for her husband the following year. Two daughters had followed, and now Greta was expecting again. She’d declared that she couldn’t deal with her son in these circumstances, leaving Fenella to wonder what that meant precisely. But her father had approved the plan, and she had no reason to refuse. And so ten-year-old Sherrington Symmes had been packed into a post chaise, from which he was now descending, and sent along like a parcel into the North.
Her nephew was thin, with a narrow face, his dark hair a bit long, falling over his forehead. His long fingers moved nervously, and something in his eyes touched Fenella. Apprehension? It was true they weren’t really acquainted. Their interactions on family visits had been fleeting. She smiled. “Hello, Sherrington. I’m your Aunt Fenella.”
“People call me John. It’s my middle name.” His voice was defiant, as if he expected objections and was ready to fight them off.
Fenella saw no reason to make any. He’d been named after his father, who might have known better, Fenella thought. She’d found Sherrington a ponderous name when it was announced. “John,” she repeated. “Welcome to Northumberland.”
He looked around without visible enthusiasm.
The servant supervising the unloading of his trunks seemed old for a boy, Fenella noticed. But perhaps he was more of a tutor.
“How far away is Scotland?” the boy asked.
“We’re about ten miles from the border here,” Fenella replied.
“It’s so cold in Scotland that the snakes don’t lay eggs,” he said. “They’re born alive, like mammals.”
“Really.”
He flushed as if he wished he could take back these words, then raised his chin as if Fenella had reprimanded him. “There aren’t any proper snakes here. Nothing like a cobra or a python. Pythons can be feet and feet long. They can crush a goat.”
“How?”
“They wrap their coils around them and squeeze.” John closed his hands into fists, demonstrating.
He meant her to shudder, Fenella thought. She disappointed him. “And where do they do this crushing?”
“What?”
“Where do pythons live?”
“In Asia and Africa. When I’m older I’m going to visit my uncle in India and see the snake charmers.”
John spoke like a boy who was often contradicted. Fenella decided then and there that she wouldn’t. “Well, we may be short on snakes, but we do have cats and dogs and horses. Do you like to ride?”
The servant had left the carriage and was hovering behind the boy. “This is Wrayle,” John said. “He’s my minder.”
“Now, Master Sherrington.” The man glanced at Fenella as
if to enlist her in a furtive cause. “I’m afraid Master Sherrington’s health is delicate. He will require a south-facing bedchamber, with tight shutters, and a restricted diet, with hot milk at bedtime.”
The boy seemed to deflate, like a creature resigned to oppression. He also looked as if he was made of whipcord and steel, and not the least bit delicate.
“I’ll introduce you to our housekeeper,” said Fenella to Wrayle. “She’ll see that you have what you need.” But perhaps not everything you want, she added silently.
Wrayle smiled like a man who has established his dominance. Fenella decided she didn’t like him. She vowed to have a talk with the housekeeper before he reached her with his list of demands.
Wrayle was part of the reason that Fenella took her nephew along that evening to a gathering at the house of a local baronet. Sir Cyril and Lady Prouse loved to entertain, and they didn’t let the fact that their children were all married and settled elsewhere stop them from inviting young people to gather for a bit of music and dancing. Lady Prouse said that nothing cheered her like watching youngsters enjoy themselves. In a somewhat isolated neighborhood without local assemblies, the Prouse home was a lively social hub.
Fenella hadn’t accepted one of their invitations for a while. Caring for her father and his estate took much of her time, but the truth was she hadn’t been as active in neighborhood society since Arabella’s death. That event, and its aftermath, had cast a pall. But that was clearing, and anyhow she had John to think of now.
The Prouses lived nearby. Their evening wouldn’t run too late, and beyond thwarting Wrayle, Fenella thought John would enjoy the jovial atmosphere. There would certainly be plenty of young people present. Not as young as he, admittedly. But she wasn’t going to mind that.
At this point in her thought processes, Fenella realized that she wanted to go for her own sake. Gaiety had been missing from her life recently. She was ready for a dose of Lady Prouse’s shrewd good humor. And so she put on one of her favorite gowns, bundled John into the carriage, and set out for the baronet’s.