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“I often feel that way about people in great stories,” Sarah said and then wished she hadn’t. She might easily have kept that eccentricity to herself. “There was glorious Camelot,” she added.
“Until Guinevere and Lancelot and Mordred brought it down,” said Kenver.
“You’re both very well versed in this tale,” said Cecelia. “To me, Arthur’s story seems to be full of sad accidents and people making mistakes.”
“Rather like life then,” replied Kenver.
Sarah swallowed. Did he think she was a mistake? He’d been more distant lately, since the letter arrived from his sister. Perhaps his mother had been speaking to him.
“You are a great reader,” the duke said to Sarah.
Sarah nodded, setting her jaw. If the duke wished to think her odd—well, let him.
“Geoffrey of Monmouth’s book is a long work, isn’t it?” Cecelia asked. “I believe I have heard my father speak of it. Isn’t it in Latin?”
“There is a translation. My Latin is not fluent.”
“All those conjugations and declensions,” said Kenver.
Did he mean that she couldn’t be blamed for failing to pick it up? Or that it was just too gloriously complicated for her mind to grasp? And did everyone have to speak as if they might mean something entirely different?
“A gauntlet for schoolboys,” replied the duke.
“Yes,boys,” said Sarah. Girls who might wish to learn things were irrelevant, of course. “Come and see the cliffs, Cecelia.”
Kenver watched the two ladies walk off together among the ruined walls. “I feel as if I’ve said something wrong,” he commented. “But I don’t know what it is.”
The duke gave him a sympathetic look. “In past conversations, in London, I have observed that Miss…Mrs. Pendrennon objects to the unequal education offered girls and boys.”
“Shewantedto study Latin and Greek?” Kenver shook his head. “When I think of slogging through theDe bello Gallico.”
“‘De gustibus non disputandum est.’”
“It’s no use trying Latin tags on me. I’ve forgotten it all.”
“‘There is no accounting for taste,’” Tereford translated.
Kenver did actually remember that one. He ought to know more about Sarah’s tastes, he thought. Her head was full of strong opinions. And like the stony ground they walked across, there was always a chance he might trip over one.
The duke went to examine one of the ruined stone walls. “So this is King Arthur’s, er, point of conception?”
“Most of these walls are from a thirteenth-century castle. There’s nothing left but legends from Arthur’s time.”
They moved through the remains of the building. Kenver pointed out various details. His mind full of Sarah, he didn’t notice that the duke was contributing very little. And thus he was unusually startled when the other man said, “My father was a difficult man.”
“Um. Really?” Kenver couldn’t imagine the duke having trouble with anyone. It was almost as surprising as having the man suddenly confide in him.
“He, ah, specialized in harsh judgments.”
It took Kenver a moment to see a connection. “Like mine.” Of course the Terefords had noticed his parents’ attitude toward Sarah. They simply hadn’t mentioned it. Until now, apparently.
“Very like,” replied Tereford. “I have been reminded.”
“And your mother also?” Kenver often found Mama more prickly.
“She died when I was very young. I never really knew her.”
“I’m sorry. It was just you and your father then?”
