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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 youwilltake 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 agladius,” 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 make 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 theton.” 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.
