The Eternal Collection

The Duke of Mortlyn woke with a dry throat and a headache. It infuriated him as he knew that last night, at Lady Bramwell’s party, the champagne and the claret had not been wines that he would have chosen for himself. It annoyed him still more to know that Lord Bramwell, who was a rich man, was mean when it came to hospitality. Nor did Lady Bramwell have the intelligence, although what woman had? – to choose good wines. The dinner party had been boring, but then Doreen Bramwell had whispered that she had something important to talk to him about after the other guests had left. The Duke was too experienced not to know what this meant and he had debated with himself whether he should go or stay. He was well aware that Lady Bramwell had been chasing him for some time. Finally since she was surely one of the most beautiful women in the whole of Society, he had succumbed to the pleading in her eyes. He had lingered after the other guests had all said ‘farewell’. It was then, with her arms around his neck and her perfectly formed lips on his, that he had given in to the inevitable. Now, as he realised that his valet must have called him as usual at seven o’clock and left him sleeping, he realised that he had missed his usual ride in Hyde Park, It was not surprising that he had overslept. He had not returned to his house in Park Lane until after dawn had broken over London and people were already moving about in the streets. Now, as he stretched himself out, he decided that he would not call on Lady Bramwell again as she expected him to do. Despite the fact that the night had been exceedingly fiery and everything that any man could desire physically, there had been nothing new about it. Because the Duke was so good-looking, extremely rich and was in the Social circle, only one step from the Royal Family, he had been cajoled, pursued and chased by women ever since he had left Eton and Oxford University. At thirty-three he was still unmarried and the pleadings of his family that he should take a wife had left him unmoved. He had the unshakable conviction that, if he married, he would be bored very soon. Doubtless it would begin no more than two months after taking his bride down the aisle, which in fact would be longer than his affaires de coeurs usually lasted. affaires de coeurs‘I am perfectly happy as I am.’ He had said this only yesterday to his grandmother when she begged him once again to settle down and produce an heir. “It is all very well to talk like that, Wade,” she had replied, “but you know as well as I do that you cannot possibly allow your tiresome cousin, Giles, to inherit the title.” “Certainly not,” the Duke had agreed, “but I am not yet in my dotage and, when I am, I am sure with my usual good luck I will supply you with several heirs.” “I want them now,” the Dowager Duchess had insisted firmly as the Duke laughed at her. nowHe climbed out of bed without ringing for his valet and walked to the window. The sun was shining on the trees in Hyde Park and the sky was clear. It was going to be hot again later in the day. The Duke had a vision of the swans moving over the lake at Mortlyn. He saw the gardens brilliant with flowers and the woods that had protected the house for centuries, dark and mysterious, as he had thought them to be when he was a small boy. ‘I will go to the country,’ he decided and then rang the bell. * Half an hour later the Duke was downstairs finishing an excellent breakfast. He was unaware that, as he was late, the chef had cooked several dishes over again so that they would be exactly right for the moment when he appeared. He was just finishing his second cup of coffee when the door opened and his secretary came in. Mr. Watson had been with him since he had inherited the title and had left the Army. He was an extremely efficient man, so reliable and intelligent that he was the only person in whom the Duke really confided. The son of the Headmaster of one of the more important Public Schools, Mr. Watson watched over the Duke and spared him many unnecessary problems. In fact he treated him in very much the same way as his father had treated the boys who had been in his charge. “I apologise for bothering Your Grace,” Mr. Watson said, “but there is one thing that requires your attention.” “What is that?” the Duke asked uninterestedly. Then, following his own train of thought, he said, “Send off the usual bouquet of flowers to Lady Bramwell and tell her that unfortunately I cannot call on her this evening as I am leaving for the country.” Mr. Watson made a note on a pad and then, lifting his eyebrows, he asked, “Is Your Grace really going to Mortlyn?” “I am becoming bored with London,” the Duke said almost petulantly. “The horses that I bought at Tattersalls last week should have arrived by now. I want to try them out.” “Very well, Your Grace, I will make all the arrangements. You will, I imagine, wish to drive your phaeton?” “Of course,” the Duke agreed, “with the new team of chestnuts.” He would have arisen from the table, then he remembered and asked, “What was it you said needed my attention?” “Actually it concerns Mortlyn.” The Duke frowned. “No trouble, I hope?” Mortlyn, his ancestral home, was very close to his heart. If he loved anything, he loved the huge Georgian house. It had been erected by his grandfather on the site of an earlier Elizabethan building. The estate that surrounded it consisted of twenty thousand acres and the Duke liked to boast that he knew every inch of it and there was no other in the whole country to equal his. “I told Your Grace last week,” Mr. Watson said, “that the Vicar of Mortlyn Village has died.” “Yes, I remember,” the Duke remarked. “You sent a wreath, of course?” “Yes, Your Grace.” “I suppose that you are now asking me to appoint another incumbent? Well, the Bishop knows exactly the sort of man I want.” “What I was actually going to ask Your Grace,” Mr. Watson said, “was if it would be possible for you to provide the Vicar’s daughter, Miss Linton, with a small house.” The Duke looked surprised before he answered, “I suppose it would be possible, but it is not something we do usually.” “Mr, Hunter, who Your Grace will remember looks after the alms-houses, the pensioners and all other buildings, has suggested The Dovecote.” The Duke looked astonished. “The Dovecote?” he repeated. “Why should Hunter suggest that?” “It would be suitable, Your Grace.” “Suitable for the daughter of a Vicar?” the Duke exclaimed. “It seems to me to be an extraordinary suggestion.” The Dovecote was in fact a house on the estate that he was very fond of. It was small but pure Elizabethan and one of the oldest houses on the whole estate and it had originally been the Dower House, but had proved too small for the Dowager Duchesses. A very much larger and more imposing building had been provided for them in the reign of King George IV. For some years, the Duke remembered, one of his great-aunts had lived in The Dovecote until she died. Since then it had remained empty, but he was sure that it was well looked after and well-tended. Now it seemed a revolutionary idea that someone from the village, even though she was the Vicar’s daughter, should occupy what he had always thought of as a family residence. Aloud he enquired, “What possible qualifications can the Vicar’s daughter have for aspiring to live at The Dovecote?” He felt that Mr. Watson was searching for words as he said, “She has, Your Grace, preserved and greatly extended ‒ the Herb Garden.” “I would have thought that it was the job of the gardeners,” the Duke snapped. “They would not have been as knowledgeable as Miss Linton is or known what to plant and what to retain.” “You think because she is interested in the Herb Garden, which I admit I have not seen for some years, she is entitled to be the tenant of The Dovecote?” Mr. Watson moved a little uneasily. It struck the Duke as extremely strange that he seemed somewhat hesitant, even nervous. It was so unlike Watson, who was an extremely positive man and so quick-brained that the Duke always enjoyed talking to him. “Come on, Watson,” the Duke said, “tell me the truth. What is behind all this?” Mr. Watson smiled and it made him look almost like a schoolboy who had been trying to put something over on a Master. “The truth is, Your Grace,” he said, “Miss Linton is needed in the village and, if she left, it would deeply distress everyone for miles around.” “What does she do then to make herself indispensable?” the Duke enquired. “Teach the Sunday School, visit the sick? Good Heavens, Watson, there cannot be many invalids in such a small village.” “There are very few, Your Grace, but that is due to Miss Linton.” “What are you saying? I don’t understand,” the Duke almost snapped. He had the feeling once again as he spoke that Watson of all people was being evasive. To prompt his secretary into telling him more, he persisted, “I am most certainly not going to let The Dovecote, which is without exception the most attractive small house I own on any of my estates, to any tiresome ‘do-gooder’ who wishes to hold Prayer Meetings in the drawing room.” As he spoke, held had a picture of The Dovecote in his mind. With its shallow bricks, mellowed with age, diamond-paned windows and its rooms with their low ceilings supported by ships’ wooden beams, it was really very beautiful. “I would hardly call Miss Linton that,” Mr. Watson was now replying, “although she does help people and in fact there is no one more popular or more sought-after.” “Why?” the Duke asked. “Because, Your Grace, she understands the use of herbs. Anyone who is injured or sick goes to her, as they went to her mother before she died, and is healed.” Mr. Watson took a deep breath and then, with what was clearly an act of bravery, said, “They think of her, Your Grace, as a ‘White Witch’.” “Good God!” the Duke expostulated. Then he sat up straighter in his chair. “Are you telling me, Watson, that in this day and age, when we are supposed to be more enlightened than we were in medieval times, that people still believe in witches?” “I said a ‘White Witch’, Your Grace, as where the doctors fail, Miss Linton appears to effect almost magical cures.” The Duke sat back in his chair again, “I suppose that in the country,” he said, “where they have nothing to think about, the old superstitions are bound to linger on and people believe things that would be laughed to scorn elsewhere.” “I do not think that anyone would laugh at Miss Linton.” notIt was unlike his secretary to champion anyone who was not worthy of it, since usually he was more sparing with his praise than his Master and the Duke was definitely intrigued. Rising from the table, he said, “I tell you what I will do, Watson. As I am leaving for Mortlyn in the next hour or so, I. will see Miss Linton myself.” He paused before he added, “I will then decide whether I consider her worthy of being allotted a cottage, when, as you well know, there is a great demand for them.” “I hope that Your Grace will find something suitable,” Mr. Watson replied. The Duke was aware that his secretary was thinking of The Dovecote. But something obstinate within him made him determined, although he did not say so that The Dovecote would remain empty. He would certainly not allow some Parson’s boring daughter to occupy it. He was leaving the room when Mr. Watson said hastily, “There is something else, Your Grace.” “What is it now?” the Duke asked irritably. “Mr. Pearce, Your Grace’s accountant, asked me to bring to your notice that Mr. Digby has drawn cheques for no less than four thousand pounds in the last two weeks.” “Four thousand pounds!” the Duke exclaimed. “So what the devil can the boy be up to now?” He did not wait for Mr. Watson to tell him as he already knew. His nephew, the son of his elder sister, Oliver Digby, was infatuated by an alluring, but extremely expensive Cyprian. She was well noted for being able to empty a man’s pockets more quickly than any of the other pretty young women in the same profession as herself. ‘Four thousand pounds is too much,’ the Duke decided. As he walked into the hall, he looked back over his shoulder and said sharply, “Send a groom to tell Mr. Oliver that I wish to see him and to hurry as I am leaving for the country shortly.” “Very good, Your Grace.” The Duke then walked into his study, which was an. attractive room on the ground floor looking out over the garden at the back. It was decorated with a great number of books and a collection of sporting pictures, which the Duke knew were the envy of his friends. He sat down at his flat-topped desk where there was a pile of letters waiting for him to sign. There was a frown between his eyes and there was no doubt that Oliver was a problem. But he had promised his sister, Violet, before she went to India where her husband had been made the Governor of a Province, that he would look after their son until they returned. He was a good-looking young man and the Duke had expected that, when he left Oxford, he would enjoy his position in the Social world, and of course, ‘sow his wild oats’. He had smiled understandingly when he was told stories about Oliver’s riotous evenings with his contemporaries. He thought that noisy rows in Night Clubs, Steeplechases at midnight and a great deal of damage done after a drunken party were of no consequence. All this was to be expected from a young man who had been let off the leash for the first time. He had always thought that his sister-in-law had indeed been over-protective and much too fussy about her only child. At the same time four thousand pounds was undoubtedly a fortune. His brother-in-law, Lord Digby, was a rich man, but he would find his position in India expensive and would not enjoy having to pay up on such a scale for his stepson. ‘The best thing they could have done,’ the Duke thought, ‘was to take Oliver with them.’ He knew his sister had been reluctant to do that because she thought Oliver should move in the Social world as he was entitled to. Now he would have the chance of meeting a nice girl whom he would marry. Oliver, however, as the Duke had expected, found the pretty Cyprians more to his taste. Ambitious mothers of debutantes had, of course, quickly added him to their long lists of eligible bachelors. debutantesUnfortunately they waited in vain for his appearance at the balls and Receptions to which he was inevitably invited. The Duke signed his letters and then looked somewhat disdainfully at a small pile on the side of letters addressed to himself which had not been opened. He knew that with his usual perception Watson had realised that these were personal. They were written to him by women who affirmed far too positively that he had broken their hearts. Pushing them over with one finger, the Duke recognised the flowery handwriting of a Countess who had wept bitterly when he left her and continued to write to him reproachfully. Another envelope, which carried the faint scent of gardenias was from a beauty who he thought had fallen into his arms far too quickly. What the Duke really enjoyed in his love affairs was the hunt and the chase rather than the inevitable end. He had often asked himself why he was so cynical and far too frequently bored. He knew it was because he was always searching for something that he could not find. But he found it hard to express to himself what it exactly was. A lovely woman might easily attract him and he would feel, when he met her, a rising excitement. It was much the same sensation as when he brought down a right and left of grouse or stalked a magnificent Royal over the Highland moors. The trouble was that where women were concerned he was invariably bored so soon. It was because he knew, if he was truthful, that he was looking for something unusual and different. Something that was not so banal that he not only knew every move of the game but also exactly what his ‘prey’, if that was the right word for it, would say. ‘What is the matter with me?’ he often asked as he walked home from a house near his own when dawn was breaking. It was then he knew that, instead of feeling happy, he was disappointed. Last night there had been nothing unsatisfactory with the fiery exchange between himself and the beautiful Doreen. Yet this morning, while he still admired her, he had no wish to touch her again. He was quite certain that, for the next two or three weeks, until she realised finally that she had failed to hold him, he would be bombarded with letters. They would be cajoling, begging and pleading that he would see her. Sometimes it seemed to him extraordinary that, while almost every woman to whom he made love lost her heart while his, if he had one, was still intact and unmoved. Because he had no wish to think about Lady Bramwell or to open the letters on his desk, the Duke was relieved when the butler announced, “Mr. Oliver Digby, Your Grace.” His nephew came hurrying into the room. Because he was so young there were no signs of dissipation on his face. The Duke however, was extremely sure that he had spent the night with his Cyprian and undoubtedly, if rumours were true, had indulged heavily. “Good morning, Uncle Wade,” Oliver said. “I am sorry if I kept you waiting, but I was asleep when your groom came hammering on my door.” “I imagined you would be,” the Duke replied. “I am just going to the country and wanted to see you before I leave.” There was a wary look in Oliver’s eyes as he asked, “What about?” “I think you know the answer,” the Duke said. “You must be well aware that you are spending far too much.” Oliver threw himself down into one of the comfortable armchairs. “Things are very expensive in London at the moment,” he said truculently. “Especially someone called ‘Connie’?” the Duke suggested. “So you know about Connie!” “I imagine it is no secret. In fact the majority of people in London would know if they were interested. But quite frankly she is too expensive for you.” “She is lovely and very amusing,” Oliver protested. “Not to the tune of four thousand pounds,” the Duke replied. Oliver stood up from his chair and walked to the window to stare with unseeing eyes at the garden. “All right,” he said grudgingly after a moment, “if you are going to be unpleasant about it, I suppose I shall have to give her up.” “It is not a question of me being unpleasant,” the Duke replied. “I am thinking of your stepfather – it is he who eventually has to foot the bill.” Oliver turned round, “You are not going to tell him?” “You will have to do that,” the Duke replied, “as soon as the Bank will no longer permit you to be overdrawn.” “Dammit!” Oliver exclaimed. “Why the hell can I not have money of my own and not have to go crawling for every penny I spend?” The Duke knew well that his brother-in-law had given Oliver a most generous allowance before he went to India. He therefore thought that this outburst was unfair, although he did not say so. “What I was about to suggest,” he replied, “was that, as I am leaving for Mortlyn almost immediately, you might like to come with me.” “To the country – what on earth for?” Oliver enquired. “I bought some horses at Tattersalls last week and I so intend to try them out,” the Duke explained. “I also thought some fresh air might be good for both of us.” Oliver considered this for a moment and then he said, “I think I should see Connie before I leave. I have rather committed myself to giving her a necklace she fancied.” “Can you afford it?” “You know I cannot,” Oliver answered, “but I did promise.” He looked at his uncle. He was torn between doing the right thing where his stepfather was concerned and then disappointing a woman who he was infatuated with. “Save yourself from making such a momentous decision,” the Duke said, “I will use my prerogative as your Guardian and order you to accompany me. If you explain that to Connie, she will understand.” “How do you know she will?” Oliver asked disagreeably. There was silence and then, as he saw a mocking smile on his uncle’s face, he said, “Oh, my God, I never thought of that! Curse it, is there any woman in London who has not fallen for you?” It was not a compliment. He walked towards the door and jerked it open before he said with deliberate rudeness, “I will be ready to accompany Your Grace in fifteen minutes.” He slammed the door behind him and the Duke gave a little laugh. As it happened, because he was very fastidious, he had made it a rule long ago never to patronise Cyprians or any woman who expected to be paid in cash for her favours. However, because he was so very rich all the beautiful women who he spent his time with expected to receive presents. These were usually chosen by Mr. Watson with exceedingly good taste. The Duke had lost count long ago how many sables, muffs, diamond bracelets, earrings, bags, sunshades and fans he had paid for. They had certainly amounted to a very large sum over the years. Oliver would learn in time, he thought, that women invariably asked for more than a man could afford. It was just as much a mistake to be over-generous as it was to be niggardly. Anyway it would be a good thing for Oliver to accompany him to Mortlyn. He thought that his sister would be grateful if she knew of all the trouble that he was taking on her behalf. The journey to Mortlyn took just over two hours, although the Duke was always trying to improve on his own record. As they drove past the ancient oaks and the house lay ahead of them, he was conscious of something like a thrill. It was something that he always felt when he saw his home. Mortlyn was a Greystone building with a pillared front and wings stretching out on each side. It was certainly one of the finest pieces of Adam architecture in the whole country. The sun was glinting on the windows and the statues and urns that decorated the roofline were silhouetted against the blue of the sky. There were green lawns sloping down to a large lake well stocked with fish The Duke invariably thought that it was even lovelier than when he had last seen it. He had not spoken very much to Oliver on the journey as he was more concerned with driving his new team with an expertise that made him and his horses outstanding. Although he was not aware of it, he had the envy and admiration of all the young men about town. As he crossed the bridge over the lake and drove up to the front door, the groom, who was sitting behind him, said, “You’ve done it again, Your Grace! Five minutes off the last time we comes ’ere!” “Five minutes?” the Duke repeated. “That is good, but not good enough. I had hoped for ten or fifteen.” “Your Grace’ll do it sooner or later,” the groom said confidently as he jumped to the ground before the wheels had stopped turning. He need not have hurried for, having been alerted that the Duke was now arriving, two grooms came running to the horses’ heads. A red carpet was already laid on the steps and a number of footmen in the family Livery were in attendance. The Duke walked slowly into the hall, saying to the old butler who greeted him, “’Good morning, Groves, is everything all right?” “It’s delightful to see Your Grace again so soon,” the butler replied, “The champagne’s in the study and luncheon will be ready in fifteen minutes.” “Good,” the Duke approved. “Mr. Oliver and are both hungry. We came straight from London without a stop.” “You are so right, Uncle Wade. I did not have any breakfast this morning, so I really am famished.” Oliver announced. “As it would doubtless have consisted of a brandy and soda after a heavy night, that is a good thing,” the Duke remarked. “It is all very well for you,” Oliver replied. “Everyone knows that you drink very little. But it is difficult to say ‘no’ when everyone else is swilling it down.” The Duke laughed. He had not forgotten that, when he first sampled the delights of London life, he too had ‘swilled it down’, as Oliver put it. Then he had become aware that it affected his athletic pursuits, which were much more important. His horses had always been more of a delight to him than anything else. He was also an acknowledged pugilist. Although it was out of fashion, he was additionally a swordsman who had tried his skill with the champions of Europe. He was wondering how he could persuade his nephew to take more exercise, He knew it was something that he should not be pressured into doing. It would be better for him to enjoy the challenge and then, in consequence, keep his body fit and agile. But he said nothing as Oliver proceeded to drink three glasses of champagne to his one before luncheon was announced. * Later they inspected the horses. Long before the Duke had finished going from stall to stall in the stables, which housed nearly fifty outstanding animals, Oliver was beginning to yawn. The Duke could see that he was tired. When he suggested that the young man might go to rest and perhaps they would ride in the cool of the evening, Oliver readily agreed. Then the Duke ordered one of his new stallions to be saddled and set off alone across the Park. The horse was fresh, skittish and determined to get the better of his new Master. It was the age-old battle between man and beast, which the Duke enjoyed more than anything else. In an hour the horse was completely under his control. Then he remembered, as he saw the Church tower in the distance, what Mr. Watson had asked of him. He told himself that he would call on Miss Linton immediately and form his own opinion as to whether she was a ‘White Witch’ or not. He had a strong suspicion that she was just a tiresome woman preying on the stupidity of the local people who had too little to think about. Of course she made herself out to be much more important than she really was. He tried to remember what he knew about her father who had died recently. He recalled, after some thought that, as the Honourable Raymond Linton, the Vicar, had been the third son of an impoverished Peer who lived in Huntingdon. The Duke seldom went to Church, so he could not recall any of his sermons, but he had the idea that the Vicar had been an intelligent and perceptive man. He reckoned, as he drew nearer to the Village Church, that Miss Linton must be getting on in years and he supposed that she had been unable to find a husband. She had therefore consoled herself with herbs and other country remedies and pretending that they were magic so as to call attention to herself. It was the sort of thing which he thought was quite unnecessary in Little Mortlyn. The village contained the alms-houses endowed by his great-grandfather and a school built in memory of his grandfather. There were also excellent cottages provided for the old servants once they had been pensioned off. As the village had always existed in the shadow, so to speak, of the Big House, it had the Duke thought a certain old-world charm about it and this made it different from all the other villages on his estate. He had not thought of it before, but now he decided that he would be very particular who he put in the late Vicar’s place. Recommendations would, of course, come from the Bishop, but the final choice depended entirely on him. Actually he felt rather guilty as in other Parishes he had left the choice to Mr. Watson, knowing that he was a good judge of character. However, where Little Mortlyn was concerned, the Duke was determined that he would do his own picking and choosing. If the first applicant the Bishop provided was not to his liking, he would tell him to try again. The Church had originally been Norman and stood on the edge of the Park. It was surrounded by ancient tombstones marking graves, many of which, the Duke saw to his considerable satisfaction, were adorned with colourful flowers, He always thought of the village as if it was part of the house and the gardens and his father had thought the same. He remembered when he was a boy, a frightful row because the grass had been allowed to grow too high in the churchyard. His father had even seen weeds along the path when he went to Church! The Vicarage adjoined the churchyard and was a pleasant-looking house, built about a hundred years earlier and approached by a small gravel drive. Shrubs were in blossom and the Duke noticed with approval that the flowerbeds in the front of the house were well-tended. There was no one to take his horse, but there was a post provided at the side of the door where he was able to tie the reins to an iron ring. He then walked into the porch to find that the front door was wide open. There was a bell-chain beside it and after he had pulled it sharply and listened, he could not hear the sound he expected coming from the kitchen quarters. Remembering that the Vicar was dead, he imagined that his daughter would either have one old servant or perhaps a woman who would have gone home by now. The Duke walked into the small hall to find that everything was brightly polished and there was a background smell of beeswax and lavender. There was a strong scent from a bowl of hyacinths that stood on a table at the bottom of the oak stairs. If was certainly a point in Miss Linton’s favour that he could find no fault with the house so far. The Duke walked on to open the door of what he guessed would be the drawing room. It was empty but all the furniture was well-arranged and there were vases of flowers on several of the tables. He decided that the door under the stairs would lead to the kitchen and so he walked in the other direction. He opened the first door he came to and saw that it had obviously been the Vicar’s study, for the walls were lined with books. He went on a little further. There was a room at the end of the short passage and, as he put his hand to the door, he thought that he could hear someone speaking. Since there seemed to be no point in knocking, he just opened the door. The room was certainly not what he had expected. There was a table down the centre and very little other furniture. There were what looked to be cages and boxes scattered about and, standing at the table a little way from him, was a young woman. The sunshine from the window had turned her fair hair to gold. She was busy with something that appeared to the Duke, at first glance, to be a bird, Then a very soft quiet voice said, “Do not move or speak.” The Duke stopped. It was not the way that he was used to being spoken to, but he stood in silence. After a minute or so the woman turned round and now he could see clearly that she held a young cygnet in her hands. She had obviously been fixing something to its wing. She carried it across the room and set it down gently in what was a roughly made cage. “Now you will be all right,” he heard her say in the same soft voice she would have used to a child. “In a few days you will be able to go back to your mother.” She closed the front of the cage, which was made of wire. Then, as she turned to look at the Duke, he saw the expression of astonishment in her large eyes, which seemed to fill her whole face. She was very young, merely a girl, and certainly not the woman who he had expected her to be. She was also to his astonishment, extremely pretty. Actually ‘lovely’ was the right word in a different way from anyone he had ever seen before. There was something fragile, perhaps it was ethereal, about her. Her eyes slanted slightly at the corners, which gave her an elfin look and this was echoed by her lips, which did the same. She was wearing a large Holland apron and now she untied it and took it off to reveal a very simple cotton dress. It fitted very tightly to her body and made her look even smaller and younger than she had before. Then she spoke, “I am – sorry, I did – not realise, I thought – you were someone from the – village.” “You are Miss Linton?” The Duke thought as he spoke that there must be some mistake. This lovely girl could not possibly be the late Vicar’s daughter, whom he had expected to be getting on in years and was trying to deceive some simple folk into believing that she had magical powers. “Yes, I am Selma Linton,” she replied, “and I know that you are His Grace the Duke.” As if she had suddenly thought about it, she made him a little curtsey, which was a very graceful movement. “I don’t think we have ever met,” the Duke said, moving a little further into the room. “I have seen you out hunting and greatly admired your horses. Sometimes Hobson asks my advice if they are ill.” The Duke stared at her incredulously. Hobson was his Chief Groom and he found it hard to believe that Hobson would take anyone’s advice. Least of all from a young woman who could not possibly presume to know as much as he did about horses and their illnesses. The Duke now thought that he was being deceived and it annoyed and irritated him. “I have come,” he said in a lofty tone, “because I have been informed that you are asking me to provide you with a cottage in the village.” Selma Linton was still for a moment and then she answered, “Perhaps Your Grace would care to come into the drawing room. This is where I tend to the birds and animals and I am afraid that there is nowhere to sit down.” The Duke looked round. He could see, in one of the cages, which was made out of a wooden box with netting in the front, that there was a small puppy. In another there were two kittens and in a third, a robin, which had a small splint on one of its legs. “Do you look after these creatures yourself?” he enquired. “They go back to their owners or they are set free as soon as they are well.” He realised that she did not want to talk about her skill. She walked ahead of him through the open door and towards the drawing room. He was again aware, as he followed behind her, of the fragrance of flowers and the scent of lavender. “Will Your Grace sit down,” Selma enquired and indicated an armchair by the side of the fireplace. She paused and then went on, “I am afraid the only refreshment I can offer you is some claret that Papa was given at Christmas – and I don’t think that it is a particularly good vintage – or a cup of tea.” “Thank you, I need nothing,” the Duke replied. “I have come here, Miss Linton, to talk to you.” Selma seated herself on a chair opposite to him and put her hands in her lap. She sat very gracefully, the Duke thought to himself. He was still puzzled, in fact bewildered, by her appearance. He chose what he wished to say rather carefully, “I have been told, Miss Linton, although it does not seem that possible, that you have a reputation for doctoring the people in the village with herbs.” He paused and continued, “I was not informed that you also mended broken bones or, shall I say, in the case of a cygnet, wings.” Selma laughed. It was a very young and pretty sound. “I suppose it does seem very grand when put like that.” She smiled and then went on, “My mother taught me all that I know and I have been very grateful, Your Grace, to have access to the wonderful ancient herbs that are grown in the Herb Garden of The Dovecote.” This, the Duke thought, was moving rather quickly. He had not intended to speak about The Dovecote until he had made it quite clear that he was considering whether or not to let her have a cottage. Playing for time, he looked round the room and queried, “I suppose everything here, the furniture and pictures belong to you?” Selma’s voice softened as she replied “The Vicarage was unfurnished when Papa and Mama came here fifteen years ago and they loved things that were old and beautiful and so it was a long time before the house was fully furnished.” As she spoke, the Duke realised that the furniture in the drawing room was extremely attractive. He guessed that none of it had been very expensive, but the Lintons had obviously good taste and an educated appreciation of what was antique. There was a Queen Anne inlaid walnut chest of drawers, a small Georgian table and a Regency chair. Over the years they had acquired pieces that he would have been pleased to own himself. Selma watched the movement of his eyes and she said, “Mama was an expert on furniture, Papa on pictures and books. So you can imagine that I am very – very lucky in what – they have left me.” There was a note in her voice that told the Duke better than words that she missed her father and mother desperately. He appreciated the fact that she was not trying to evoke his sympathy or telling him how unhappy she was. Nevertheless it was easy to read what she was feeling in her very expressive eyes. “I have been told,” he then said abruptly, “that you consider yourself a ‘White Witch’.” Again Selma laughed. “I consider myself nothing of the sort, Your Grace.” She explained slowly so that he should clearly understand, “People like to twist what is just good common sense into magic and, if it makes them happy, I do not think it does them any harm.” She looked at him hesitantly before she added, “You must understand that, if people believe that they are going to get well and one thing in particular will help, then that is half the battle.” “In other words you are forcing people to believe in something supernatural?” “I am doing nothing of the kind,” Selma protested. “What most people need is hope and faith. If I give them hope and, if they think it comes from some Power greater than mine, that is in fact true.” She paused as if she expected him to contradict her and then she went on, “Papa believed that God gave us the Life Force and, if people wish to think the potency of the herbs I give them comes from the Power of God that, if you think it out, is actually the truth.” The way she spoke made it a challenge. Because he could not help arguing, the Duke replied, “I think, Miss Linton, you are making a very good case for deceiving people who are too stupid to understand that a herb is a herb, whatever fancy name you may apply to it.” “A herb was also, Your Grace, created by God, grown by God and if it has healing powers those are also given to it by God. It is difficult to know sometimes where His work ends and mine begins.” The Duke was astonished. It seemed impossible that this young girl should be able to answer him so quickly and without any hesitation. Nor was she so over-awed by him as to be tongue-tied. Aloud then he said, “I had certainly not thought of it that way before, but perhaps if that is what you believe, it is under the circumstances reasonable.” “I thank you Your Grace,” Selma said, “and because there is less disease, less illness, less misery and much more happiness in this village than in any of the others round about, I hope that – I may – stay here.” “If that is true,” the Duke replied, “I think that some of the credit should indeed go to your landlord for providing such good cottages.” “We are – very grateful – Your Grace.” Her eyes were twinkling and he had the feeling that she was laughing at him. She was certainly not the least shy and he knew that she was the most unusual young woman he had ever met in his whole life. Then, as she sensed that he was criticising her, she bent forward in her chair, “Please – Your Grace,” she said in a very different tone, “let me stay. I have – nowhere else to go and – as long as I am here – I feel I am – close to Papa and Mama,” There was an expression of sincerity in her eyes that told the Duke that she was speaking from the very depths of her heart. He rose to his feet saying, “I will tell you what I would like to do, Miss Linton.” She did not ask the obvious question and he went on, “I will call on you tomorrow morning in my phaeton and we will then go together and look at what cottages are available in the village and see if there is anything suitable.” He looked round the room. “I imagine that you have too much furniture for most of them.” “I – suppose I could – store it.” The Duke walked towards the door. He knew what they were both thinking that the furniture would fit without any difficulty into The Dovecote. But that was something he did not wish to discuss. He stopped in the hall. “Eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, Miss Linton, if that will suit you.” “I will be ready, Your Grace.” Selma dropped him a curtsey. The Duke walked outside, released the bridle of his horse and sprang into the saddle. As he rode past the front door where Selma was standing, he raised his hat and so she curtseyed to him again. He thought how lovely she looked, framed by the ancient porch. Then, as he rode on, he told himself that the whole thing was ridiculous. How could a girl of that young age gain such a reputation for healing, which Watson had undoubtedly exaggerated? What was more he was sure that it was incorrect that a lady, which she undoubtedly was, should live alone in a cottage or anywhere else by herself in the village. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he was up against something that he did not really understand. The idea made him angry. Spurring his horse on, he rode faster than he had intended, back to what he felt was the security and common sense of his own house.