The Eternal Collection

Chapter 2

After breakfast the following morning, the Duke sent for Mr. Hunter who, as Mr. Watson had reminded him, was in charge of all the buildings on the estate.

He was a countryman who had served his father and, as the Duke well knew, had a deep affection for Mortlyn and its estate.

He was an excellent rider and the Duke trusted him to exercise some of his most valuable horses when he would not trust anyone else except for his Chief Groom.

Mr. Hunter came respectfully into the library where the Duke was reading the morning newspapers.

“Good morning, Hunter.”

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

“I have decided today,” the Duke said, “to inspect what cottages may be available in the village for Miss Linton.”

There was an apprehensive look in Mr. Hunter’s eyes, which puzzled him, but he went on,

“There is no question of her having The Dovecote and I am surprised that you suggested it.”

There was an uncomfortable silence and Mr. Hunter responded,

“There is, Your Grace, a shortage of appropriate houses available for Miss Linton.”

“Appropriate, what do you mean by appropriate? We are under no obligation to house a Vicar’s family when he can no longer officiate in our Church.”

“I’m aware of that, Your Grace.”

As the man obviously had nothing more to say, the Duke rose to his feet,

“Very well, Hunter, give me a list of the available cottages. I have promised to take Miss Linton to see them and afterwards I will let you know what I have decided.”

“I thank Your Grace.”

Mr. Hunter put his hand in his pocket and brought out a piece of paper.

He gave it to the Duke, bowed respectfully and left the library.

When he had gone, the Duke thought that maybe he had been sharper than he had meant to be.

Hunter was an excellent man and did his work to his satisfaction. He had never heard a word of criticism about him which was unusual.

Nevertheless he thought it was an impertinence to suggest giving Selma Linton anything as important to the family as The Dovecote.

‘I suppose,’ he thought scornfully, ‘that, as she is so pretty, she has all the men running after her.’

He walked towards his desk.

As he did so, he was aware that on top of the pile of letters that had arrived this morning was one he recognised as being from Doreen Bramwell.

He knew only too well that it contained a soft-worded reproach that he had been obliged to leave London and suggestions of when they could meet again.

It was something that he had no intention of doing.

He therefore wondered how he could convey, without being brutal, that their affair, short though it may have been, was over.

Once again he wondering why, however beautiful a woman might be, she failed to hold his interest. And Doreen Bramwell was no exception.

Because he was irritated by his own thoughts, he picked up the piece of paper that Mr. Hunter had left for him.

Without opening it he put it in his pocket.

He looked at the clock and realised that it was too early for his phaeton to be brought round.

He decided instead that he would go to the stables and discuss with Hobson the progress of his new horses. He might perhaps change the pair he had intended driving for another.

It was at first a vague idea in his mind as he walked from the library into the hall,

Coming down the stairs late, as he might have expected, was Oliver.

“Good morning, Uncle Wade,” he said. “Don’t rebuke me for oversleeping, I was in fact, dead tired. It was the first good night I have had for weeks.”

The Duke laughed.

“I am not rebuking you and I think the fact that we went to bed early and very sober was the real reason for your sleeping the clock round.”

“Now you are preaching at me!”

However Oliver was not complaining, but smiling at his uncle good-humouredly before he exclaimed,

“Are you going out? I had hoped that we could go riding.”

“We will do that after luncheon,” the Duke said. “I have an appointment this morning.”

He paused and then continued,

“However I am going to the stables and will order one of my horses that you can work off some of your energy on.”

“I would like that,” Oliver replied, “but don’t be away too long.”

He walked towards the breakfast room.

The Duke proceeded along another corridor that led to a door at the far end of the house, which was the nearest way to the stables.

He thought, as he entered the cobbled yard, that he had been right in bringing Oliver to the country.

Perhaps, when they had dinner tonight, he could talk to him seriously about his future.

Hobson, the Chief Groom, had a great deal to say as usual about the new horses.

It was, therefore, after ten o’clock before the Duke stepped into his phaeton.

It was drawn by a team of jet-black horses with Arab blood in them that he had paid a very large sum for.

As he knew that it would only take him less than ten minutes to reach the Vicarage, he realised that he would be too early.

He therefore drove out of the back of the stable yard where there was a road by which he could encircle the Park.

He would then come back into the village from another part of his estate.

The sun was shining brightly, but there was a slight wind to take the heat out of the air.

Driving with his usual expert skill, the Duke could enjoy the sight of his broad acres in which the crops were beginning to sprout.

He appreciated the woods that would provide him with good sport in the autumn and the stream where there were a number of large trout.

He thought that it might be amusing to take Oliver fishing one day.

He remembered the thrill of catching his first trout, although a very small one, when he was eight years old.

As he drove on, he thought that every part of the estate evoked some memory of his childhood.

In the house everywhere he went made him remember his mother who had given all her love to her husband and her children.

It was impossible to think of her being promiscuous or deceitful as the women were with whom he associated in London.

He knew, if he was to be truthful, that, while he accepted their favours, he despised them because they were unfaithful to their husbands.

They had forgotten any ideals or morals that they might have had when they were young.

Then, because he had no wish to think of London at the moment, but to enjoy being in the country, he concentrated on his driving.

He drove through endless twisting lanes with their hedges covered with honeysuckle and convolvulus.

*

Then, at exactly eleven o’clock, he turned his horses into the Vicarage drive and drew up outside the front door.

He was not surprised to find that Selma was waiting for him.

It was what he had expected because he thought that no one in her position would be anything but thrilled at driving beside him in his phaeton.

At the same time women were invariably unpunctual.

She hurried down the steps and, without waiting for him to alight, which might have been difficult without anyone to hold the horses climbed up into the phaeton.

She moved so quickly and gracefully that he felt that she I almost flew to him on wings.

He appreciated that she was looking exceedingly pretty in a simple blue cotton frock.

She wore a small straw bonnet that seemed to be almost like a halo for her fair hair and pointed face.

As he looked at her, he realised that he had forgotten the strange way that her lips and her eyes slanted slightly upwards at the corners.

He wondered if in fact her obsession with herbs was because she had some resemblance to Fairies and elves.

When he was little, his mother had told him that they left circles of mushroom rings in the woods where they had danced all through the night.

Then he thought that he was being too imaginative about this Vicar’s daughter.

‘The sooner I find her a cottage,’ he told himself, ‘and forget about her the better.’

He drove carefully out of the drive as the gates were not very wide.

As they went towards the village, he pulled out of his pocket the paper that Mr. Hunter had given him and handed it to Selma.

“You will find the cottages which are available written on this piece of paper,” he said. “I want you to direct me to them as I am not sure where they are situated.”

Selma took the paper from him and, before she opened it, she said,

“First I must thank you, Your Grace. It is so exciting to ride with you in your phaeton.”

“It is something you hav wished to do?” the Duke asked.

“But, of course,” she replied. “When I see your magnificent horses, I ride on them in my dreams!”

She laughed as she spoke.

He was aware that she was not, as any other woman might have been, trying to cadge an invitation to his stables.

“Now that one of your dreams has come true,” he said dryly, “where do we go first?”

Selma opened the piece of paper and there was a little silence before she said in a rather strange voice,

“There is only the name of one cottage here.”

“One?” the Duke asked. “I told Hunter to give me the names of all those available.”

“That is exactly what Mr. Hunter has done, Your Grace.”

There was a pause before the Duke asked,

“Well, where is it?”

“At the other end of the village. It is called ‘Bleak Cottage’ and has not been lived in for many years.”

“Why not?”

Again there was a pause before Selma replied,

“A murder was committed there over a hundred years ago and people have been afraid of ghosts ever since.”

The Duke looked at her in surprise

“Are you telling me that the cottage is derelict?”

“You must see for yourself, Your Grace.”

“Then why did Hunter not tell me?”

Even as he spoke he knew the reason. Hunter was anxious that Miss Linton should live in The Dovecote.

This made him more determined than ever that he would leave The Dovecote empty.

They drove on through the pretty village with its thatched cottages and small gardens all bright with flowers.

‘It really is,’ the Duke thought with satisfaction, ‘a model of its kind.’

The people they passed by at first stared at Selma seated beside him and then waved in a friendly fashion.

It was, he knew, something that they would not have done if he had been alone.

The pretty cottages came to an end and, after they had passed the Alms-houses, they proceeded a quarter of a mile further up the road where there were no buildings.

Then, standing back in an overgrown plot that once must have been a garden, was Bleak Cottage.

There was no need to inspect it.

The roof had fallen in, there was no glass in any of the windows and the building was in fact nothing but a shell.

‘Even to go near it,’ the Duke thought, ‘might be dangerous!’

“I suppose,” he said aloud as Selma did not speak,” “that this is Hunter’s idea of a joke.”

“Please don’t be angry with him,” Selma pleaded.

She paused and then went on,

“You have asked him to provide you with the names of empty cottages available in the village. This is indeed the only one.”

Then she gave him one of her odd little smiles before she claimed,

“Everyone wants to live in Little Mortlyn.”

“Why?” the Duke asked.

“Without flattering you in any way, Your Grace,” Selma replied, “you are known to be a very good landlord.”

She hesitated and then continued,

“Also I think you will understand when I tell you that when Papa and Mama were alive they made everyone in the village feel that they were part of one big happy family.”

“Your father and mother are now dead,” the Duke said, “and, if you want to stay, we will have to find you somewhere to live.”

The answer was obvious and he waited to see what Selma would suggest.

She made a helpless little gesture with her hands before she said,

“I suppose – Your Grace – that I shall – have to – go away.”

“There must be someone who will find you somewhere that you can go to.”

Selma did not speak and after a moment the Duke said,

“Who are your mother’s relatives? Surely there is one person among them who would offer you a home?”

He knew that he was being harsh in the way he was speaking. At the same time he told himself that he would just not be pressured into giving Miss Linton The Dovecote, whatever Hunter, Watson or anyone else might say.

‘The whole thing is ridiculous,’ he thought. ‘This girl is not my responsibility.’

She was obviously thinking how to reply to his question and, after a long hesitation, she said,

“It is very – difficult. My grandfather lives in the far North of Scotland – he is very old. When Mama married – my father’s grandfather was extremely angry.”

“Why should he have been?”

“Because Papa was a Sassenach. I know that Your Grace has been to Scotland and you must be aware that many Scots hate the English.”

The Duke knew that this was very true and he asked,

“What is your grandfather’s name?”

“Lord Nabor and he is Chieftain of the McNabor Clan.”

The Duke was astonished

He was well aware of the importance of Scottish Chieftains, even though many of them were impoverished with their Castles crumbling about their ears.

“And you think that your grandfather would not welcome you, because you have English blood in your veins?”

Selma clasped her hands together.

“Oh, please – Your Grace – I have no wish to live in Scotland, but only to stay – here with the people whom I have known since I was – a baby.”

The Duke did not reply and she said, as though she was speaking to herself,

“They love me – I know they do – and if I left they would – miss me.”

“What you are saying,” the Duke said scathingly, “is that they would miss the herbs, which you have told them are magical and you who they think of as their ‘White Witch’.”

Selma did not reply and the Duke felt suddenly as if he had struck something small and vulnerable and that it had been a very unsporting thing to do.

He tightened his reins,

“As I have heard so much about all these herbs and the garden they come from,” he said, “we will go and look at it.”

He could not restrain the irritated tone in his voice.

He had a strong feeling, as he drove on, that Selma was fighting against some tears that had come into her eyes.

‘That is typical of a woman,’ he told himself savagely. ‘When they cannot get their way, they cry. They expect, because they look pathetic, that a man will always give in to them.’

That was one thing that he was not going to do.

If the worst came to the worst, he would build a cottage for Selma.

Under no circumstances would she have The Dovecote.

noThey drove in silence through the wrought iron gates with their two Georgian lodges on either side of them.

They went a little way up the drive itself, then the Duke turned to the left and, nearly half a mile across the Park, they came to The Dovecote.

The garden was encircled with tall ancient trees and on his orders the lawns were kept smooth and green. The yew hedges were well clipped and the topiary figures of birds were in perfect condition.

The house itself, he thought, looked even lovelier than he remembered.

There was the weathered pink of shallow Elizabethan bricks, the gabled diamond-paned windows and the door, with the date carved in stone above it and was a picture in itself.

There was a gardener, who belonged to Mortlyn, working in front of the house.

He straightened himself as he saw the phaeton approach and, when he realised that it was driven by his Master, he hurried to the horses’ heads.

The Duke alighted from the phaeton and went round it to help Selma to the ground, but she had already jumped down before he could reach her.

She then started patting one of the horses.

“Good morning, Ben,” the Duke heard her say to the gardener, “is your mother better?”

“Her be better than I’ve ever known her to be, thanks to you, miss,” Ben replied.

She realised that the Duke had joined them and looked up at him to say,

“Your horses are magnificent, just as I had expected them to be.”

“Because they are mine?” the Duke enquired.

All the women he knew in London would have answered in the affirmative. They would also have added that the horses were as magnificent as he was himself.

Selma only replied in an impersonal tone,

“It is what everyone expects from the stables of Mortlyn.”

She patted the other horse and then asked,

“Shall I take you to the Herb Garden, Your Grace?”

“That is why we are here,” the Duke replied.

She went through an archway in the red brick wall at the side of the house.

First there was a Rose Garden with an ancient sundial in the middle of it.

Then through another brick wall on the other side there was a small garden in the centre of which there was a fine fountain. It was not playing, but the water would have come from a Cornucopia held in the arms of a stone Eros.

The stone basin was carved with small fat Cupids carrying, instead of garlands of flowers and fruit, what the Duke thought were herbs.

It was very ancient and he was sure that it had been erected at the same time as the house had been built and the Herb Garden begun.

He had expected it to be well kept and he saw that in fact the small beds between box hedges were in perfect order.

What was more every available inch of soil had been planted.

Despite himself he was impressed.

“Are you responsible for this?” he enquired.

Selma shook her head.

“No, it was Mama who planted everything so carefully and who told me exactly which crop of herbs was to follow another.”

The Duke did not answer and, after a moment, Selma said in a low voice,

“Always when I come – here, I feel Mama is – beside me, guiding me and – telling me – what I must do.”

The Duke was conscious of the buzzing of the bees and the songs of the birds in the trees just outside the garden.

There was a strong scent in the air that was different from anything that he had known elsewhere.

While the garden was very beautiful, at the same time he was aware that to Selma it had a special significance.

It was almost as if a voice inside him told him that she believed that everything which grew there was for the good of other people.

As he thought somewhat uneasily that he was being mesmerised by what he saw, he said,

“I must commend you, Miss Linton, on the work you have done here. I can understand that you do find it invaluable in what you must think of as your chosen profession.”

He was speaking in a lofty and almost cynical manner, which he was aware some people found intimidating.

Then, to his surprise, Selma turned away.

She began to walk back through the opening in the wall that they had come through.

To his annoyance he was aware that she thought that he was profaning what to her was sacred.

She wanted, although it seemed to be incredible, for him to come away from the garden as quickly as possible.

He had no idea how he knew this, but he told himself that it was an impertinence on her part.

As the garden was his, how dare she be so possessive of it?

Then before Selma had reached the entrance, a man appeared and came hurrying towards them.

Aware of his haste, the Duke looked at him in surprise and realised that it was Hunter.

He did not move from the fountain where he had been standing and Mr. Hunter ran down the paved path to the Duke’s side.

“Your Grace,” he said breathlessly, “you are wanted – back at the house immediately.”

“What has happened and why are you in such a hurry?”

“It is Mr. Oliver, Your Grace. He was coming out of the front door to go riding when a statue fell from the roof.”

The Duke stared in astonishment before he queried,

“A statue fell from the roof, I don’t believe it!”

“It would have killed Mr. Oliver if it had fallen on his head, but just as he was coming out of the door he turned back to fetch his whip and that saved his life.”

“But he is injured?” the Duke questioned.

“The statue caught him on the back of one of his legs, Your Grace, as he was taking a long stride forward with the other and it is badly damaged.”

“You have sent for the Doctor?”

“The Doctor is away, Your Grace,” Mr. Hunter replied, “and will not be back for several days.”

He paused to catch his breath and then continued,

“I have come for Miss Selma. They told me at the Vicarage that she was out driving with you and I guessed that she would be here.”

He looked at Selma as he spoke, who had been listening to him.

“You will be able to help him,” he said.

It was a statement.

“There must be some Doctor – ” the Duke began to say.

To his astonishment he realised that neither Selma nor Hunter were listening to him.

She was asking in a low voice for more details of the injury and Hunter was telling her in the same breathless voice that he had used since he arrived.

“He must be in great pain and I expect that he has lost a lot of blood,” Selma said.

“They were carrying him upstairs when I left the house,” Mr. Hunter said. “Mr. Groves said to me, ‘get Miss Selma and be quick about it’, so I wasted no time in asking questions.”

“That was sensible.”

She ran from Mr. Hunter’s side and started picking herbs first from one bed and then from another.

The Duke moved closer to Mr. Hunter and said to him,

“This is ridiculous, there must be a Doctor somewhere in the vicinity.”

“Miss Selma’ll know what to do, Your Grace.”

The Duke was about to argue when Selma came running back to them with a bunch of herbs in her hand.

She looked at the Duke and he knew, without words, that she expected him to drive her back to the house.

She went ahead of the two men and crossed the Rose Garden towards the phaeton.

She was already sitting in it by the time that the Duke and Mr. Hunter arrived. The Duke stepped into it and took up the reins.

Mr. Hunter hurried towards his horse, which was standing unattended on the grass lawn.

He mounted, but waited until the Duke drove off.

Then once they were out of the drive, he rode as swiftly as he could through the Park towards the house.

*

As Mr. Hunter rode directly over the Park, he arrived at the house before them and was waiting at the top of the steps when the Duke pulled his horses to a standstill.

Selma alighted almost before the wheels stopped moving.

Then, as she ran round the phaeton, the Duke also reached the ground and they started to climb the steps side by side.

“I have ascertained, Your Grace,” Mr. Hunter said as they reached him, “that Mr. Oliver has been taken to his own room and Mrs. Fielding and Your Grace’s valet are with him.”

The Duke did not reply.

He was doing his best to keep up with Selma, who seemed almost to float up the steps and across the hall.

She moved up the Grand Staircase as if her feet did not touch the stairs.

The bedrooms which the Duke and his principal guests used were on the first floor.

It was quite a distance from the front door, but they then reached Oliver’s bedroom more quickly than the Duke would have believed.

It was known as ‘The Prince’s Room’ and he thought it rather strange that Selma did not ask where it was.

Then he told himself that every detail of everything that happened in the Big House was discussed in the village in some detail.

He was sure that everyone was aware that The Prince’s Room was used by Oliver every time he came to stay at Mortlyn, just as Queen Adelaide’s Room was well known to be his mother’s.

When they entered The Prince’s Room, the Duke was not surprised to find it filled with servants.

There was Groves, the butler, Mrs. Fielding, the Housekeeper, several housemaids, two footmen and Daws, his personal valet, who was always invaluable in a crisis.

When the Duke and Selma entered the room, they moved back from the bedside.

The Duke was aware that they were not looking at him but at Selma.

Oliver had been, as Mr. Hunter had related, carried upstairs after the accident.

His riding boot had been cut off and then he had been undressed except for his shirt and a blanket covered his body.

His left leg, which had been badly crushed and was bleeding profusely, was exposed at the foot of the bed.

He was groaning in great agony and turning his head from side to side as if the pain was intolerable.

Without taking any notice of the people in the room, Selma went straight to the bedside.

Bending over Oliver, she said in the same soft voice that the Duke had heard her use to the cygnet,

“It is quite all right, the pain will soon pass and so you must be very brave.”

“I cannot bear it – I cannot,” Oliver muttered incoherently.

“I know,” Selma said. “But try to think of something else, something you like or love.”

She put her hand on his forehead.

As if she realised that he was cold, she pulled the blanket, which was only folded to his waist, up higher.

She then moved to look at his leg, which the Duke thought was so horrifying that most women would have fainted at the sight of it.

The statue that had fallen from the roof had crashed onto the back of his left boot and inflicted terribly damage.

If it had hit him on the head, it would most certainly have killed him.

The skin of his leg was churned up and still bleeding although no artery seemed to be involved.

His ankle was twisted sideways, which told the Duke that it was broken.

Selma looked at it for a long moment before she spoke,

“Mrs. Fielding, will you make a syrup from these herbs as you did for my mother when His Late Grace broke his collarbone.”

“Yes, Miss Selma, I remembers well. I’ll see to it right away.”

Selma placed some of the herbs which she carried into the housekeeper’s hands and then added,

“As quickly as you can, it will relieve Mr. Oliver’s pain and then I can set his ankle.”

The Duke was about to interrupt, but Selma looked at one of the footmen and said,

“James, I want a splint exactly the same length and size as the one that I have used on your brother.”

“I remembers it, miss.”

“Please hurry and make it smooth.”

“And Emily,” Selma said to the elder housemaid, “will you and Amy start tearing up a fine linen sheet for bandages? I want them two or three inches wide.”

“Yes, miss, at once.”

The housemaids followed Mrs. Fielding from the room and James had already gone.

Selma looked again at the damaged leg before she said to Groves,

“We shall have to be absolutely certain that there are no fragments of leather left after we have cleaned his leg.”

She paused and then continued,

“I know that you will find some hawthorn flowers in bloom in the garden and, if we use them before we apply the honey, it will draw out anything nasty.”

Groves gave the Duke an embarrassed look before he replied,

“Yes, miss, I’ll go and do that now.”

That left only the Duke, Daws and Selma.

“Now the only other thing I do need,” Selma said to Daws, “is honey. If you go to the still-room, you will find Mrs. Burrows there.”

She paused and then continued,

“A thick honey is best and she will have some clover honey left over from last year.”

Daws hesitated for just a moment as though he thought that he should ask his Master’s permission.

He then decided that it was not a time to stand on ceremony and hurried away as the rest of the servants had done.

Selma next moved again to Oliver’s side.

All the time that she had been giving her instructions, he had been groaning, although not as loudly as he had before she had arrived.

As she put her hand on his forehead and moved it gently, it seemed to quieten him.

The Duke would have spoken, but he realised immediately that Selma was concentrating so completely on what she was doing that it was doubtful if she would even hear him.

He watched her and, after a few moments, he was aware that she was praying.

Without taking her hand from Oliver’s forehead, she pulled off her bonnet and threw it carelessly onto the floor.

Then, with her eyes tightly shut, she went on gently massaging and praying until Oliver’s groans became only a whimper.

One by one the servants then came back into the room, but Selma took no notice until Mrs. Fielding appeared.

She carried a glass in her hand and, as she handed it to Selma, she said,

“I’ve made it exactly as I did before, miss, and was ever so careful with the poppy.”

The Duke started. He was well aware that from poppy heads opium could be extracted.

He had not travelled in the Orient without knowing how dangerous this could be and he was wondering whether he should warn Selma not to use it.

As if she was aware of what he was thinking, she said before he could speak,

“Wild poppy is quite safe if only very little is used and it is mixed with Rue, Coralwort and Fleur-de-Lys.”

She took the glass from the housekeeper and felt it to see if it was the right temperature.

She raised Oliver’s head in what the Duke realised was a very experienced way.

“I want you to drink this,” she said in her quiet almost hypnotic manner. “It will make you sleep and the pain will go away.”

She next continued softly,

“It is not very nice, but I know that you will be very brave and drink it down because it will do you so much good.”

Almost like a child, Oliver drank the contents of the tumbler and only when he had done so did he mutter,

“That – was – filthy!”

filthy“I know it was,” Selma replied, “but now you go to sleep.”

She went on very quietly,

“Think that you are now lying in the sun and the warmth of it is taking away your pain and healing your leg. Also you are riding one of your uncle’s magnificent horses. Think of it, think of the horse beneath you and how much you are enjoying the ride.”

The movement of her hand on his forehead seemed to grow slower and finally, when she stopped, the Duke realised that Oliver was fast asleep.

He was undoubtedly drugged by the herbs Selma had given him and perhaps hypnotised by the movement of her hand.

The Duke had been so intent on watching Selma that he had not realised that all the other servants, sent on their various errands, had now come back into the room.

For the first time since they had entered the bedroom, Selma looked at him.

“Will you stand beside your nephew, Your Grace? If he does move, you must hold him down. Otherwise please do not touch him.”

Obediently, because there was nothing else he could do, the Duke went to the top of the bed.

He heard Selma talking to Daws in a low voice.

Then, to his astonishment, he saw her grasp Oliver’s mangled, blood-stained leg firmly.

With a quick twist of her hands, as Daws held his knees, she set his ankle.

She did it so neatly and so cleverly that he could hardly believe that the ankle was back in place.

She and Daws then washed the leg very carefully, removing pieces of stocking, which had been crushed into Oliver’s leg.

Then they sprinkled it very gently with the hawthorn water.

To the Duke’s surprise, Selma then covered the entire wound with a thick application of clover honey. She used two pots before the leg was completely coated with the honey.

The housemaids then produced their bandages and pieces of linen, which Selma made into pads.

She attached the splint very carefully, padding it so that it could not possibly hurt what was left of his skin.

Afterwards the entire limb was bandaged from the knee downwards.

It did take some time, but to the Duke’s relief, Oliver never moved until their work was completed.

When the blood-stained sheets were taken away and fresh ones put very carefully in their place, Selma looked down with satisfaction at the leg.

Tidily encased as it was in an extra piece of linen it was hard to remember the mashed, blood-stained horror that it had been before.

Selma pulled a blanket very lightly over it.

As she finished, she smiled at Daws,

“Thank you, you were very helpful.”

“I ain’t never seen anythin’ like this afore, miss,” Daws replied, “’though I’ve treated a lot of wounds in my time.”

“I thought you would have, as I knew you had been with His Grace in the Army.”

“Daws is in point of fact an excellent Nurse,” the Duke joined in.

“You have all been very kind.”

Selma paused and then went on,

“I do not want the bandages changed for forty-eight hours, unless, of course, Mr. Oliver complains.”

Her voice was serious as she added,

“We have to do everything possible to prevent him from being restless until his bone has set.”

“Do you want him to keep on with the herbs, miss?” Mrs. Fielding asked.

“I have some more here that I should like you to use. But you must throw away what is left of the syrup made from the poppies. He must not have any more of that concoction.”

“I understands,” Mrs. Fielding replied.

The Duke felt almost as though he had stepped into another world and one that he knew nothing about.

“Surely,” he said to Selma, “you want a Doctor to see him?”

“If that is Your Grace’s wish, but then I think it would be a great mistake to remove the bandages or to put anything else on his leg except honey until it has begun to heal.”

“I cannot believe that this is the right treatment,” the Duke replied.

“Oh, but it is, Your Grace!” Emily said, as if the words burst out of her, “Everyone in the village’ll tell you that honey heals wounds, cuts and burns.”

She paused and then went on,

“When my little niece was almost scalded to death after a kettle tipped over her, t’were honey that saved her from dyin’ from pain. Her skin grew again just like a new-born babe’s.”

Emily had spoken impetuously, then, as if she felt that she had been much too forward, she dropped a curtsey as she added,

“If Your Grace’ll excuse me for sayin’ so.”

The Duke looked at Selma with an almost mocking smile on his lips as he said,

“I see we must all bow to your superior knowledge.”

She did not reply and he went on,

“Now I want to know more about how this accident happened. So I suggest, Daws, that you look after Mr. Oliver while I go downstairs to learn exactly what has occurred.”

He saw Selma look at him and, as if she had asked the question, he added,

“You come with me. I do think you should really have known what had happened before you treated the result of the accident.”

He thought she smiled as if that was unnecessary and he was deliberately finding fault.

The Duke walked out of the room, followed by Selma and Groves.

They went slowly down the staircase that they had run up so hurriedly and walked out of the front door.

The Duke found, as he had expected, that the statue which had fallen on Oliver had been removed from the place where it struck him to the side of the wide steps.

It had been propped against the stone balustrade, which curved downwards with heraldic figures at the top and bottom of it.

Mr. Hunter was present and also Mr. Watson, who had arrived from London early that morning. He always moved to whichever house the Duke was in residence at, as His Grace trusted no one but him with his correspondence and engagements.

The two men stood at one side to let the Duke examine the statue, which was of Diana, the Goddess of the Chase.

It was one of the statues which had been erected at the time that the house was built.

The Duke always had them inspected every year and he knew that they had been seen by an expert when last winter was over.

His report had stated that there was no deterioration and certainly no likelihood of any of them falling to the ground.

“What do you think about it, Watson?” he asked his secretary, having already made up his own mind.

“Mr. Hunter and I were just saying, Your Grace, it is quite obvious that the statue has been deliberately cut loose from its pedestal.”

“That is what I thought myself,” the Duke said. “In God’s name, who would do such a thing?”

There was a moment’s silence and the Duke knew that was what the two men had been talking about before his arrival.

“Well?” he asked sharply.

“I think, Your Grace, it is something that we should discuss in private.”

The Duke looked at him in astonishment.

“Are you really telling me,” he said, “that there was someone up there on the roof who deliberately pushed the statue over when Mr. Oliver appeared?”

“I think, Your Grace,” Mr. Hunter intervened, “that as it was your horse waiting below, it was you whom the culprit expected to go riding.”

The Duke stared at Mr. Hunter before he enquired,

“Are you implying that someone was intending to kill me?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I cannot believe it!”

Once again Mr. Hunter looked at Mr. Watson,

“We have no proof, Your Grace.”

“No one saw anyone on the roof?” the Duke asked as if he had no wish to agree with their contention.

“The stable lad who came with the horse,” Mr. Hunter said, “told us that he saw someone move on the roof before the statue began to topple.”

“It seems almost incredible,” the Duke commented.

He was aware, as he spoke, that Selma had been standing just behind him listening to the conversation.

Then she said in her quiet little voice,

“I think Your Grace has had a very lucky escape. Your nephew’s leg will heal quickly because fortunately I understand that he turned back to collect his whip.”

She paused before she said in a very serious voice,

“If the statue had fallen on his head or on yours, there would have been no chance of survival.”

“Are you suggesting. Miss Linton,” the Duke asked mockingly, “that I should be grateful to be alive?”

“But, of course, Your Grace, could you be anything else?”

She looked at him reproachfully as she spoke.

Once again he thought that she was the most unusual and extraordinary woman he had ever met in his entire life.

Then, as if she had seen everything she wanted to, she walked back into the house and he knew that she was returning to her patient.