“Except, I have no intention of waiting for an invitation to attend him. We will go to London tonight and I will send a message to the Regent requesting an audience. It is an ancient duty of the monarch to adjudicate in disputes and while he is Regent, he is the monarch. This will appeal to George’s ego, I’m sure that’s why he has gotten himself involved already. I will request the chance to put my case to his judgment personally. It will impress him that I have not waited for his summons, make him feel important, I'd wager,” Marcus said.
“Before we go, I want to speak to Arthur once more,” Selina said.
Marcus seemed to sober. “That seems like a dream now. That night was certainly like a scene from a Midsummer Night’s Dream. His appearance, that revelation…it was remarkable. I can hardly credit it.”
“But a happy surprise, no?” Selina said, “you have rediscovered your brother. The two of you can make amends for the wars you were made to fight as children. Get to know each other again.”
“There is still the matter of our mother. He had her incarcerated in an asylum,” Marcus said, “I cannot think of any world in which that would be construed as the behavior of a loyal and devoted son. In all the excitement of that night, I forgot to ask him about it. But, it disturbs me greatly.”
“Then let us find him and make peace with him. Perhaps, this is why he gave up the dukedom and took on the role of Dai. To make amends for past wrongs,” Selina said.
Marcus nodded. “Perhaps. But I would like some answers. He mentioned Wilmington. The only person I knew who lived there was your grandmother. It was your visits to her that led you to meeting me…” he blushed and grinned boyishly, “I’m sorry, old habits die hard. I meant Arthur, of course.”
They rode out within the hour, choosing to take a trap rather than individual horses. The journey to Wilmington was uneventful and with no further sign of Maximilien Voss or his staff. Selina had not expected her father to give up so easily and she couldn’t help but wonder what he intended to do next. Marcus saw her pensive attitude and read her mind perfectly.
“He cannot hurt you now. With the support of the Regent, there will be none who question my right to claim the dukedom. If your father persists, I can have him shunned by the ton and the county set, ostracized. Even reprimanded by the Regent himself.”
The rolling country of the South Downs flowed by them as Marcus drove with skill along the narrow lanes. Selina was navigator, however, knowing these roads far more intimately than Marcus, remembering hundreds of walks and rides in her girlhood. Presently, they were nearing the village of Wilmington. They passed a mill on the river that flowed by the village to the north. Beyond that was a cottage in its own acre of land. Selina remembered it well but it had changed since the last time she had seen it. The garden at the front of the cottage had been ripped up and cultivated. It was broken up into beds of bare soil, each full of sprouting seedlings.
“Someone is living here,” Selina said, surprised.
“Perhaps your grandmother sold it,” Marcus suggested.
“I was told that she leased it, that there was no property in her name to leave to her daughter, my mother, or to me,” Selina said.
Marcus had halted the trap before it and now dismounted, reaching up to help Selina down. She didn’t know how precisely she felt about the changes wrought to her grandmother’s house. The front garden had always been a rose garden. She didn’t know what was being grown now but it looked like vegetables. The house had been given a new lick of paint and the thatch roof had been cleaned and repaired. She remembered the shambolic state of the house during which the last few times that she had visited. The kindly old woman had been in no condition to tend to the roof or to the garden, both had been slowly growing out of her control. Now, it was clear that someone was tending it all and tending it well.
As they neared the front door, it opened to reveal Arthur. He wore shirtsleeves, braces, and boots, looking more like a farmer than a hunter and poacher. He beamed at them.
“About time you came to see me!” he boomed, chuckling.
“Arthur? Why are you in my grandmother’s house?” Selina demanded.
“She left it to me,” he said, “but come inside and hear the tale, the kettle is just boiling.
With that, Arthur disappeared back into the house. Selina followed and stepped straight back into her childhood. The main room of the cottage looked exactly like it had, even down to the position of the furniture. The ceiling was of low, black beams. The stone walls were painted white. A stove stood at one side of the room and its fire also served to heat the house, reaching into other rooms via makeshift metal pipes radiating outwards and upwards from the stove. A rocking chair stood to one side of the stove and a patched and frayed armchair stood opposite. It had been her grandmother’s favorite for sitting and doing her knitting or darning. The rocking chair was supposed to be her favorite but Selina had commandeered it as a young child and her grandmother had graciously conceded, just to please Selina.
Arthur was dragging an old tea chest between the two chairs and placing a cushion on it.
“I don’t have visitors. At least not more than one at a time. Sorry for the crude quarters,” he said to Marcus, who looked at the tea chest bemusedly.
Arthur took the armchair with a wink to Selina and a nod towards the rocking chair. Selina sat, instantly transported back to those endless summers spent in Wilmington as a child.
“How do you come to be living here?” Marcus asked.
“The old lady that owned the cottage before me was a friend of mine. Helped me through some difficult times when the poppy juice had me by the throat.”
“My grandmother did that?” Selina said incredulously.
“She did. It was her who put me in touch with the good folks at the asylum where I got my cure. She was once a benefactor. You didn’t know that about her?”
He was looking at Selina, an eyebrow raised.
“I remember a kindly old woman who let me steal her favorite chair and made me scones. I know that she was from my mother’s side of the family and they weren’t as wealthy as my father but that there was some money. But that it had been foolishly squandered.”
Arthur chuckled. “I suspect that is Voss talking. She was not a wastrel. Her money went to good causes and the Streatham Sanitorium and Asylum was the principle.”
“That was the asylum that you were incarcerated in,” Marcus said.
