The Very Reverend Simon Ridlington smiled at her and her companions. “Well it would have been further out to sea, of course. As I mentioned earlier, what was left of Rideauville castle was destroyed during a severe storm around 1700 or so, we think. It was a very bad storm too. Blew the lead roof of Westminster Abby, I’m told.” He winced at the thought. “There are still a few hewn stones at the water’s edge though, to mark our castle’s former presence. These cliffs are constantly eroding, and this present coastline will probably look quite different toourgreat-great-grandchildren.”
The little party stared over the gentle rise and fall of the hills, and the bright blue of the ocean. It was a late spring day of perfect beauty; an ideal moment for a stroll around the more historically important parts of the land.
Which explained the presence of the Ridlington Ladies Historical Society, all of them, hanging on the Vicar’s every word.
Simon took a deep breath and let the scent of the air fill him with comfort. To him, it was home, for better or for worse. And there had been moreworsethan better in the past. But now, with his brother’s ascension to the title and the acquisition of a new sister-in-law, things were looking up.
“So do tell us, Vicar. How did Lord Simonsin?”
The artful question was accompanied by much simpering and blushing on the part of Miss Tedworthy.
“Don’t embarrass the man, Dorothea.” Mrs. Frost nudged her companion. “He’ll get to it in his own time, I’m sure.” She shot a speaking glance at Simon.
Thus reminded of his duties, Simon nodded and stepped back on the path leading to the Church. “Of course, ladies. We must walk on and I shall continue the tale for you.”
“How lovely, and how kind. I know we are all eagerly anticipating the next part of the story…” Miss Susan Frost ignored her mother’s sideways frown and inserted herself next to Simon, slipping her arm through his.
Squelching a most un-vicarly thought that involved dropping the persistent young lady into one of the many gorse bushes that still dotted the area, Simon merely smiled and adroitly disengaged himself by dint of pretending to ensure they were all on the right path.
“Watch your step here, if you please, ladies. It can be quite muddy.” He shepherded his personal flock toward the top of the rise, from which vantage point the entire area could be viewed. There were some convenient rocks for chairs, a small copse of evergreens for shade and mostly grass underfoot. Man and nature had combined to make a most pleasant location for visitors.
Reaching the “Lookout” as it was known locally, Simon encouraged the ladies to seat themselves, and looked on with interest as the two baskets brought by the FitzWalter sisters were unpacked. A small picnic was well underway when he finally found a moment to finish the tale of his ancestor.
“I say, these are excellent pork pies, Miss FitzWalter.” He had made that acute observation after snabbling three of the bite-sized pastries on the sly, without arousing undue attention.
“I’m so glad you like them, Vicar.” Tight rolls of greying hair beneath a fluttering lace cap nodded his way. “My grandmother’s recipe, you know. Passed down through the generations, I hear.”
“Well they’re delicious.” He smiled, happy that the two older ladies smiled back. “Now, to finish my story…”
