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“There was a quarrel and then a permanent rift between my great-uncle, the former marquess, and my grandfather when they were young men,” Bertrand said. “My grandfather never spoke of his brother to my father. When Estelle and I came to live here after the old marquess died, the marchioness was still here, but she knew nothing of the history of the family. There are no written records, though we have looked. So most of it would seem to be permanently lost.”

It was something he deeply regretted.

“Our ancestors hang here and keep their secrets to themselves,” his father said. “Perhaps it is as well. If I knew more, I might even now be putting you all to sleep with a lengthy history lesson.”

Bertrand had learned over the years that his father was often flippant over things for which he cared deeply.

“I recall Winifred telling me last summer how much she envied my family for knowing our ancestors and something of their history,” Stephanie said. “She thought it must be lovely to have deep family roots, to know where one came from, to feel that sense of belonging and continuity that comes with family. She knows nothing of her own heritage. I was struck at the time by how easy it is to forget one’s many blessings. And family is a blessing. At least you have the portraits, Lord Dorchester.”

Yes, indeed, Bertrand thought. He hoped his family would do better at preserving their story from this point on, but that would depend largely, of course, upon his keeping their line going—and upon his compiling a journal, as his father had done since his marriage to Viola.

At heart his father was not a flippant man.

Stephanie was still looking at the seventeenth-century Cavalier and smiling.

At least they knew that the Lamarr family had remained loyal to the Crown during the civil war. It was amazing Redcliffe had not been confiscated after it found itself on the losing side of the conflict.

—

The marquess’s prediction of sunshine by noon proved correct when breaks in the clouds at a quarter to the hour allowed tantalizing glimpses of blue sky and then large patches of it until the sun broke through and banished the remains of the cloud cover.

“There,” the marquess said when they sat down for luncheon, making one sweeping gesture toward the window. “At the risk of sounding boastful, Viola, I feel compelled to say I told you so.”

“And all accomplished single-handedly by you alone,” the Dowager Duchess of Netherby said. “I must say I am impressed, Marcel.”

“Thank you, Louise,” he said.

The large flower-bordered lawn behind the house, which Stephanie had seen from the window of her bedchamber, was to be the site of the picnic. It was a perfect setting for such an occasion, she thought when she went outside. There were broad open stretches of lawn upon which to stroll in the sunshine or stand in conversation, and there were the few ancient trees with their spreading branches to offer shade from the direct rays of the sun. A few chairs had been set there and blankets laid on the grass. There were the wide beds of flowers on either side, filling the air with their mingled perfumes, their colors bright against the green of the grass. The pink flowers of the wisteria growing over the summerhouse were highlighted by the dense woodland behind it. The doors of the summerhouse stood invitingly open to all comers.

It was occupied almost immediately by the Reverend and Mrs. Powell, the elderly retired vicar of the parish and his wife. They were not cut off from the world beyond the doors, however. Throughout the picnic they held court, as the marquess humorously put it, to persons of all ages who stopped in for a chat. They were clearly beloved by all.

Stephanie loved occasions like this. She loved meeting new people. There were older guests and younger persons too. There were young parents with their children, who dashed about to find one another and then play, without the need of any organizing adult. The little ones, who included the youngest Bennington, absorbed David into their midst as though he had always belonged with them. The older Bennington children were a little more tentative but were soon adopted by village children roughly of an age with them. Villagers and guests from the house mingled happily, though many of them were strangers to one another at the start. Young people eyed one another with bright interest. Stephanie knew from experience how rare it was to see new faces in a rural neighborhood, especially faces belonging to young, unmarried persons, and how exciting it was when it happened. Young women and girls, clad in their finest summer dresses and bonnets, eyed Peter, Adrian, and Owen with interest—and were eyed in return. Before much time had passed, they were mingling and talking and laughing and flirting. The same happened with the young men, who sought introductions to Maria and Stephanie and engaged them in conversation, some blushing and halting, some brash and confident.

Bertrand was clearly well known and well liked, as was Estelle. It was interesting to see him in his own proper milieu, relaxed and talking and smiling and laughing with people with whom he was long familiar. Stephanie wondered why he had gone back to live at Elm Court. Not that she had seen that home to compare it with this, it was true.

Stephanie was singled out by Mr. Harold Goring, a tall, very slender young man with an unruly mop of curly red hair and a blushing face and eyeglasses, which he kept hitching back into place with a twitch of his nose. Although he was probably about her own age, she found herself encouraging his stammering conversation almost fondly, as though she were his maiden aunt. She caught Bertrand’s eye across the lawn and smiled at him. He smiled back and beckoned. He introduced her to his companions, Mr. Cobb, a gentleman farmer of dark, almost swarthy complexion, very black hair, and piercing dark eyes, and Miss Cobb, his sister, who was probably a few years older than Stephanie and held herself ramrod straight and looked rather severe.

“How do you do, Harold?” Bertrand said to Mr. Goring, who had followed her. “Still studying history, are you?”

“Of the British Isles,” Mr. Goring said. “I am writing a paper on gentlemen’s fashions over the past five hundred years. It might surprise you to know they have changed far more than ladies’ fashions have over the same time period.”

“They have made occasional forays into the downright effeminate,” Miss Cobb said. “Consider the high-heeled shoes and cosmetics of less than a century ago, for example. And the facial patches and fans. Women’s fashions, on the contrary, have rarely trespassed upon the masculine. Breeches for comfortable riding, for example, have always been much frowned upon despite the practical need of them. So we have the absurdity of the sidesaddle.”

“But ladies look so very graceful upon them, Ann,” Bertrand said, his eyes twinkling at her.

“Of course they do, Bertrand,” she said. “Those saddles were designed more for the enjoyment of men than for the convenience of women. It is ever the way of the world.”

“I have already done a great deal of research,” Mr. Goring said. “But my father suggested I ask the Marquess of Dorchester to show me the portrait gallery here. Will he think me impudent, do you suppose, Lord Watley?”

“He will be delighted,” Bertrand said. “But I can do it myself if you wish. Maybe some other day?” He turned to the four people who were approaching, Owen and Maria among them, and made the introductions.

Stephanie used the moment to move away to join Lady Molenor and Lady Dirkson, who were in conversation with a group of older neighbors. It was clear to her that they had all met before. They were behaving like long-lost friends.

“We came here a number of years ago,” Lady Molenor said, “to celebrate Marcel and V—”

“Marcel’s fortieth birthday,” Lady Dirkson said, interrupting. “This was before he married Viola, though they were clearly courting. The whole of the Westcott family came and was given a warm welcome as well as a wonderful party. We are happy to be back.”

They had come for a mere birthday party? For a forty-year-old man who was not even related to them? Now there was a story she would love to hear in more detail sometime, Stephanie thought. She sat and chatted for a while and watched young David Wiley sitting silently on the old vicar’s knee in the summerhouse and gazing up at him and nodding solemnly at something the old man was saying to him. He must have sat there for all of a minute and a half before squirming down and toddling off as fast as his legs would carry him in pursuit of his new friends.