the best Gothic manner. To be sure, the room needed further attention: stained glass in the high windows, perhaps, and better lighting. But that could wait. The apartments beyond the Great Hall were the ones he wanted to inspect.
"How long has it been since anyone looked into this part of the house?" he demanded, wrestling with the massive key that seemed reluctant to perform its function.
"Not more than a year," Jane replied, resenting the slur on her housekeeping. "Lizzie turns out all the rooms annually, even those that are not used."
Edmund's reply was a skeptical grunt. He finally persuaded the key to turn. Once she saw what lay beyond the door, Megan was also inclined to doubt that Lizzie's penchant for cleanliness had extended to this region. If she were one of the maids, she would be reluctant to set foot in the dim, dusty corridor.
"Perhaps it is time for another cleaning," Jane admitted, sneezing violently in the cloud of dust disturbed by their footsteps.
"At least," Edmund said. Fastidiously he scrubbed at the nearest window with his handkerchief. He managed to lighten one of the diamond-shaped panes. A feeble ray of sunlight struggled through and fell upon a painted face that leaped out of the shadows with startling effect—the swarthy, smiling face of a man wearing a broad-brimmed hat trimmed with long plumes.
"So this is where the portraits are," Edmund said. "I wondered what had become of them."
"Father had them taken here," Jane said. "He said they were a gloomy lot, and he didn't care to be stared at by all the former owners."
"That man is the very imagine of King Charles the Second," Megan exclaimed. "Could it be a royal portrait?"
Edmund examined the edge of the heavy gold frame. "Here is the name. Rupert Leventhorpe. A former owner, as Jane said."
"It is like the museums in Florence," Megan said, as they walked on down the gallery. "Paintings covering every inch of the walls. Someday I would like to examine them in more detail."
"Not until after the place has been cleaned." Edmund's nose wrinkled fastidiously. "One can scarcely breathe, much less see, the dust is so thick. Jane, has my memory failed me? Is the chapel on this corridor?"
"At the far end."
"No doubt Father had it shut up, too," Edmund said. "It offended his religious prejudices—popish mummeries, and all that."
Jane gave Megan a quick apologetic glance, to which the latter replied with a smile and a shrug.
When in London, Megan had attended the Anglican church every Sunday. Her employers assumed that she would do so, and she never had the courage to object, though the thoughts that passed through her mind when she meekly bowed her head in prayer would have shocked the nuns who taught her the rudiments of her faith. They would have praised her for refusing to attend church and thereby risking a variety of martyrdom; but they would not have approved of bitterness and hate.
Jane's tolerance had the effect of making Megan less devout. Sometimes she forgot to wear her mother's crucifix, and she had not attempted to find a Catholic church, though she knew Jane would offer the carriage if she wanted to attend mass. This was not as surprising as it might seem, since resentment rather than piety had been mainly responsible for the former intensity of Megan's private devotions.
However, when Edmund threw open the double door leading into the chapel, her reaction was as natural as breathing. Unseen by the others, but for once unmindful of their presence, she touched her breast and brow in a gesture older than she knew.
The long-neglected room held few reminders of the faith to which it had originally been dedicated. The light was poor. The magnificent fifteenth-century stained glass was crusted with dirt, and thick foliage cut off all but a few streaks of sunlight. Megan realized that that was why she had never recognized the characteristic projecting shape of the apse; by deliberate design or by neglect it had been hidden by trees
"How long has it been since anyone looked into this part of the house?" he demanded, wrestling with the massive key that seemed reluctant to perform its function.
"Not more than a year," Jane replied, resenting the slur on her housekeeping. "Lizzie turns out all the rooms annually, even those that are not used."
Edmund's reply was a skeptical grunt. He finally persuaded the key to turn. Once she saw what lay beyond the door, Megan was also inclined to doubt that Lizzie's penchant for cleanliness had extended to this region. If she were one of the maids, she would be reluctant to set foot in the dim, dusty corridor.
"Perhaps it is time for another cleaning," Jane admitted, sneezing violently in the cloud of dust disturbed by their footsteps.
"At least," Edmund said. Fastidiously he scrubbed at the nearest window with his handkerchief. He managed to lighten one of the diamond-shaped panes. A feeble ray of sunlight struggled through and fell upon a painted face that leaped out of the shadows with startling effect—the swarthy, smiling face of a man wearing a broad-brimmed hat trimmed with long plumes.
"So this is where the portraits are," Edmund said. "I wondered what had become of them."
"Father had them taken here," Jane said. "He said they were a gloomy lot, and he didn't care to be stared at by all the former owners."
"That man is the very imagine of King Charles the Second," Megan exclaimed. "Could it be a royal portrait?"
Edmund examined the edge of the heavy gold frame. "Here is the name. Rupert Leventhorpe. A former owner, as Jane said."
"It is like the museums in Florence," Megan said, as they walked on down the gallery. "Paintings covering every inch of the walls. Someday I would like to examine them in more detail."
"Not until after the place has been cleaned." Edmund's nose wrinkled fastidiously. "One can scarcely breathe, much less see, the dust is so thick. Jane, has my memory failed me? Is the chapel on this corridor?"
"At the far end."
"No doubt Father had it shut up, too," Edmund said. "It offended his religious prejudices—popish mummeries, and all that."
Jane gave Megan a quick apologetic glance, to which the latter replied with a smile and a shrug.
When in London, Megan had attended the Anglican church every Sunday. Her employers assumed that she would do so, and she never had the courage to object, though the thoughts that passed through her mind when she meekly bowed her head in prayer would have shocked the nuns who taught her the rudiments of her faith. They would have praised her for refusing to attend church and thereby risking a variety of martyrdom; but they would not have approved of bitterness and hate.
Jane's tolerance had the effect of making Megan less devout. Sometimes she forgot to wear her mother's crucifix, and she had not attempted to find a Catholic church, though she knew Jane would offer the carriage if she wanted to attend mass. This was not as surprising as it might seem, since resentment rather than piety had been mainly responsible for the former intensity of Megan's private devotions.
However, when Edmund threw open the double door leading into the chapel, her reaction was as natural as breathing. Unseen by the others, but for once unmindful of their presence, she touched her breast and brow in a gesture older than she knew.
The long-neglected room held few reminders of the faith to which it had originally been dedicated. The light was poor. The magnificent fifteenth-century stained glass was crusted with dirt, and thick foliage cut off all but a few streaks of sunlight. Megan realized that that was why she had never recognized the characteristic projecting shape of the apse; by deliberate design or by neglect it had been hidden by trees
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