The Sleeping Sword by Brenda Jagger Page B

did not approve of second marriages, considering that the heart of any decent widow should belong, like her own, in her husband’s grave, she could hardly refuse audience to the new Duchess of South Erin.
    Aunt Caroline, in fact, had done far better than anyone had expected for the second time in her life, and there was no doubt that her sons—Dominic already contemplating a flirtation with politics, Noel eager for military promotion, Gideon ready to pick up power and influence wherever he found it—were very pleased with her. They remained a long time in the dining-room with the pleasant, nut-brown little duke, to tell him so; and finding Blanche’s indignation hard to bear—having no answer to her ‘How am I to manage this great barracks of a place when everyone knows I have no head for figures and cannot remember names—when I just want to be peaceful and comfortable ’—I soon made my escape.
    From the painted, panelled staircase rising out of the Great Hall one reached the ballroom, the darkness of a winter evening not really hiding its gilt and crystal splendour, and beyond it came the Long Gallery, lined on both sides with massively framed Chards, their stern faces registering no surprise, in this cheapjack modern world, that a tradesman’s daughter had first married one of their descendants and had now snared herself a duke.
    But I had seen these portraits too many times before to play the old game of deciding which ones reminded me most of Dominic, or Noel, or Gideon, and walking briskly from end to end, it seemed to me that in Blanche’s shoes I would have welcomed this marriage. In Blanche’s shoes I would have resented so powerful a mother-in-law as Aunt Caroline, would already have acquainted myself with every linen cupboard and china cupboard at Listonby, with the guest book and the menu book, with the staff and the tenants, with the formidable expertise of my predecessor, so that hopefully and in time I might do even better. But Blanche’s shoes—alas—included the sporting, self-centred Sir Dominic, and smiling as I realized how little I desired to acquaint myself with him—how little, indeed, there was in him with which to be acquainted—I turned to retrace my steps and encountered Gideon, amazing myself by the lurch my stomach gave at the suspicion—I would not call it the hope—that he had come here not by chance but to look for me.
    Amazed. And then, because it was absolutely necessary to be cool, I said coolly, lightly, ‘What exciting news!’, deliberately setting a tone of insipid and safe formality.
    â€˜Yes indeed—although Blanche does not seem to think so.’
    â€˜Oh well, there is no need to worry about Blanche. She will find someone else to look after her.’
    â€˜I daresay—except that my brother Noel will be obliged to rejoin his regiment in the New Year.’
    And not wishing to answer this, finding it too personal, too apt to lead to other things, although I could not have named them, I turned back to the portraits, chancing on the one gentleman in that gallery who was not a Chard, a saturnine and undoubtedly handsome face reminding me strongly of Mr. Nicholas Barforth, although it was Sir Joel Barforth, his and Aunt Caroline’s father.
    â€˜My manufacturing grandfather,’ Gideon said, half-smiling. ‘Do you know, I believe Dominic will take that picture down when mamma has gone to South Erin. We were made to suffer, somewhat, at school because father had married into “trade”.’
    â€˜But Dominic has done the same.’
    â€˜Yes. But Blanche is a generation away from the more sordid side of it. And she is very beautiful.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜And very spoiled.’
    â€˜Yes. And I am very fond of her.’
    â€˜So are we all, for there is nothing of the heavy woollen district about her. One could take her just about anywhere. And, of course, she