Note: So very sorry for getting this chapter out so, so late. I was caught up in the glory of summer vacation but alas, it has almost come to an end. I know there are those who must be feeling the same as I. Therefore, I hope this may be of some consolation. It's a long chapter so don't forget to get some munchies before you start. =)

The Lighting Of The Fires (Chapter 5)

            Quatre walked through the woods, his woods, on the way to the house. The sun was darkly orange against the western horizon, and the clouds were edged with its dimming brightness. The leaves of the trees made an elliptical pattern against the golden sky.

            If Dorothy had been with him, she would have mentioned the leaves, the murmuring, wind-shaken leaves. She might also have spoken of the drowsy chirp­ing of the birds—except that they were not really drowsy, for twilight had yet to descend. Dorothy had loved the twilight. He remembered her walking beside him and quoting Wordsworth and other nature-loving poets. In this moment he was remembering a passage from Dante. It seemed singularly descriptive of his own mood, and he muttered it under his breath as he reluc­tantly headed toward a path that must bring him out of the woods.

            "'In the middle of the journey of life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost…'" However, Dante had found someone to lead him forth from the darkness and to show him a glimpse of heaven—Virgil. No such mythic guide awaited him. Instead he would be coming home to another woman, not Dorothy, one he would find easily enough when be came into his house.

            Quatre groaned. At this moment he found himself hating and even loathing his aunt and his sister for urging him to marry again. No, they had not urged, they had insisted that he do so. He had done their bidding, had married, and had not even dreamed what it might mean for him to install his new young wife here in a place Dorothy had made her own!

            "Dorothy," he murmured. "Oh, Dorothy, where have you gone?"

            As usual, there was no answer. There had been a time when in the depth of his grief he had fallen on his knees and begged her to return. He had reminded the silence that he had friends who spoke of lingering ancestral ghosts. He had begged Dorothy to haunt him, haunt the room she loved—the conservatory. He had spent night after night in there—praying, beseeching her elusive spirit to manifest itself, crying out for a sign, a rustle of a curtain on a windless night, a coldness on the floor in the heat of summer, a whisper in his ear!

            Alas, she had remained as elusive in death as she had been in life. Much as he bad loved her, he had never really plumbed the depths of her soul. She had remained elusive and mysterious, infinitely tantalizing. Indeed, she was the very antithesis of Relena, plump, matter-of-fact Relena, blunt of speech and not an ounce of mystery in her entire being!

            He already knew her through and through and was uncomfortably aware that she loved him. He would eventually have to go through the motions, if not the emotions, of love and pretend to a passion he would never feel. Of course, Relena, frank and forthright, would not understand that. She and subtlety were strangers, and of course, she was half a child.

            A memory of Bartholomew Fair brought with it a host of images. Relena had been so excited as they had visited the various booths and tents. Her eyes had been bright as stars as she gazed at the puppets, the waxworks, the dancers, and the freaks. No, he thought, not the freaks. It had been Dorothy who had found them so amusing when they had visited their tents during a county fair outside of Taunton.

            Relena had been distressed to think of them being on display and suffering such long hours in a hot and ill-smelling tent. She had been highly indignant at the rude remarks and loud laughter their conditions invited. She had hurried him through the tent, but she had insisted that they give more money than was asked so that the poor pig-faced woman might be rewarded for her anguish. He had not had the heart to tell her that those who exploited the creature would probably pocket the money without giving her so much as a groat. He had not wanted to disillusion her and spoil the day's pleasure.

            Had it been a pleasant day? Tolerably, he decided. She had been so excited and pleased that he had been pleased, too, and had enjoyed himself more than he had anticipated. Yet if he had met her sister Sylvia before the wedding...

            It would have made no difference, he reminded him­self quickly. Sylvia was married too. She lived in Cornwall ... he hoped that she would remain in Cornwall, and forbore to dwell on the reasons for that hope. Quickening his steps, he strode out of the woods and was soon on the way to the north porch. He had not sent word that he was returning, mainly because he feared that Relena might come running to meet him as Dorothy had—drifting out of the doorway, gliding across the porch, as graceful as she was exquisite—a nymph, an houri, a goddess!

            If Relena were less large, he might compare her to a. . . but he did not want to think of comparisons. It was not really fair. Relena was Relena, unexciting, unmysterious, rich, well born, and undoubtedly would be a good mother to the children she would give him. As for love, he had known it once and reveled in its glory. Such ecstasy could not occur twice in a lifetime. He must settle for affection. He did like Relena. She was immensely likable, immensely placid too. He doubted that she had a temperamental bone in her whole body. And she did have a nice little sense of humor, something Dorothy had never possessed—at least not in abundance, but that had never really mattered. And contrary to what Iria said, she was not dense. Dorothy had been dreamy. . . . He groaned as his late wife once more replaced Relena in his thoughts, bringing grief and frustration with her.

            "Not yet. . . not yet," a voice deep inside him cried. "Another day, make love to Relena, but, please, please, my dear, not this night." Was that a voice in his head, or had Dorothy finally come to him? It did not matter, he would obey the command.

            "You are looking unhappy today, Relena," Lady Orville said. "Did not your lord come home yesterday, as promised? But I am sure he did. My girl told me so. Servants always know, as I think I have told you. I am convinced they keep their ears to the ground, as it is said red Indians do in the wilds of America."

            Relena smiled. One had to smile at Lady Orville's teasing, no matter how one felt. "He did return," she acknowledged, "but he was in one of his melancholy moods, and I really did not even see him. He went directly to his chamber, and his valet informed me that he was wearied from the exigencies of travel. When I rose this morning, I was told that he was conferring with his bailiff about some matters pertaining to the estate."

            "Damn and blast the estate. . . damn and blast the exigencies of travel!" Lady Orville cried. "Of all the self-indulgent, totally selfish men who ever existed on this planet since the beginning of time, your so-called husband wins the golden apple! And I even hesitate to call him 'your husband'! He has yet to assume that mantle! If I were you, my dear, I would leave him to wallow in his grief. . ." She paused, looking into Relena's unhappy face. "Unfortunately I am not you, and I doubt that you will ever mete out to Quatre the treatment he so richly deserves. I am going to give my threatened dinner, and I will subsequently present him with a piece of my mind which he might not find totally indigestible."

            "Oh, I beg you will not," Relena protested.

            "You may beg all you choose, my dear, but I will not heed you." Lady Orville glared at her. "You really do annoy me, Relena, much as I like you. If you had any backbone at all, you would…" She sighed. "But never mind, let us enjoy the day and the ride." She paused and then added thoughtfully, "You could not possibly fall off your horse and come back muddied and with a few interesting bruises? That might gain his pity, but no, you are too damned straightforward to result to the under­handed. Still, 'hold! He that is coming must be provided for and you shall put this night's great business into my dispatch,' which should have an excellent bearing on 'all your nights and days to come.' There are times, my dearest Relena, when it is better to be Lady Macbeth than Juliet."

            Relena laughed and then sighed. "I have a sister, Sylvia. If only I resembled her. She has rather the look of his late wife."

            "Then I will detest her sight unseen," Lady Orville said firmly. "Where does the creature live?"

            "She lives in Cornwall."

            "I hope she was not present at your wedding."

            "I had hoped she would not come, myself, but—" Relena broke off. "I mean—"

            "I am sure that you mean exactly what you say," Lady Orville interrupted. She continued. "I hope she lives on one of the Isles of Scilly."

            "She does live in Land's End." Relena smiled.

            "Well, that is almost as good. It is a reasonable distance from here, but not as far as Scotland. What a pity that she does not reside in the Highlands."

            "You do not know Sylvia," Relena said, feeling a belated need to defend her if only on the grounds that she was her sister.

            "Actually I feel that I do," was the enigmatic response. "Do you know, Relena, dear, since a suit of armor is used these days only for decorative purposes, it might be well were you to develop some manner of interior armor. But come, we have talked long enough. Let us be on our way. Has your husband ever ridden with you?"

            "In the park," Relena said, preferring not to describe the ramifications attendant on that ride.

            "He ought to ride with you here. You are a veritable Amazon—but enough, I have had my say. Let us go."

            "Please," Relena said. She had been finding Lady Orville's barbed comments more disturbing than usual, emphasizing as they did Quatre's determined withdrawal from her. It was time that he recognized the fact that Dorothy was no more, and he was wed to another!

            "Very good," Lady Orville commented.

            "I beg your pardon?" Relena asked confusedly.

            "My dear Relena, you have a face that speaks volumes. I beg you will put your thoughts into words. I challenge you, do it once we have returned from our ride."

            "I will," Relena said, surprising herself.

            "Lovely." Lady Orville's smile had become a grin.

            Two hours later Relena, returning to the stables, felt exhilarated by her ride and, furthermore, determined to accede to her friend's persuasions and also to herself on the subject of Quatre's prolonged mourning. She was not sure how best to approach the matter, but approach it she would. As she rode into the stable yard, some of her determination fled, for he was there, talking with one of the grooms. A greeting trembled on her lips and was swallowed as he turned quickly.

            "Good morning, my dear." He came toward her, and much to her relief, he was smiling.

            "Good morning, Quatre," she returned shyly, adding unnecessarily, "I have been riding."

            "So I see. . . and as usual your seat on a horse is excellent. But why did you not take a groom with you?"

            "I met Hilde . . . Lady Orville."

            "Ah, Lady Orville. A pleasant young woman, I be­lieve."

            "She is extremely pleasant."

            "Here. Let me help you down from your horse."

            "That is not necessary, Quatre," Relena said quickly, and hurriedly dismounted. The excitement of having her husband help her would be, alas, vitiated by the fact that he might need to hold her briefly. Her weight would be a sad strain on him, and he would certainly find the contrast between herself and the willowy Dorothy even more pronounced.

            He laughed as she stood before him on the ground. "It seems that I have wed an independent woman." Moving forward, he took the reins from her hands and signaled to a groom. As the man led the horse away, he said, "You are already on a first-name basis with Lady Orville?"

            "She insisted that we must be. I do find her charming." Relena spoke a little anxiously, realizing that she had not really known the lady long enough to use her given name.

            "Well, that is as it should be. I do want you to become acquainted with the other families around here, my dear."

            "Lady Orville has spoken of inviting us to dinner."

            "Has she, indeed? Well, I am pleased. And you do like her?"

            There was a thread of surprise winding through his words, and Relena, remembering that the late Dorothy had not warmed to the lady, said quickly. "Oh, yes, I do very much. She called here the first day, and I liked her immediately."

            "Indeed?" He regarded her quizzically. "Well, I am pleased to hear it. Duo, her husband, has long been my good friend—even though we have seen relatively little of each other in the last years. But do you not find Lady Orville singularly outspoken?"

            From his tone Relena gathered that the late Dorothy had not been sparing in her comments. She hoped that he had not become totally prejudiced against her new friend. She said warmly, "Oh, no. I admire frankness."

            "Do you? Well, then, I am sure that you and Lady Orville will become fast friends. I have been told that she is nothing if not frank."

            "That is true." Relena laughed. "I find it very refreshing. So many people think it necessary to say what they believe a person would like to hear rather than what they really think. Lady Orville does not scruple to tell the truth. And I have always preferred honesty to facile compliments."

            "I must agree," he said. He added abruptly, "I hope you are not weary from your ride?"

            "Oh, not at all! I do love to ride, and your horses are so easy to control."

            "I imagine rather that you find them easy to control. But, my dear, what would you say to a drive around the district? I would like to show you some of the sights of which we who are Somerset-born are very proud."

            "Oh"—Relena smiled.—"I should like that above all things."

            "Above all things?" Quatre repeated with a smile. "You are remarkably easy to please, my dear Relena."

            Relena wished that she dared tell him that her pleasure in the forthcoming excursion came from the promise of his company, but shyness put its usual harness on her tongue. She said diffidently, "I have always wanted to know more about Somerset."

            "I hope I will have increased your knowledge by the time the day is over," he said congenially.

            It was delightful to sit with Quatre in the post chaise. Relena had expected he would ride outside as he had done throughout much of their journey from London. Howev­er, there was no saddle horse attached to the vehicle, and Quatre, pointing out various points of interest to her, seemed perfectly content to be at her side. Indeed, she was reminded of the time when he had taken her up in his curricle and driven her around London. She had little dreamed that the invitation was tantamount to a propo­sal of marriage. He had been very companionable that day, and he seemed in that same mood now as they came into Glastonbury.

            "We will stop here," he said, breaking into Relena's thoughts. As the coachman dutifully brought the vehicle to a halt, Quatre opened the door and sprang out, saying as the startled footman put the steps up, "I will help my wife to descend."

            Relena, flushed with excitement, put out her hand and felt her flush deepen as her husband seized it in his warm grasp. She was further thrilled when, after instructing the coachman where and when to await him, he took her arm, saying, "I do hope you will enjoy this little excur­sion. My father took me to Glastonbury when I was eleven or thereabouts, and I can still remember how excited I was to be in a place where King Arthur and Queen Guinevere were supposed to have been buried. I had yet to learn that they had no more reality than Jack the Giant Killer."

            "We cannot be sure about that," Relena said shyly.

            His smile was gently derisive. "Oh, and will you tell me that you belong to those who believe that if England's soldiers are ever driven to the wall by an alien invader, King Arthur and his knights will rise from sleep and go galloping to her rescue?"

            "I do not believe that, but still, someone similar to King Arthur might have lived," Relena said. "It was all such a very long time ago."

            "I am not saying that I would not like to believe in them," Quatre said thoughtfully.

            'They do say that there is always a grain of truth to every legend," Relena commented.

            "A rather small grain, I would think. "But come, let us walk."

            "Please," Relena said with alacrity.

            It was a pretty place, and it drew a great many sightseers on this warm day. Several young women had set up easels and were doing watercolors of the Abbey ruins, something Relena wished she might do. Sylvia was adept at painting and had already produced some excel­lent watercolors. Several of these hung in the parlor at home, and a visiting artist had commented upon her ability. Relena wished she had not thought of Sylvia. Every time she did, her old feelings of inadequacy swept over her.

            "My dear"—Quatre's voice scattered these unhappy thoughts—"there on that high hill is where the Abbot died."

            "The Abbot?" she questioned.

            "Yes. I expect you know that Glastonbury was one of the most celebrated ecclesiastical centers in Europe— some three to four hundred years ago."

            "Yes, I have read about it and how Joseph of Arimathea brought the thorns from the crown of the Savior and planted the thorn tree."

            "He also brought the spear which Lungius thrust into Jesus' side—according to the legends." He shook his head. "You would not think that a shrine so famous and an abbey so rich could have been leveled to the ground because Henry VIII chose to divorce Catherine of Aragon.

            "And all because she could not give him a son," Relena murmured.

            "I think it was less that and more Anne Boleyn." He smiled. "But come ... there"—he pointed to the hill— "facing us is the place where the last Abbot of Glastonbury Abbey was hanged. Do you know that if you talk to one or another of the folk who live here, they will speak of his execution as if it happened the day before yesterday?"

            "It must have been a great shock to them, especially as many of them could not have approved of it." Relena shuddered.

            Quatre, glancing at her, suddenly put his fingers under her chin, tilting her face toward him. "Do I see tears?" he asked.

            Relena blushed. "Well, it... it does seem so sad to think of that rich, powerful man being drawn up the hill on a hurdle and hanged in full view of the town."

            "Ah, you, too, are familiar with the story, I see."

            She nodded. "Yes, I have always enjoyed reading history, and I am partial to the early Tudor and Elizabethan periods."

            "Indeed, I find that era particularly interesting, myself. Though I must admit that my admiration was mainly fixed on the daring exploits of Sir Francis Drake. I might mention that you will find many histories in our library—some are very old. My grandfather was a well-known collector of ancient manuscripts."

            "Oh, really?" Relena said excitedly. "I will look forward to reading them."

            "If you can find them." He frowned slightly. "I have always meant to have the library catalogued, but I fear I have neglected it. Dorothy was not much of a reader, save for her books on plants, but I can remember my father reading to us. He had a fine voice. My sister and I used to be enthralled by the way he made history come alive."

            "Oh, that must have been enjoyable. I think my father was also interested in history. At least that is what Mama has told me. She also says that I take after him—with my nose always in a book."

            "You never knew your father?"

            "No, he succumbed to a virulent fever a month before I was born."

            "Oh, that is a pity."

            "It was worse for my sisters. Sylvia, especially. She was his favorite."

            "She remembers him?"

            "Actually she remembers him quite well, even though she had just turned six when he died," Relena explained, wishing devoutly that she had not introduced the danger­ous topic of Sylvia. Quatre was looking extremely interested, and she could not help recalling that moment at the wedding when Sylvia had dropped the bouquet. She shivered.

            "Are you cold, my dear? The wind is a little cool," Quatre said solicitously.

            "No, not in the least," Relena hastened to assure him, glad that the dangerous topic of Sylvia had been abandoned.

            They left the scene of the Abbot's misfortune and wandered to the so-called sacred spring, where miracles of healing were purported to have occurred, and finally they had supper at an old inn called the George and Pilgrim where, said the host, the ghost of a monk occasionally startled travelers there for the night.

            They laughed together over that, and then Relena said, "I do not believe in ghosts, do you?" She was distressed to see his face change and his eyes grow somber. He said slowly, "No, I cannot think there are ghosts—at least I have never encountered one." Meeting her eyes, he continued in a rather bitter tone of voice, "That should please you, my dear. Your home is free from visitants, specters, and the like…the dead sleep peacefully and the living. . . mourn."

            Relena tensed. It would have taken someone far less sensitive than herself not to realize that inadvertently she had opened an old wound. No, it was not so old. His beloved Dorothy had been gone less than three years, and when, she wondered unhappily, would she ever learn tact? Then, and with a trace of indignation, she decided that her remark had not been untactful; it merely had been something anyone would say!

            "I am in total agreement," Lady Orville said the following day after listening to Relena's tearful account of Quatre's moody silence on the way home. "I am going to do as I earlier threatened, my poor child. I am going to give a dinner party. Quatre has not been near us for quite a while, and as he told you, he has been a good friend of Duo—but dear Dorothy's pronounced dislike of me has kept him away." She bent an eye on Relena. "It has not been a week, and yet I see a diminution of your weight. I hope you have not been starving yourself?"

            "I have not been very hungry, that is all," Relena explained.

            "Well, the loss is not unbecoming," Lady Orville observed. "I hope, however, that you will not try to be a sylph."

            "I doubt that I could." Relena laughed.

            "Ah, I am pleased to have made you laugh. Your husband is going to have a piece of my mind, I assure you."

            "Please, no," Relena protested. "It must be so difficult for him—seeing someone else in Dorothy's place."

            "And"—Lady Orville frowned—"it must be so easy for you having to be subjected to his fits and starts."

            Relena looked down. "I do not mind. I want him to be happy."

            "And if this prolonged grieving makes him happy, you will stand meekly by and…oh, dear, what is the use? Neither of you has any connection with reason, but I will put a flea in the ear of my husband, as the saying goes. It is possible that Duo might succeed where others have failed!"

            Since it would have proved futile to argue with Lady Orville, Relena did not make the effort, but as she returned to the stable, she still held the unhappy conviction that despite his determined efforts—and on occasion they had been determined—Quatre would never be comforted for the loss of his wife. She had captured both his imagination and his heart, and by dying so early and so tragically, she would retain them forever!

            On dismounting from her horse, she noticed a pony cart in the stable yard. It was drawn by a milk-white pony with a silky mane. The cart was painted a dark green and gave the impression of being new—from its padded leather seat to the collar, bridle, and reins.

            "Do we have a guest, then?" Relena asked Jim, one of the stable lads.

            He shook his head. "'E be 'ere for the books, 'e said."

            "The books?" Relena questioned, but ceased her interrogation as she saw a blank look in Jim's eyes.

            "The books?" Relena murmured to herself as she entered the house through a side door, wishing as always that she might have some of the shabby furniture taken out and the curtains changed. There was a preponder­ance of green in the house, which, she reminded herself, was less Dorothy's doing than Quatre's mother's, but again she forbore to mention changes lest she win her hus­band's approval but at the same time increase his despondency. He would feel it was her right to request them, just as he would believe it his obligation to provide them. Meanwhile she would be, in effect, trespassing on the territory which Dorothy still claimed. She sighed. It would be easier to say nothing and put up with the green.

            As she came into the main hail Relena met a footman and remembered the pony cart. "Jim told me that we have a visitor, George. Who might he be?"

            "'E's come to catalogue the library, milady," he ex­plained.

            "Oh, really," Relena said excitedly, and hurried up the stairs and into that vast chamber, pausing on the thresh­old as she saw Quatre speaking with a tall young man dressed in the height of fashion. However, as she drew nearer, she realized that despite his natty appearance, his garments bore signs of being mended and even patched at the knees. Still, he bore himself proudly. His hair was fashionably cut and a light auburn in hue, and the glance he turned on her was a dark hazel. On seeing her, he bowed and smiled.

            Quatre, too, smiled. "My dear, this is Mr. Trowa Barton, who will be our new librarian."

            "I will, your lordship?" Mr. Trowa asked in surprised accents, and then smiled faintly. "I beg your pardon, my lord, but I did not realize that you had reached a decision."

            "Oh, but I have," Quatre assured him. "You appear to be extremely knowledgeable, and since my wife and I are great readers, we are anxious to have the mysteries of this library probed. As I have already explained, it has been sadly neglected since my grandfather's day. When will you be able to begin on your labors?"

            "Today," Mr. Barton answered. "Tomorrow, my lord. I must see to lodgings."

            "But you may stay here, of course," Quatre said. "Is that not usual?"

            "It is not entirely unusual, my lord, but I have done so only on a few occasions.

            "We have a great many unoccupied chambers here, and there is no need to stay at an inn or in other accommodations unless you would prefer to do so."

            "Oh, my lord, I would not," Mr. Barton said warmly.

            "I should enjoy being here. As an antiquarian, I am much enamored of the great mansions that one sees in various parts of the country, and this house is a particu­larly felicitous example of its kind."

            "In the name of my ancestors, I thank you." Quatre smiled. "But I give you leave to take your time in settling in. You need not commence your work immediately."

            "Oh, but I should prefer to do so, my lord." Mr. Barton looked around him. "There is so very much here to beguile and enchant a scholar such as myself."

            "Is there not!" Relena exclaimed. "I anticipate that you will find some old books—very old, I mean. Perhaps there will be some incunabula."

            "I should not be surprised, milady." Mr. Barton gazed eagerly at the rather disordered shelves. "I anticipate a veritable trove of treasures."

            "It might take you some time to discover them," Quatre commented.

            "That is part of the excitement." Mr. Barton's emerald eyes shone.

            "I can see you will attack your work with enthusiasm." Quatre smiled. "There is a chance that you will find a grimoire. I hope it will not frighten you."

            "A grimoire?" Relena questioned. "There are books on witchcraft here?"

            "Ah, you are acquainted with the subject?" Quatre asked her.

            "No, not precisely, but I have read about them in Gothic novels."

            "Ah." Quatre laughed. "But of course they would figure largely in those."

            "How old is the grimoire?" Mr. Barton asked interestedly.

            "I am not sure. It was the property of my great­grandmother, and she, I might add, was not a witch. It seems she appropriated it from a maidservant during our annual celebration of St. John's Eve."

            "Ah, you celebrate St. John's Eve here, then?" Mr. Barton asked.

            "Yes, every summer. It is a tradition at the castle. We still call ourselves a castle," Quatre explained. "We set the bonfire in a clearing near the keep. . . ." He turned to Relena. "I do not believe I have told you about that, have I, my dear?"

            "No," she said, "and St. John's Eve is no more than three weeks away."

            "Yes, that is true. However, you'll not need to concern yourself with the preparations. The servants will attend to it. That, too, is a tradition."

            "Will there be dancing around the bonfire?" Relena asked.

            Quatre frowned and then nodded. "Yes, there always is." Relena concealed a sigh and wondered how many times she would unwittingly say something that must bring the late Dorothy forcibly to her husband's mind. She could imagine the graceful nymph of the portrait whirling around the bonfire. Unfortunately she could also see herself and hoped devoutly that she would be allowed to watch from the sidelines.

            "I expect," Mr. Barton said, breaking the small silence that had followed Quatre's comment, "that I had best be going. I will have to settle with the innkeeper. Are you sure that it is convenient for me to come this afternoon, my lord?"

            "I am quite sure, Mr. Barton. We will have a room prepared for you."

            Once Mr. Barton, all smiles and words of gratitude, had gone, Quatre turned to Relena. "Well, my dear, the library will soon be in order. The young man has excellent references, though I believe he is a little down on his luck."

            "I had the same impression myself," Relena said. "I hope that you intend to pay him well."

            "Of course."

            "Oh, I am pleased." She gazed around the immense room. The books were not only not in proper order— some of them were piled on the floor, something she had not wanted to bring to her husband's attention lest he believe that she was, in effect, criticizing the late Dorothy for her neglect of the volumes. She was rather sure that the conservatory had absorbed Dorothy's entire attention. Consequently the fact that Quatre had hired a librarian was very cheering. She had been half afraid that he might want the house to remain a sort of shrine to his late wife.

            "A penny for your thoughts, my dear," Quatre said.

            She looked up quickly. "They are not worth half the sum," she murmured, and was glad that he could not read them.

            "I would dispute that." He put his arm around her. "And where have you been?"

            "I have been riding with Hilde . . . Lady Orville."

            "And what did Lady Orville have to say for herself? Usually it is quite a bit."

            "She is planning a dinner. She wants us to come."

            "Ah, would you like to go, my dear?"

            "Very much," she said. "I do enjoy her company."

            "I am glad that you do. I have not seen Duo—Lord Orville—for quite some time, and we have been friends since childhood."

            "So she gave me to understand. Did you have a falling-out with him?"

            "No, not precisely." He moved away from her and stood at a table flicking through the pages of a large book that was lying on top of it. "I am not criticizing Lady Orville, mind you. I know she is your friend, but Dorothy was never at ease with her. You must have noticed that she has a habit of saying exactly what she thinks, and she is also unsparingly frank. Dorothy did not appreciate this quality."

            "Oh, really? I have noticed that she does believe in speaking her mind, true. But I enjoy knowing what people are thinking."

            "Dorothy was exceptionally sensitive. It is possible that she misunderstood Lady Orville."

            "Perhaps she did. I do find her so very kind."

            "If she has proved kind to you, my dear, I think I must revise my evaluation of her. It is possible that Dorothy did not take the trouble to know her. She never enjoyed going about in society. I am pleased that you do. We will have to give some dinners ourselves. I want you to become acquainted with some of the other families who live nearby. I think that among them you might find other young women who are quite as compatible as Lady Orville."

            "I should enjoy meeting your friends," Relena said carefully. "And I think we should invite people here, do you not agree?"

            He flicked through more pages of the volume on the table. "Yes indeed, it is high time that I ceased to be a hermit." Rather than looking at her, he kept his eyes on the book. "My sister has waxed very stern on the subject. And certainly she is right. You are both right. But now, my dear, if you will excuse me, I think I must inform the housekeeper concerning Mr. Barton's arrival."

            "Of course," Relena agreed. Once Quatre had hurried out of the room, Relena, with a long sigh, sank down on an adjacent chair. Despite his acquiescence to her suggestion, she was, again, uncomfortably positive that she had, in effect, trespassed on forbidden ground. Quatre did not really approve her friendship with Lady Orville because his wife had not liked her. He did not really approve her suggestion that they entertain his friends because Dorothy had not been a sociable person. Did he want her to follow in the lady's uncertain footsteps? She was sure he did not. Despite anything Quatre could, and probably would, say to the contrary, he was not really her husband. He remained Dorothy's widower.