Page 5 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

Resisting the urge to argue with him, Fenella went to change her dress and then discover where Simpson was lurking so that they could discuss what to do.

* * *

When he reached home, Roger found his mother entertaining a visitor to Chatton Castle. Their neighbor Harold Benson was sitting with her in the small drawing room that overlooked the sea. Benson, short and round and bald, always reminded Roger of the drawings of Humpty Dumpty in children’s picture books. Now, he jumped up and offered a bow, proving that he did bend in the middle.

“Roger, just in time!” said his mother. “We are talking about the historical pageant on Lindisfarne at the end of August. I’ve been telling Mr. Benson that of course we will do all we can to help.”

If his mother had had a coat of arms, that might have been the motto engraved upon it, Roger thought. Her impulse was always to help. The problem was that the consequent obligations piled up until she was hard-pressed to fulfill them all, and then she bounced from one to another like a fly trapped by a closed window, buzzing with anxiety. Waving Benson back to his chair, Roger sat down beside her, wondering if he could keep her from going distracted over this pageant. A happy smile lit her face. Fair-haired and slender, her features scarcely lined, she didn’t look her fifty years of age.

“It’s to be bigger than I realized,” she went on. “With Romans and Vikings and Saxons. And monks, of course.”

“Isn’t that a poor place to hold a festival?” asked Roger. “The road out to Lindisfarne is underwater at high tide.”

“There’s a well-marked path,” said Benson. “People only need to take care and mind the tides. And the holy isle has been the scene of a positive panorama of British history.” Benson was an avid scholar, their local expert on just about everything. Particularly in his own opinion. On his small, neat estate just south of Roger’s lands, Benson inhabited a house overrun by books.

Roger’s mother clasped her hands. “There will be a special presentation of speeches fromMacbethby a leading London actress. Only think!”

Their visitor’s plump cheeks creased with distaste, making him look like a dyspeptic chipmunk. “Very dramatic, I’m sure. Of course Shakespeare got that story wrong in almost every respect. The chronicles give no hint of such machinations. Macbeth was an unexceptional king of Scotland. And nothing at all is known about his wife!”

“What day is it to be?” asked Roger before Benson could launch into a lecture on medieval politics north of the border.

“The last day of August,” answered Roger’s mother.

“I’m glad it’s all going smoothly,” said Roger, hoping to plant the notion in her mind that not too much help was needed.

“Ah,” said Benson.

The concern he packed into that brief syllable told Roger that the bad news was coming.

“We do have rather a problem over who is to portray Saint Cuthbert. Such an important figure in our local religious traditions, you know.”

“I’d think some vicar or bishop would be pleased to do so,” said Roger.

Benson made a wry face. “Precisely. Too pleased. A rather fierce, ah, competition has developed in the church over the role. I understand that a parish priest and a canon nearly came to blows. Shocking. I’ve thought of suggesting that it should be a great man of the neighborhood instead.”

“You don’t mean me?” said Roger, horrified at the thought.

Their visitor looked equally perturbed. “No! That is, no, Lord Chatton. I would never… There’s no thought of that.”

Roger sat back, relieved and somehow a bit piqued at the vehemence of Benson’s rejection.

“I certainly hope youwilltake a part in the pageant,” Benson added quickly. “There are all sorts of roles. Viking raiders, marauding Saxons or Scots.”

Was he seen as so bellicose? Roger wondered. But since he didn’t want a part in the least, it didn’t matter.

“I think Roger should be a Roman commander,” said his mother. “With a toga and a chariot.”

He choked back a horrified laugh. Where had that idea come from?

“Ah, strictly speaking, the Romans were not a force this far north in England,” said Benson. “And chariots, you know, would never have been used on—”

She went on without seeming to hear. “You could use one of the swords hanging above the hall fireplace,” she said to Roger.

“Those are claymores,” said Benson. “The two-handed medieval sword, you know. Nothing to do with the Romans.”

“And I’d be hard-pressed to wield one,” said Roger. “Lord knows what they weigh.”

“The Romans carried a much shorter weapon called agladius,” said Benson. “But as I said, we had few Romans hereabouts.”

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