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pass
through the dining room, along the Italian Gallery into the Library, through
the State Reception Chamber and—’
    ‘Yes, yes, just lead the way,’ she said, giving him
a gentle little push. Never before had she appreciated the sheer size of the
Castle. Hastening after Sturridge, who moved at a surprising speed for a man of
his age, it seemed to take forever to traverse endless landings, staircases,
and galleries, each impressive in its way, until they reached the Long Gallery.
This chamber was aptly named. It dated from the sixteenth century and measured
the full length of the wing. It seemed to Minette that every inch of wall space
was covered with gilt-framed canvases of great value. She recognised a David, a
Titian, several Rembrandts, and two beautiful Watteau landscapes, but these did
not interest her. Rochford was a wealthy man; he could purchase a dozen works
of the Old Masters at any time. But the portraits of his great dynasty—these
were beyond price. So, having dismissed the butler with thanks, she sought out
the likenesses of four centuries of Clarevilles, from family groups to
miniatures, from Kit-Kat portraits to an enormous canvas that half-covered the
end wall and depicted the sixth Duke astride a handsome grey charger in the
midst of some unidentified battle.
    At last she found the portrait for which she was
searching. Hanging above an Adam fireplace in the centre of the long inner
wall, there was a full-length portrait of the present Duke. He was dressed for
a day’s shooting, bare-headed and leaning negligently against a tree. He held
his gun carelessly across one arm. His springer spaniel, Beauty, lay at his
feet, with her tan velvet nose resting upon his boot. Minette studied the
painted countenance, and her lips softened into a smile. How easily he might
have turned his good profile to the artist or demanded that Mr Lawrence gloss
over the scars. But no, like Oliver Cromwell, he had been painted ‘warts and
all.’ How like him, she thought. Of course, he would scorn to hide his face as
though he had something to be ashamed of. And then she wondered at herself that
she presumed to know him so well after so short a time in his company.
    She moved on a little and stood contemplating a
small study of a handsome, mature lady seated here in this very gallery, with a
most beautiful young man standing by the side of her chair. The lady was
looking up into the smiling face of the boy and, with a sudden pang, Minette
realised that this was Rochford himself before that terrible fire. With closer
scrutiny, she saw that the lady with him was the same as was depicted, radiantly
youthful, in the portrait that hung in the drawing room. The lady, then, was
his mother. But how she was changed! The artist had caught her charm, but also
her sadness. Had life been difficult for the ninth Duchess?
    She was musing upon the painting when, all at once,
there was a blinding flash of light, and the silence was shattered by an
almighty crash that seemed to echo through and through the long gallery. She
ran to the window and, peering with difficulty through the driving rain, she
perceived that a tree was down across one of the bridle paths that led up to
the stable courtyard. Two terrified horses were galloping, riderless, along the
path. Even as she watched, their grooms ran out to the animals, catching the
bridles and dragging down their tossing crests.
    She heard shouts and running feet and, pausing only
to snatch up her shawl, she ran to the door, wrenched it open, and hurried
towards the sound of voices. But she was bewildered by the maze of rooms and
staircases, resulting in many minutes lost before she reached the modern part
of the house. She found Sturridge in the hallway shaken but retaining his
dignity. The big double doors were wide open, and the curtains were flapping
wildly in the wind that roared through the chamber. He was directing two of the
footmen to find blankets and boards to be used as a