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were speaking in subdued voices over glasses of port, but he did not greet them. He looked up at the double-arched staircase, then bounded up the nearest flight. Without pausing to knock, he burst in to the Duke’s bedroom at the head of the stairs but came to a halt as he took a step into the darkened room. The curtains were drawn and only a single candelabrum cast faint light on the Duke in his bed across the vast room.
    From this distance the Duke seemed small in his enormous bed, and almost colourless against the white of his pillows and nightclothes, the dark of his hair the only accent.
    How pale he looks, thought Carleton, how vulnerable. He had never considered his father like this, old, weak, without the vital strength the Duke had always seemed to personify.
    He walked over to the bed as softly as he could in topboots, leaving a trail of caked mud on the hand-tied carpet, and silently drew a chair up to the bedstead. He sat there, staring at his father for what seemed an age. At last the old man’s eyes slowly opened part way, closed, then widened again in surprised recognition.
    “Alexander? Is it you, son?” The voice was only a whisper.
    “Yes, your Grace. I am here. I came as soon as I got your message. How do you, sir?”
    “Ah, Alexander. The doctor says I ... I don’t know how long I... ”
    “Don’t speak, Father. All will be well. You’ll see. You’ll have a good rest, that’s all. You’ve most likely been working too hard, taking too much on. Those doctors don’t know everything; you’ve said it often enough yourself.”
    “But so many things ... the crops...”
    “No, Father. You have a bailiff for that. I’ll speak to Mr. Caulfield myself. I can manage, really I can. But you must rest.” Carleton made as if to rise, but the Duke lifted one hand from the bed. The hand fell back, as if the effort was too much.
    “No, Alex, I have to talk ... something important...”
    Carleton settled himself again, leaning closer to make it easier for the Duke to be heard. “Anything, Father, anything.”
    The old Duke sighed and looked up at his son through eyes half-closed as though in weariness. “Alex,” he said, then paused to catch his breath. “Alex, I cannot find peace; I cannot rest easy for worrying. What will happen to all this?” The same tired hand made a circle over the counter-pane. “I had wanted to know your sons, to see them grow, to teach them to love this place as I do, as I thought you did.”
    “Of course I do, your Grace, hut what—”
    “Please, Alex, while there is still time ... please promise me you will marry soon, and let an old man die happy.”
    “Do not speak like that, Father! Of course I promise. But I—”
    “Soon, Alexander? Within months, while I still have strength to welcome your bride?”
    Carleton looked down at the man laid in his bed, the hand already too weak to grip his firmly, and gave his solemn oath.
    “Ah, Alexander,” and the voice was miraculously stronger, “now I can rest.” The Duke’s eyes were drifting shut but he opened them a last time and smiled faintly at his son. “Go to your mother now, Alexander. She will be needing you.” His nose wrinkled slightly. “But, Alex, do change your clothes first.”
    It was a subdued Lord Carleton who went down the hall to his own rooms. He silently nodded to Greaves, who just as silently helped him off with his boots. A footman brought hot water to fill a tub, but not a word was spoken beyond “thank you” and “that will be all.”
    Carleton dressed himself in a coat of blue superfine, then slowly and methodically tied his neckcloth in front of the mirror. He combed his blond curls through with his fingers, still staring at the image, almost looking for an answer there to some deep, unspoken question. At last he walked past his father’s door to his mother’s suite and tapped softly at the door.
    The Duchess herself opened the door and stood still a moment, seeing the dark circles