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from Carle Manor. Not merely extra bedrooms but entire unused wings of the ancient rambling castle were opened to house the great numbers of guests. Dinner for the ball must be planned and preparations started, and meals and entertainment for the weekend house guests.
    The gardens had to provide decoration for the immense ballroom, each guest’s bedchamber, and the rest of the house—without looking bare to anyone out for a stroll. The hothouses had to provide corsages for all the lady guests, and out-of-season fruit. The silver had to be polished, the linen must be aired, the champagne ordered. All of these duties naturally fell to the capable hands of Lady Claire, Duchess of Carlyle, to organize, besides the complicated guest lists themselves. That lady glided as smoothly and gracefully through all the details as the black swans glided on the Hall’s twin lakes. Carlyle Hall was always well run, of course, but the Duchess won even more admiration for her sweet, even nature, especially in a decidedly trying situation. For if all the preparations for the ball itself were well in hand, the tempers of the Carlyle menfolk, father and son, were definitely strained.
    The Duke, whose nature had never been exactly even, was chafing under the enforced seclusion in his upstairs chambers “for his health’s sake.” An extremely active man, used to overseeing every detail of his vast holding himself, he was furious at having to wait for his bailiff s reports. When it was decided to open unused portions of the cavernous stables to house the horses of the weekend guests, the Duke ached to supervise, to see it was done well. Instead, Lord Alexander went to see what repairs were necessary, what farm hands must be called in to help, what other out-buildings could serve to store equipment moved from unused stalls. Carleton worked right alongside the men, delighted to have an occupation outside the furious activity in the house. His absence only aggravated the Duke’s boredom and irritation, as now no one had time for a chess game or a round of piquet, except for the doctor’s pro forma visits every other day. When the Duke grumbled to his wife in the rare moments she had to spend with him, she merely smiled and sweetly reminded his Grace that he had no one but himself to blame. At last he declared himself well enough to dress and go down to meals, but his son’s solicitude grated on his nerves—“No, I do not need your arm down the stairs. No, I do not require a tonic”—and the haunted look in Lord Alexander’s eyes did not aid his digestion, or disposition.
    Lord Carleton himself, the unwilling object of all this activity, had unfortunately inherited a great deal of his father’s temper. He refused to think a ball at Carlyle was proper now with his father’s health so precarious, and grew more vehement about it the closer the date came.
    “But, Alexander,” his mother would try to reason, “the invitations have all been sent.”
    “Well, call them back. His Grace should have quiet in the house, to rest, not this ... this pandemonium. We could have a small dinner in a few months, invite some of the local families when the Duke is more the thing. Or I could just—”
    “No, dear, the Duke wishes to have the ball here, now. He believes it will cheer him to have the house filled with all his friends and so many young people. And I think so, too. Of course he must have his rest—he only comes down for his meals—and see how much stronger he is getting already?”
    Alexander merely glowered. His father was obviously growing more crotchety, if nothing else.
    The situation was becoming more awkward daily, the Duke prowling around, interfering with the busy household servants, and Carleton threatening to return to London, until his friends started to arrive at last. He threw himself into their entertainment—hunting and riding all day, his father’s best brandies half the night—as though this was his last week of pleasure.