The Courtship - Catherine Coulter [27]
Lord Beecham laughed, a free, full-bodied laugh this time that resonated throughout his head and into the air around him. It brought back marvelous memories of a young man of twenty, so very eager to learn everything Sir Giles knew. And Sir Giles had even told him once, patting his shoulder, that he was so very bright, and that Sir Giles was thankful that Spenser had given his brain over to him, Sir Giles. Ah, the medieval mind, there was nothing like it, Sir Giles would say, then drink down a snifter of delicious smuggled French brandy. But Spenser hadn’t remained at Oxford. His father had died, and he had become seventh Baron Valesdale and fifth Viscount Beecham.
He had left Oxford at the age of twenty-one. And become a nobleman.
“I remember,” Lord Beecham said, his voice rich with memory, “Sir Giles once telling me that the Catholic Church was quite wrong. A man didn’t need to give up lust in order to be obedient and holy and committed to God. He needed only to truly mean both his vows to God and his vows to a woman, and his life would be balanced and no part of him would ever wither.”
“I fancy that his brother, Vicar Lockleer, is relieved to be Church of England,” Helen said, smiling. “He has two children. His wife died last year, but he loved her very much. He is also a very practical man, unlike his learned brother.
“He didn’t know how to begin to translate the scroll. That was when he recommended you. What do you think, Lord Beecham?”
He was silent for the longest time. The big girl sitting beside him jumped up once, patted Eleanor’s nose, then returned and sat down. She began to tap her foot. She whistled.
“I have forgotten so very much,” he said at last.
“It won’t matter. You’ll see,” she said, still now, all her attention focused on him. “The vicar now has many of the translations, texts, and notes his brother made at Oxford. Perhaps there will be enough to help you remember.”
He said as he turned to take her hands between his. “I have never been a woman’s partner before. This should prove interesting. I want to see that iron cask and the leather scroll.”
“The iron cask is old, very old. Medieval? Very possibly. Perhaps even older. As for the leather, I am very afraid that it will crumble if we work with it very much.”
“We will take the greatest care.”
She rose and shook out her skirts. She gave him a brilliant smile. “Let’s go home to Court Hammering.”
Lord Beecham and Miss Mayberry elected to ride, since it was a beautiful, warm day. Lord Prith and Flock followed in the carriage behind them. Engulfed in their carriage dust in the second carriage was Lord Beecham’s valet, Nettle, and Teeny, Helen’s maid. He had given Pliny Blunder a short congé, telling him to exercise his wit on the seashore in Folkstone, where his parents lived. Lord Beecham had noted before they left that Nettle was casting interested looks at Teeny, much to Flock’s annoyance. At least Flock was riding with his master. That should keep poor Nettle safe.
As for Helen, she just couldn’t seem to stop singing. Everything was working out so very well. Her enthusiasm was catching, and even her father, Lord Prith, said to Flock, “There is a song in the air, Flock. It makes my thoughts turn to champagne and the trappings. I fancy to attend another wedding. The last one was charming, surely it was, and the champagne was excellent. I just wish I’d known the participants.”
“Ah, it was Lord and Lady St. Cyre.”
“That’s right, Gray and Jack. Flock, you must find me a wedding where the principals are known to me so that I can trade jests with the bride and groom while we are drinking champagne. Then I will be dancing about and singing at the top of my lungs, just like my lovely little