The stench was overpowering.  Stephen wanted to lower the window but he forbore, thinking that Hélias would be wounded, for, as far as he was concerned, the more scent and the more cloying it was, the better.  Provence was, after all, the home of perfume and lavender grew wild on the rocky hillsides where women like Hélias’ mother harvested it for the perfume factory.

Hélias checked again that he still had his new passport in his inside pocket.  He was wearing his good suit— the one that he had been married in.  It was dreadful and too tight, but Hélias thought he looked splendid and was sure that all the ladies were admiring him.  Indeed some of them were giving him sideways glances as they stepped around each other in the narrow corridor and perhaps even then were considering that the bit of rough under that dreadful checked cap might be all right, after all, in the privacy of a wagon lit compartment.  Even Hélias’ limp spoke of un héros de guerre.  But surely, unless they were suffering from colds in the nose, they could not countenance intimacy with someone who smelled of attar of roses. 

Stephen did not want to spoil his adventure so he left the window up and watched him bounce up and down on the well-upholstered seat in the first class compartment.  “Have you been to Paris before, Hélias?” he asked at last.

“Oui, but of course,” he replied as if horrified at the prospect that a Frenchman should not have seen the City of Light.  “During the War we were in Paris.”  Then after a pause he asked: “Is London as big as Paris?” Stephen told him it was much bigger and Hélias was thoughtful. “But surely not more beautiful?”

Stephen said: “Peut-être pas.”

Hélias went on to talk about a girl he had had in Paris.  “Joni had a boy; I had the boy too.” He looked at Stephen with a triumphant grin on his face—his white teeth on display.  We are not so different thought Stephen.

Then he suddenly said: “We will be staying with Martin in London?”  Stephen nodded.  “And you will be staying there too?”

“Naturellement.”  Hélias nodded in understanding.  “We will also live in the country when your leg is mended.”

“Dans la campagne? ”

“Oui, dans un château.”  Hélias processed this for a while as the train sped on.

They went down to dinner and Hélias did not disgrace himself when it came to ordering food.  Stephen told him to order what he wanted and Stephen was impressed that he did not select the most expensive wine, but chose one carefully that he thought would go best with their food.

“Can I ask that mother and daughter to have a drink with us, Etienne?” he said quietly, indicating a haughty pair, obviously English, sitting together not far away.  “I could have the mother and you could have the daughter.  She is a virgin I am sure.”

Stephen pretended to consider this carefully before replying that he judged the scandal would be too great.  Hélias nodded but was disappointed and did not even offer the further suggestion that they might swap.  He did however pull such ludicrous faces in her direction that the frosty girl at last smiled at him until her mother said something sharp.  They left the car and a scandal was thus avoided.

In their compartment Stephen read for a while.  Hélias fidgeted and kept interrupting.  It was then time for bed.  The attendant had made up the beds and Hélias selected the top one for its novelty.  He opened his suitcase and showed Stephen a pair of gaudy silk pyjamas that he explained was a present from his wife.  He was saving them for the hospital.  “For you, Etienne, dans le nu!”

Hélias really did look much better without his clothes.  He was olive-skinned with short dark hair on his legs and chest.  For his size he had a large cock that he stretched and fondled as Stephen watched from the lower berth. “Are you enjoying yourself?” asked Stephen.  He refrained from reminding Hélias about his wife and daughter.  Hélias assured him that this was the happiest day of his life.  It might just have been.

Stephen reached out and pulled him close and took his cock in his mouth.  He pleasured Hélias while he masturbated himself under the sheet.  He popped a finger between Hélias’ cheeks and that caused him to spill in Stephen’s mouth.  He pulled Hélias down that he might taste it.  Stephen then threw back the sheet and finished himself off, arching his back. A shot hit the call button, but not hard enough to summon the attendant.  Hélias wiped the wall with something handy—Stephen’s shirt.

Stephen then motioned Hélias to climb up to his own berth.  Hélias considered this course then decided that his leg was too bad for such a perilous assent.  Stephen sighed and lifted the sheet.  Hélias squeezed in—there really was no room—and what sleep Stephen could find was bathed in the warm scent of attar of roses. 

***** 

The speed of travel in this modern age left no time for carefully gathered impressions and the slow unfolding of different landscapes.  It was only a few hours before they were in Paris and heading for the Calais train.  Hélias looked a little bewildered and never let Stephen out of his sight.  He also expressed constant anxiety for their bags and his papers.

At Calais they were on the ferry.  Hélias was at home on the sea, but this was different; this was a foreign ferry and he was now immersed in a world of English.  Stephen tried to amuse him with the story of his first leaving England to come to France with Martin.  Hélias tried to find the parallel but was so anxious that he derived little consolation from it.

At Dover there was the further anxiety of customs.  Hélias’ passport was barely looked at. He visibly relaxed.  Next there was the strangeness of English trains.  However these too were compelled to travel along the chemin de fer and soon they were at Victoria.  It was raining.  “Welcome to London, mon ami!” said Stephen.  Hélias smiled weakly and practically held on to Stephen’s coat tails until they and their suitcases were safely into a taxi, which pulled out into the grey world.

Hélias looked at the traffic and the people.  These were not Frenchmen.  The vehicles passed on the wrong side.  It was cold.  The buildings were magnificent, but they too were cold too— not like French buildings.  “Ce n’est-pas la Provence,” he said in weary understatement.  Stephen just smiled and squeezed his hand.

With a squeak of brakes the taxi pulled up at Branksome House and the driver lifted down their sopping cases.  Stephen strode up to the door.  Hélias hung back for a moment then clattered up behind him and he peered around his body.  Stephen did not have his latchkey so he rang.  Glass came to the door and greeted Stephen warmly.  Hélias thrust out his hand when he heard his name mentioned, but Glass diplomatically refused it and gave a very handsome bow instead.  “Soyez le bienvenu, monsieur” he said.  Stephen raised his eyebrow to Glass who remained impassive and simply took their bags.

Hélias stood dripping in the middle of the marble floor and did not dare to raise his eyes to the glass ceiling forty feet above them.  He glanced in a circle at the magnificent staircase, the portraits, and the heavy doors with their shiny brass fittings, the statue of Apollo, the palm tree and Stephen’s grinning visage.  “Sacré bleu!” he murmured.

Stephen grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, laughing until Hélias was laughing too.  “Martin!” he shouted.

“I’ll tell his lordship you are here,” said Glass, but before he could leave Martin appeared on the landing and called down a greeting.  Hélias smiled and waved and Martin came galloping down the stairs.  There were embraces all around and English handshakes and French baisers.

“I think we ought show Hélias his room, Mala.  We are all rather tired,” said Stephen.  They climbed the stairs, Hélias casting an anxious look back to where his suitcase had been but  was now not.

He was wide-eyed when he saw his room.  “Pour moi?”  They told him it was and showed him the connecting bathroom.

They took him across the corridor and through the double door to their room.  Martin put his arm around Stephen and pointed to their bed.  Hélias grinned and even went as far as to sit on the bed and then bounce on it.  They walked down the corridor.  Two maids walked past and bobbed.  Hélias turned to Martin and bobbed —Martin was being teased; Hélias was relaxing. “Who sleeps here?” he asked waving his hand down a corridor.

“Mon oncle here,” said Martin.  “And here and here,” he said pointing further along,   “Ma cousine… et sa mère”.

“Where are they, Mala?” asked Stephen.

“I’ll tell you later, Derbs.  Things have been happening.  Let’s settle this one first.”

Carlo appeared and it was explained that he would be his servant.  Hélias looked shocked and looked to Stephen who told him not to be concerned and that Carlo was very nice.  Carlo did his best at that moment to look very nice and mimed the unpacking of Hélias’ suitcase. The boys stood back while the contents were hung in the wardrobe.  There was another suit- worse than the one he now wore— and some underclothes.  Hélias looked guiltily at Stephen and by the look on Carlo’s face he worked out Carlo also knew Stephen’s rules about drawers. The silk pyjamas were reverently placed on a shelf, Hélias again explaining they were for the hospital.  Carlo thought they might actually induce illness, but remained impassive.  Lastly there was the checked cap.

“We might take Helias shopping.  Perhaps a suit off the peg from Austin Reed’s?  He’ll scrub up quite well,” said Martin in front of Hélias who did not understand.

“Like I did?” said Stephen, but with humour, not bitterness.

“Maybe not such a diamond.”

The tour of the house continued, if for no other reason than to give Hélias his bearings.  Their trump card was in the kitchen.  There, M. Lefaux had been given his instructions.  He welcomed Hélias in a babble of Occitan.  “His mother was from Grasse, Derby.  He does not hold the usual prejudices of the Parisians.”  This meeting seemed to go well.  The chef introduced all the servants within hailing distance and he promised to take Hélias out on his next free evening.

Tea was served in the pink drawing room.  Hélias felt dwarfed by its dimensions, but coped well enough.  He was not adverse to English tea.

“Now tell me about Constance, Mala” said Stephen when they had settled.  Where is she?”

“She has been at Tetbury Park—that’s cousin Philip’s place in Gloucestershire— for the last two weeks.  She should be home tomorrow.  I can’t tell you what a relief it’s been.”

“I gather she likes your cousin.”

“More the other way around.  Philip has plenty of money, but that’s all.”

“He will inherit Croome?”

“I suppose he will, but I’ll be dead so I won’t care,” said Martin bitterly.  Then: “I’m just sorry it won’t be yours, Derbs.  There’s no justice.”

Stephen smiled and patted his knee. “Her mother isn’t after him too?”

“No, that’s the other news.  She’s in Portugal…with Uncle Alfred!”

Stephen’s eyebrows shot up and Hélias looked at them.  They explained.

“Yes, she convinced him that a sea voyage and some warm weather would do him good.  He does look quite gaunt, Derbs.  They have taken all their history stuff with them.  Higgins has gone too and will keep an eye on things.  He’s my spy.”

They ate informally in the small dining room— just in their ordinary clothes.  M. Lefaux, however, had prepared several of his mother’s recipes for the simple dishes of her native land and Hélias appreciated the compliment and went down into the kitchen to say so.

In the evening they sat in Hélias’ room with a couple of bottles of wine.  M Lefaux had been down into the cellar with Hélias and he selected what he knew to be good vintages.

When it was time for bed, Hélias saw that Stephen needed to be alone with Martin, so he made no move to join them.

“Carlo will be in to help you undress, Hélias,” said Martin and he mischievously waited for a reaction.  Hélias was shocked.  “He will also draw your bath in the morning,” this had to be translated.

The boys left for their own room and Hélias slid into the luxurious, but unfamiliar bed with its linen sheets and fell asleep in dread of Carlo and the bathtub in the morning.

Carlo woke them early and tried, as usual, to balance the bed tray on Stephen’s morning erection.  The boiling tea was very nearly spilt as Stephen enjoyed the struggle.  In between a night of lovemaking, Stephen told Martin about the Mission to Seamen and the obliging Norwegians therein.  Martin was very excited and pictured Stephen spread out and being pleasured by two mouths.  He assumed that Stephan and Hélias would have slept together but wasn’t the least bit jealous; he would have done the same and even now was thinking of Hélias in bed just across the corridor.

“Mala, we must get Hélias bathed and into some new clothes before he goes off to see Sir Thomas.  Do you think he will let us buy him some?”

“I do hope so; it will be fun, won’t it, Carlo?”

“It will be your lordship.  He’s very nice-looking for a smaller gentleman.  Of course your French and Italians are short.  I’m considered a giant in my family and I’m only five-foot-nine.

“He’s got a nice big cock, Carlo.  You’ll see it when you give him his bath.”

The boys finished their tea and their morning post and proceeded into Hélias’ room in their dressing gowns.

They jumped on Hélias, frightening the life out of him.  Then they tickled him and climbed under the bedclothes next to his naked body.  Hélias was embarrassed that Carlo was in the room but was so distracted he didn’t see him slip away to run the bath.  Presently the covers were pulled off and Hélias was propelled, complaining, into the bathroom.  He would only get in if Stephen did.  This was easily arranged and there was a great overflow of water, which gurgled down a drain let into the floor.  Carlo appeared with soap, a brush and shampoo.  Hélias protested, but could do little.  Stephen soaped him first and was gentle and didn’t hide his erection that emerged well above the water level.  He directed Hélias to soap it and, thus distracted, Carlo commenced to shampoo both heads of black hair.  Martin felt left out so he shed his dressing gown and knelt down and took over Stephen while Carlo finished Hélias’ hair.

Hélias liked the brush playing on his nipples and other parts of his body.  This was good as it allowed Carlo to scrub all parts of the Frenchman.  He stood up so that even his most intimate recesses could be soaped by Stephen and Martin and scrubbed gently by the valet.

“This is the best part,” said Stephen at last, giving a big grin in the direction of Hélias who was at the other end of the tub.  Both boys worked on Hélias’ erection while Carlo kept up work with the teasing brush.  With a cry Hélias spilled and his seed floated in the bathwater like ectoplasm.  “Do me, boys!” said Stephen lying back and they pleasured him in the same way.  When Stephen orgasmed, a long stream shot across the bath and plastered Hélias’s hair.  It trickled down his forehead where it stung his eye.  Carlo was handy with a towel. “Sorry Hélias,” said Stephen, grinning.  Hélias gasped but it quickly transformed into a grin too.  Carlo washed Hélias’ hair again and then the two emerged from the bath.

“I think I’ll get in,” said Martin.

“But it’s all dirty,” Mala.  “We’ve spent in it and I think Hélias has relieved himself.”

Hélias understood this slander and punched Stephen playfully in the ribs.  They were both laughing.  Nevertheless, Martin climbed in and enjoyed the unusual pleasure.

Hélias watched Carlo dry Stephen and made no objection to having the same done to him. Stephen rubbed his own chin.

“Regarde cela, Hélias!”

Stephen sat in the chair while Carlo commenced to shave him.  Hélias looked on, as did Martin from the bath.  The razor scraped over Stephen’s young whiskers, ploughing a path through the lather.  The bulge in Carlo’s black trousers became larger and larger.  Hélias saw this and his mouth was wide.  Stephen smiled.  “Get it out, Carlo, I want to feel it.”

“No sir, I might nick you.”

“I want to feel that Italian cock, Carlo.”

“I was born in Birkenhead, Mr Stephen,” he replied, but opened the fly buttons all the same and his cock sprang out.  Hélias saw that he too wore no undergarments.

“What I have to do for 80 pounds a year!” moaned Carlo.

“Do I pay you that much, Carlo?” called Martin from the bath.

“You do, sir.  Would you like me to go and work for Sir Philip Rous-Poole?”

“You could spend the rest of your life pressing tweeds and sponging blood off Norfolk jackets.”

“Indeed sir.  May I button up now?  It’s going down.”

Hélias was most bewildered by all this and didn’t understand their teasing humour, but he allowed Carlo to shave him and trim his newly washed hair.  “Would you trim him down below, Carlo,” said Stephen who was standing next to the chair naked with his half-hard cock dripping.

Hélias became alarmed and thought Carlo was going to shave him bald.  He asked in terror how he would explain it to his wife.  Stephen calmed him and invited him to run his fingers through his own bush, which was trimmed to about a quarter of an inch in length.  Hélias relented and was soon admiring himself in the mirror.  “A l’anglaise!” he said, smiling and turning from side to side.

Later that morning Hélias was taken shopping.  Not surprisingly he had a great liking for clothes and at home looked at the French fashion plates.  He selected a dark blue three-piece suit with pin stripes—the waistcoat was double-breasted with lapels.  He brought three shirts with soft collars and a crimson tie with cream pin dots.  He was dissuaded from selecting a pocket-handkerchief  and half-hose to match.  Shoes and a hat came next.  He very much wanted an umbrella so one was found he liked.  It was useful when the rain returned with fury and it helped him walk when it was not.  For the hospital, a silk dressing gown with dragons on it caught his eye.

“Gants?” said Hélias looking down at his knuckles.  This became apparent as a request for gloves; he had seen men of fashion in Paris wearing gloves.

Martin had a spare pair of cufflinks and these along with his father’s silver cigarette case, which must have been worth more than Hélias would have earned in a year, were given a new owner.

Rarely had Martin enjoyed himself so much.  Hélias was appreciative, of course, but more than that, Martin felt that it somehow gave him a little of that old self-confidence back that had been sapped by his crippled leg.  He also saw that Stephen was seeing something of himself on his first trip to London, when he had naively come with Martin in 1909.

That afternoon Hélias went to Sir Thomas’ rooms.  Stephen went with him, as did M. Lefaux to translate.  Martin sat at home reading the latest letter from his uncle.

The party returned and Martin looked into their faces.  They seemed neutral and Stephen said that Sir Thomas had taken x-rays and examined Hélias closely, watching how he moved and feeling his leg.  “He was very thorough and has made another appointment for the end of the week.  He won’t commit himself to a diagnosis yet.”

They dined at home but then took Hélias out to a music hall.  He wore his new suit and was very happy.  He might not have understood the comedy acts, but he cheered and clapped at the pretty girls in the chorus.  Afterwards they tried to find a ‘typical’ English pub.  Hélias was polite, but he clearly preferred the cafes of his own land and failed to see the attraction of the British public house.

There was less trouble getting Hélias into the bath the next day—indeed he wanted to bathe twice a day and insisted Stephen or Martin must join him.  Because he was lame, Martin thought it might be good to take him sightseeing by motorcar.  Martin chauffeured the Rolls Royce while Stephen and Hélias sat in the back seat where Stephen pointed out Buckingham Palace, the Horse Guards, Tower Bridge and the like, while Hélias could ask him questions. He was an easier visitor than Constance Polk-Stewart, Martin swiftly concluded.

Martin’s next bright idea was to take Hélias in the lift up the tower of Westminster Cathedral.  Here they saw the panorama of the great metropolis laid out at their feet, with St Paul’s and the City on one side and Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament on the other. But it was not Paris all three had to sadly conclude.

Stephen then took Hélias to visit Sgt Swaine in South London.  He hoped that, as returned soldiers, they would find common ground, aided by beer.  They did and Hélias managed to charm Mrs Swaine into the bargain.  Martin remained at home and was in the drawing room when Constance swept in.

“Hello, Constance,” said Martin looking up from his novel.  “How was Tetbury Park?”

Constance went into her act. “Oh it was lovely.  The countryside in the Cotsberries is lovely- all those cute cottages.”

“Cotswolds, I think.”

“Yes, that’s them, well they sure are swell.  Everyone says so.”

“Did you ride and shoot?”

“Yes, I did as a matter of fact.  That’s all we did.”  She gave a tight smile.  “I’m a country girl, Martin.  I can ride a horse and shoot a rifle already, it’s just you do it all so different here—so very formal about everything.”

“Philip does like country life,” said Martin trying not to smile.

“He certainly does that, Martin,” she said with a trace of asperity, not looking at him.  “Will you take me to a party tomorrow night?  Jean invited me?”

“I’m sorry, Constance, but I have a prior engagement.”  She looked angry and Martin wondered if she had a temper if she let herself go.  “You see, we have a visitor— a Frenchman and I’m taking him to the theatre,” he lied.

“A Frenchman?” she said, suddenly interested.

“Yes, a carpenter.  He was a soldier wounded in the War.  Stephen and I brought him up from Provence for an operation on his leg.”

“Oh,” she said, realising that he would be another of their lame ducks.  “Well perhaps Stephen would like to go to the party.”

“You should ask him; he loves parties.”

The next morning when Hélias and Stephen returned from the Swaines with sore heads, Hélias was introduced to Constance.  She was distinctly chilly and Hélias caught it.  He was not used to being rebuffed by females and was wounded.

“Stephen,” began Constance, “I need you to take me to a party tonight.  Martin can’t because he says he is taking him out.”

Stephen kept his temper and said that he’d love to.

“It will be a swell affair, Jean says.  There will be a scavenger hunt.” 

***** 

Much later that night, Stephen found himself in his dinner jacket with Constance who was wearing a black and silver evening dress.  It was heavily beaded and the waist was dropped to her slender hips.  It finished unevenly just above her pretty ankles.  There was also a sort of cape made of tulle edged with more beads.  This was a nuisance all evening and kept getting caught in things such as the bushes in Kensington Gardens.

“Oh it’s snagged again!” cried Constance.”

“It’s a beautiful dress, Constance,” said Stephen on his hands and knees unhooking it.

“It was made by Patou of Paris, France,” she said proudly.  “Momma bought for me.  I’m glad you like it.”

They were waiting for the policeman to stroll past, which at last he did, hands clasped behind his back.  Stephen then dashed out with a screwdriver and used it to unfasten the metal sign pointing the way to the Serpentine.  He ran back to the bush with his prize and then they walked sedately to Jean’s motorcar with the sign hidden beneath his jacket. 

Jean had the list.  “We have the acorn, the gold nail scissors, the moustache cup, a copy of The Sphere, a tabby kitten…”  This she pointed out in a wicker basket.  “I got it from my cook’s sister,” she explained.  “And now we have the Serpentine sign.  All we need now is a milkman’s hat and a piece of railing.  I think I know where there is a fence that was knocked down by a lorry.  You might be able to pull out a picket, Stephen.”

Antony Vane-Gillingham came running up brandishing a white peaked cap. “Hurry up and drive, old thing.  He’d have got me except for the horse shying.”

Jean drove her car in the direction of Eton Place. Stephen and Constance sat in the back seat among the treasures.  Stephen placed the basket on his knees and stroked the sleeping kitten with a single finger.

“You were born in the village,” said Constance turning to look at him.

“I was brought up there.  My mother was widowed—I never knew my father.  She died too and Titus Knight brought me up.”

“He was a poacher or something.”

“No, poaching is a crime,” said Stephen laughing, “like rustling; he worked on the estate for Lord Branksome— Martin’s father.”

“You were poor?”

Stephen shrugged. “We weren’t ‘dooks’ neither.”

“That’s a great pity because you’re handy with a screwdriver and rather good-looking.” She leaned across and kissed him on the lips.  The kitten awoke and mewed.

“I thought perhaps you were fond of Philip Rous-Poole.”

She sighed. “He says he’s in love with me.  I expect him to propose.”

“Will you accept?”

“What do you think wise-guy?” She kissed him again and slid her slim hand under the basket to feel a basket of a different kind.

“Yes, it surely is a pity,” she sighed. 

***** 

A week later saw Hélias in Guy’s Hospital and Constance returned to Tetbury Park.  Hélias had undergone an operation— a second may be required— and his leg was splinted before it was put into plaster.  They were watching for signs of infection and Stephen and Martin did their best to take his mind off the possibility.

Martin and Stephen took it in turns to make visits to Croome.  There was always estate business to attend to.  Martin found he was snowed under with paperwork.  There were also his files on the Croome Trust for the East End of London, the Trust for Antibes, the Omnibus Company, the horse stud where he was in partnership with O’Brien and several similar undertakings.  There were also his investments, which Daniel Sachs handled.  Here was a letter asking if he would sit on the local bench as a JP as his father had done.  There was a pile of invitations and letters that required an answer. “I need a secretary!” he said out aloud. Then he wondered if Private Myles would consider this as a job.  He did know that Stephen would surely end up sleeping with him.  Would that be a problem?  He weighed it up in his mind.  He then looked back at the mare’s nest of papers before him and sighed.

A telegram was delivered to Branksome House announcing that Uncle Alfred and Mrs Polk-Stewart would be returning the next day.  They had journeyed from Lisbon by train across Spain and France.  This welcome news had been sent on to Croome and so Martin returned to London and anxiously waited with Stephen.

Martin heard the taxi stop even before Glass came into the room.  He called to Stephen and walked quickly down the stairs.  There were voices as the street door was opened and then the travellers bustled into the hall.  Martin smiled but then it faded.  He was shocked at how ill his uncle looked.  He put on a brave front and welcomed them back.  Uncle Alfred said nothing but Mrs Polk-Stewart talked non-stop.  Clearly she had enjoyed the trip.  Martin looked at Higgins who slowly shook his head.  This Martin interpreted to be a comment on his uncle’s health rather than his marriage state.

“We will talk at dinner, Martin.  I’m looking forward to my English bed right now.  I have had a marvellous time, but excuse me.”

Martin left Stephen to say a few words to Mrs Polk-Stewart and climbed to his own room. Stephen came in shortly afterwards and found him lying face down on the bed.  He said nothing, but laid down next to him and put his arm around him.  When he lifted his head sometime later, Stephen could see his eyes were red.

“Mrs Polk-Stewart said that she had happy tidings from Tetbury Park, Mala.”  Martin said nothing to this.

“Did she mention my uncle?”

“No, she talked of everything else.  Apparently they did a lot of work in record offices and churches. I couldn’t think of anything more boring.”

There was a good English dinner with roast beef and a pudding.  Uncle Alfred and Mrs Polk-Stewart took turns in relating their adventures, including the curious ways and surprising helpfulness of foreigners and the vagaries of Continental hotels.

“This Sir Gregory Withers was a most helpful old gentleman at Cintra,” said Mrs Polk Stewart.  He is the British consul there and showed us records going back to the time of Napoleon.  Then there was the archivist at the Royal Palace in Lisbon; he was swell too.  The librarian was a bit difficult, wasn’t he Alfred?”

“He was, but you charmed him, my dear.”

“Tell us about Lord Thomas,” asked Stephen.

Mrs Polk-Stewart delighted in giving details of his debts and extravagances that had been recorded by his contemporaries.  It was even hinted that he had many mistresses, but no names were mentioned, save that of Miss Cavendish-Bentnick whom he married in 1808.

Uncle Alfred was clearly delighted. “I found the engraving of Desideria-Luiza Molsomo and also a small portrait of her painted when she was the wife of Thomas.

“Glass!” The butler came to him. “Will you ask Higgins to bring the photographs; he will know which ones.”

Higgins entered the dining room with a large envelope, which he passed to Lord Alfred. “Here is what I am after.” He pulled out two photographs, one of the engraving and one of the oil painting.

“She was certainly a beautiful women,” said Martin when they were passed his way.  Stephen and Constance agreed and said that the Empire fashions of the era would not look out of place today.

A third photo showed a watercolour of two infants sitting in a carved chair with a sleeping dog at their feet.  “We think these two are the daughters of Desideria-Luiza Molsomo and Lord Thomas Poole,” said Mrs Polk-Stewart.

“Their names were Djanira and Olivinha,” added Lord Alfred.

“Cintra is a beautiful old town,” he continued and began to describe it as he handed around some more photographs. “Higgins took these.  He’s quite good with the camera.”

The pudding was served and Uncle Alfred began a history of Britain’s close relationship with Portugal— “our oldest ally”—until he saw Constance yawn.  He cut the lesson short and asked, instead, about their French visitor who was out with M. Lefaux.

After dinner Uncle Alfred went up to rest.  The other four played contract bridge in the drawing room.  Mrs Polk-Stewart was very good and won two-and-six.

The boys went up to their room and lay awake in bed discussing how ill Uncle Alfred looked and wondering if the trip, which he so clearly enjoyed, had been ‘too much’ for him.

There was a knock at the door and Higgins entered.  “I’m sorry for the intrusion, your lordship.  Pardon me, Mr Stephen.  But I thought I should tell you about his lordship.”

Martin told him to come in and didn’t heed his being in bed with Stephen.

“’e’s is very poorly, your lordship.  There’s ain’t nothing of him when I gives him his bath and he’s suffering some ’orrrible pain—especially in his stomach.  He has an h’appointment with Sir Thomas next Wednesday…”

“And Mrs Polk-Stewart?”

“She seemed to brighten ’im up, I must say, sir.  I don’t think there was no romantic stuff, if you get my drift.”

“Thank you, Higgins.  I didn’t like to make you spy.  It’s only because I love him and well…”

“And because Mrs P-S ain’t all she seems?” Martin nodded.  “Lord Alfred asked if he might come and see you both now.”

Martin was surprised at the request but said yes.  Stephen slid out of bed and went to his dressing room and returned wearing the lemon silk pyjama bottoms.  A few minutes later there was a knock and Uncle Alfred entered in his dressing gown.  Higgins had been correct; he was skin and bone.  Nevertheless he smiled and sat himself on the edge of bed and invited Stephen, who was hovering near the door, to sit down too.

“I’m sorry I’m not brighter company, boys, but I’m not too good.  However I did have a wonderful trip.”

“Portugal must be beautiful, Uncle,” said Martin.  “I can see why father and mother loved Cintra.”

“Yes, Martin.  It’s about Cintra that I wanted to talk to you—and to you, Stephen.” Martin looked puzzled.  “When we went up there—it’s not far from Lisbon—we were made welcome by Sir Gregory Withers—he’s the British Resident there.  Mildred and I got to know him well and he showed us about the town.  He also became interested in our research.  They have quite a lot of material there from the time of Napoleon and he also put us on to a fellow who is even now doing research for us in Rio de Janeiro.  It was to that city in Brazil that the whole Braganza court transferred in 1807.”

“And Desideria-Luiza went there with her Queen, didn’t she?  Lord Thomas packed her off with the two little girls while he awaited his divorce from Parliament, isn’t that right?’ asked Martin.

“That’s exactly right.  Boys, she was so beautiful in those portraits my heart went out to her. The photographs don’t do the portraits of her justice.  I came to hate my great grandfather for what he did to her.  I mean divorce in those days meant ruin for a Roman Catholic girl even from a good family.  He treated her very poorly and I can’t imagine what she thought when she learned in Rio that her husband had divorced her.  I don’t know how she supported herself.  Did her family or the mad Queen come to her aid?  I’m hoping De Souza, our researcher, will find out.”

“Don’t tire yourself, uncle. You can tell us in the morning.”

“No boys, please listen to me.  I’ve been carrying this with me for a week.”  Martin and Stephen were now listening intently.

“Now see if you can follow this: Desideria-Luiza Molsomo and the little girls were packed off to Rio with the court at the end of November 1807.  They went in a British ship,” said Uncle Alfred consulting a piece of paper he drew from his dressing gown pocket. “November 29^th.  That was only two days before the French marched in.

“Lord Thomas Poole and Cavendish-Bentnick fled into Spain sometime during those next few days.  They had been advisors to the Court and we were now at war with France again. Charlotte Cavendish-Bentnick—the niece—went with them.  She was already Lord Thomas’ mistress and was possibly already carrying his child— or if not was pregnant soon after.

“They made it to Gibraltar and there the two men joined up with Wellington.  Sometime during the next year, Charlotte joined her lover in Portugal after the French had been defeated at Vimerio— that was on the 21^st of August 1808.  We know they were all at Cintra on the 30^th August because that’s when the disastrous treaty was signed.  Did I tell you about that?”

“Yes,” said Stephen. “Those old fools let the French march out with all their weapons.”

“And all their loot.  We even took them back to France in our ships!  It was a scandal,” said Uncle Alfred with emphasis.

“Lord Thomas’ divorce came through in the 12^th of September 1808, but the news didn’t reach Cintra until the end of the month.  He quickly married Charlotte on the 1^st of October.”

“Yes, I knew that,” said Martin, “because Mother and Father saw the record of their marriage when they went to Cintra on their own honeymoon in 1880.”

“Do you still have that document, Martin?” asked Uncle Alfred.

“What document?” asked Stephen.

“My father had the consul copy out his grandfather’s marriage record from 1808.  It was signed, witnessed and sealed with red wax.  It’s at Croome somewhere.  Derby, I think I need a secretary to sort out my papers.  Do you think Myles might like the job— perhaps until he gets one more suited to his talents?”

“He might, Mala.  Sorry Lord Alfred, we interrupted you.”

“Well the baby—named William—who was my grandfather and your great grandfather, Martin—was born soon after.  We know he was baptised—in the Catholic Church actually— on October the 16^th.

“What we don’t know is how long Thomas and Charlotte stayed in Portugal.  They were certainly back in London on the 14^th of November because that was when the inquiry into the Treaty of Cintra was held.”

“Well that was very interesting, Lord Alfred,” said Stephen, scratching himself absently through his silk pyjama trousers.  “I wonder what happened to Desideria-Luiza.  I can’t get her face in those portraits out of my mind either, Lord Alfred.  She was a beauty—even by today’s standards.”

“Well, that is why Mildred and I have sent that fellow to Brazil.  I’m not up to such a journey, but I’d love to know more.  This family research is certainly addictive.”

Martin said: “It was a close thing— I mean the marriage and the baby, Uncle Alfred.  That must have been a bit scandalous even in Regency times, but I suppose it was out of England.”

“That brings me to what I wanted to tell you,” said Uncle Alfred grimly.  Martin and Stephen hadn’t thought there was an ulterior reason for Uncle Alfred’s bedroom visit and they looked worried.

“Sir Gregory Withers, the consul at Cintra, as Mildred said at dinner, was really delightful and we became quite friendly.  He took a shine to Mildred, especially and we dined with him several times.  He was extraordinarily helpful.  He showed us the ledger from 1808.  It is kept in the consulate.  We found the entry for Thomas and Charlotte’s marriage.  It was all there in lovely penmanship, but when I looked closely I could see that there had been an erasure.  It was quite clear that someone had tampered with the date.  At first glance the date of the marriage was the 1^st October 1808, but it was also apparent that a three had been rubbed out. That means…”

“That means,” said Stephen who was quick of mind, “that if they were not married until the 31^st of October, the baby baptised on the 16^th was illegitimate.” Stephen and Uncle Alfred turned to Martin, waiting to see if the implication dawned on him.

“Martin began with mounting horror: “That would mean that my great grandfather was illegitimate and so the estate and the title should not have passed to him…nor to my grandfather…nor to my father…and …” he said as the colour drained from his young face, “nor to me!”  He collapsed backwards and stared up at the ceiling of the ancestral canopied bed.

To be continued…

Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you.