Green Darkness by Anya Seton Page B

where Celia pointed, and her mouth fell open. “Fabulous . . .” she breathed, and then for once was speechless.
    Myra turned her car and drove slowly through the opened gates. Igor followed her in. The cars stopped by a graveled path. The occupants got out, and joined forces. They were all quiet for a while, gazing at the manor house, which was gilded by the afternoon sun into the garnet of bricks and tiles, the topaz of lichen-covered stones, broken here and there by stretches of half-timbering—striped ivory between oak beams. Secluded, solitary, enchanted, Ightham lay dreamlike within its encircling moat, and on first sight gave all beholders a sense of romantic peace.
    Igor spoke first. “Marvelous, Mrs. Taylor, utterly
fantastic!
I’d no idea such a place existed—and so near London. It takes the Americans to show us our country! Look at those colors, mellow yet vibrant above that ribbon of liquid emerald. If I could only get those tones in fabric . . .” He squinted, framed off sections with his hands. “Good thing I brought the Polaroid.” He sauntered back to the car to fetch his camera.
    Harry and Myra also turned to Lily. “Most picturesque,” Harry said. “Quite worth seeing, must cost a fortune to keep up though.”
    “Yes, indeed,” agreed Myra, surveying the house, the shaven lawns, the rose and peony gardens with a practiced eye. “Charming. I wonder how the owner gets enough staff. I shouldn’t want to live here myself, give me a convenient flat in Eaton Square every time, but this is very pretty.”
    Lily was gratified, no longer defensive about her expedition. “Aren’t you glad you came, darling?” she asked Celia, and broke off. “Oh, this must be the guide, they said one would be waiting.”
    A middle-aged woman in a floral print dress came briskly over the stone bridge towards them. “Mrs. Taylor’s party?” she inquired smiling. “As a rule we only show the place on Friday afternoons, but the owner is generous and allows exceptions when he’s not in residence. Particularly for Americans, since he is one.”
    “It’s very kind of you.” Lily smiled back. “As a matter of fact, we aren’t all Americans, this is the Duchess of Drewton, and Sir Harry Jones, and Mr. Igor—they’re English—and Dr. Akananda, then Miss Susan Blake and my daughter, Lady Marsdon,
we’re
the Americans.”
    The guide looked faintly startled, though she knew that Americans were given to elaborate introductions. She glanced with interest at the Duchess, whom she had seen pictured in the
Illustrated London News
and wondered at her presence here. For that matter it seemed a peculiar party, with a brown-faced doctor, and a Sir Somebody, and a golden-haired youth with a queer name, and “my daughter, Lady Marsdon,” who had drawn away from the others and was staring at the stone tower with extraordinary intensity.
    “Now,” said the guide shrugging, “we’ll start our tour here on the bridge, while remembering that the original fortified manor house was built by either a Cawne or a deHaut in the reign of Edward the Third, somewhere about thirteen-seventy, we think. It has not been possible to identify all the early owners, but you will find a list on the back of the leaflet. You might like to look at it before starting the tour.” The guide handed out pamphlets. “That’ll be sixpence each if you wish to keep them,” she said.
    Myra declined her pamphlet graciously. “I’m afraid I’m not all that keen on crawling over old houses,” she said. “Are you, Harry?” He shook his head. “Then we’ll wait for you outside,” she added to Lily. “I’m quite fond of
gardens.
” She glanced at her diamond wrist watch, “The pubs won’t be open yet, and I could do with a gin and bitters; but we’ve got the tea flask in the car. Will you fetch it, Harry?”
    Myra wandered off with her admirer. Igor also preferred to stay outside, enthusiastically snapping sunlight effects as he pranced