Page 35 of Dukes for Dessert

David clutched his teacup and bared his teeth in a grin. He who could hold a roomful of lords and ladies, princes and princesses, bishops and archbishops in the palm of his hand, was losing a battle against a vicar, an academic, and two beautiful women.

Before he could speak, Eleanor said, “Besides, I want to photograph the nearby abbey ruins, and you and Sophie need to show them to me.”

“An excellent idea,” Pierson said, far too earnestly. “We will all go. An outing away from the dig will do me good, and I can tell Dr. Gaspar all about it as we walk. The abbey at Weston is lovely, the cloisters amazingly well preserved—Cromwell’s men fortunately missed it when they were kicking over ancient churches.”

And so, David, instead of being able to flee to the solitude of his London flat or the green fields of Moreland Park in Hertfordshire, found himself roused from sleep at dawn the next morning by Eleanor’s brisk knock.

“Come along, David,” she said through the closed door. “We are about to set off. We’re waiting for you, so do get up. At once, please, there’s a good fellow.”

Sophie knew David had no wish to accompany them to the abbey ruins, and only Eleanor’s prodding had him on the path a half hour after she woke him.

He dressed in the tweeds he’d brought back from his London sojourn, cleaned and pressed by Mrs. Corcoran, but he’d quickly ruin the suit in the damp. He looked like a dandy trying to fit into the country and failing miserably.

Dr. Gaspar, in plain brown flannel and thick-soled boots, was prepared to be grimy by the end of the day. A professional archaeologist, Sophie mused as she studied him. She would meet more of them as she followed Uncle about the world.

David trudged along, burdened with Eleanor’s tripod, which he balanced over his shoulder, as well as two of her cases. Sophie carried a satchel with sandwiches Mrs. Corcoran had pressed on her, knowing Uncle often forgot to eat. She’d also brought pencil and paper—while Eleanor photographed, Sophie might do a sketch of the ruins. She didn’t consider her drawing skill up to much, but she enjoyed it.

“May I carry that for you?” Dr. Gaspar, at her side, reached for the satchel.

Sophie jumped. “No, no,” she said breathlessly. “You are kind, but it isn’t heavy.”

Dr. Gaspar looked embarrassed. “Oh. I beg your pardon. I did not mean to insult …”

Sophie smiled at him. “Never mind. You startled me, is all. I would be grateful for your help.”

Dr. Gaspar eagerly closed his fingers around the handle. The satchel was indeed light, and he overbalanced, expecting a greater weight. He danced a few steps and then righted himself, laughing a little.

Poor man. Like many of Uncle’s acquaintance, Dr. Gaspar wasn’t certain how to behave in company. She would have to put him at his ease.

She caught David’s eye on her, the man scowling like a thunderstorm. Upset Dr. Gaspar hadn’t offered to help him? Or upset at Sophie for some reason? Drat the man—he confused her so.

“Weston Abbey was founded in the eleventh century,” Uncle held forth as they walked. “The Augustinians built an enormous cloister and church, which was of course sacked by Henry the Eighth when he had his little disagreement with the Pope. It was one of the wealthiest, I have heard, and the king and his men took everything, leaving it to ruin. Wonderful place for a picnic.”

The abbey, which decorated the distant views from the vicarage, grew more imposing as they approached it. The stark ribs of the fallen church on the hill never failed to move Sophie—forlorn, forgotten beauty, a once proud place now silent and deserted. The golden stone against blue sky held stark and yet warm beauty. She could imagine the monks of centuries past toiling in the fields before returning to the golden-bricked cloisters for prayer and rest.

“They had a large scriptorium, Uncle tells me,” Sophie said to Dr. Gaspar as they trundled up the hill. “Records show they copied many books over the four hundred years they were here. All lost now.”

Dr. Gaspar halted, aghast at her words. “Terrible. What a waste.”

Sophie nodded. “Sad when people value books so little. They stripped the abbey of its riches and discarded what they considered useless.”

“Men tend to be dazzled by a book’s gold bindings and not the words inside,” Eleanor agreed. “If those soldiers could even read them. Most were in Latin, I imagine. Or Greek.”

“‘Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’” David burst out.

Dr. Gaspar, Uncle, and Eleanor stared at him as though he’d lost his mind. David, flushing, quieted. “It’s Shelley. Ozymandias. I thought it fitting.”

Sophie wanted to laugh. His look was so contrite, Dr. Gaspar’s confused, that their present comedy outweighed the sad loss of the past.

“We’re almost there,” Sophie declared. “Our favorite place is just around the corner.”

They soon lowered their burdens, David making a show of rubbing his back. Sophie spread blankets they’d brought and retrieved the satchel from Dr. Gaspar, unpacking it. Mrs. Corcoran has insisted on flasks of tea and porcelain cups from which to sip it.

Eleanor had the gentlemen setting up equipment for her, trying various angles to catch the best light. Sophie, once she’d finished laying out the food and drink left them to it and wandered away to the cloisters.

She’d loved this place on her visits to Uncle as a child. He hadn’t objected to her exploring at will, asking him question after question. She’d learned so much more from Uncle Lucas about history and religion, the past and present, than from any book or lecture at her girls’ seminary.

A large part of the cloister walls remained standing, arches that lined a courtyard rising gracefully. The abbey had been built in the Romanesque style, before the Gothic mania of the later medieval times, and had more rounded arches, plainer walls, a simplicity that touched her.