Page 66 of Ironvine

“It’s so unique. Walls of glass, light everywhere. As a young girl I’d never seen anything like it before, then or since. Our house—I mean, Thomas’s house is rather dark. My father had once remarked how it had been built facing wrongly, and I daresay he was correct.”

“I hope you never shared that remark with your brother.”

“No, he and my father were never on very good terms. It would have made things even more wrong than they already were.”

They made their way through the largest dining room Georgina had ever seen, several drawing rooms and studies, and finally, the library. Bookshelves filled each wall along with several armchairs, a dark blue duo of settees, and a massive mahogany desk.

“Ironvine’s library is rather famous, is it not?” She touched the bindings of the volumes lining the shelves.

“Once upon a time, certainly. My grandfather was a great reader, and I’m quite sure that the last time a book was purchased and added to the collection was during his lifetime. My father was not a reader, nor was my brother.”

“Are you?”

“I used to be. My mother enjoyed poetry. You like to read?”

“I do, very much. I look forward to going through the collection.”

“If there are any books you would like, I shall order them for you from London, anything at all.”

“Wonderful.”

Her gaze landed on a framed illuminated manuscript sitting on the desk. The piece was painted in golds and bright reds, and deep blues, the calligraphy slightly imbalanced. “Is this a page from a medieval bible?”

“It is. That is the work of the first Montclare.”

“Oh, the monk? ’Tis true then, that story of your ancestor, the first Earl of Ryvves?”

“What have you heard?” He crossed his arms as he leaned back against the desk.

“The first Montclare was a French monk who’d come to England to serve and was turned out of the monastery for his sins.”

“His sins, eh?”

“They say he then became great friends with the local nobility and was eventually granted a title and this estate.”

“As a reward for those many sins?” Charles raked a hand through his hair. “That’s what everyone thinks. They find it amusing that my ancestor was a fallen man of the cloth, considering all his progeny acquired the reputation of rake.”

“Something like that.”

“They are wrong.”

“Do tell me, Charles.”

“The first Earl of Ryvves was indeed a French monk, Brother Laurent de Mont Clare.”

“Did not William the Conqueror bring French monks with him to England, who then settled into the monasteries here?”

“He did, and they kept coming and brought their talents with them. Try as he may, Laurent was not a great proficient in the fine arts of the Church.” He picked up the framed illumination. “You see, here…and here.” He pointed to several sentences in Latin on the parchment. “They’re crooked, and this letter, he redid but not very tidily.”

“Oh, yes…I see.” She greedily took in the beautiful coloured parchment poring over every detail. The exquisite patient labour required to achieve just this small piece astounded her.

“When he failed so miserably at illumination and greatly disappointed his elders,” Charles continued. “He begged to be put to work out of doors.”

“As a gardener? A farmer?”

“A vintner. He was well versed in the art of winemaking in his native France, and so he grew his own vineyard, and eventually, he was able to provide the monastery with its very own wine for the Eucharist.”

“How wonderful.”

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