“Our blood is as good as his,” Mama said, but in a defensive way. The blood may have been, but there equality ended. The house, the carriages, the clothing, even the face and form of the deVigne line-all were unexceptionable. The baron himself was tall, well-formed, dark and handsome, with only a slightly arrogant cast to his countenance to mar perfection.

The sundry ladies who accompanied him to the village in his carriage were also objects of keen interest. Whether dowager, daughter, friend, or relative, they all seemed to possess elegance, and if not actually beautiful, there was an aura of glamor surrounding them that was stronger than mere beauty. Their lovely bonnets, their exquisite gowns, their tinkling silver laughter, breathed of money, of a life of ease and refinement. They came to Questnow, sometimes in groups, sometimes singly, sometimes with children, often with dogs, but always bringing with them that whiff of glamor and excitement, and invariably leaving in their wake a fierce sense of resentment in the heart of Delsie Sommers.

These people became known by sight to Delsie and her mother as deVigne’s aunt, Lady Jane, who had a husband called Sir Harold, the pair of them living in the Dower House on the hill. There was deVigne’s sister, Louise, who was married to a Mr. Grayshott, a fabulously rich commoner. This pair were not seen much except in the summer, when they inhabited a structure, also on the hill, called simply Grayshott’s cottage. The old Dowager Lady deVigne passed away early on. Each new beauty that accompanied deVigne to town was examined with curiosity, always with the thought that she might eventually be the new Lady deVigne, a post as yet unfilled.

Delsie used to imagine what it would be like to live up there, on the hill, in one of the fabulous mansions that dotted the slope. There would be parties, frequent company, horses, trips to London, fine rooms, and parks and gardens. The Hall, Baron deVigne’s own establishment, was said to have more than forty chambers abovestairs. It was surely criminal for one man to have so much space to himself, when she and her mother must be cramped into three small rooms.

“Strothingham’s Abbey has fifty bedrooms,” Mama said. Much good they did the Sommerses!

The years dragged by slowly in Questnow. Delsie grew from a child to a young lady and finally went away to Bath, with never a sign of recognition from the deVignes. They were too poor, and their rich blood too unknown, to be on calling terms with the local nobility, yet not poor enough to excite charity. They inhabited a sort of anonymous no-man’s-land, meeting only occasionally in the village streets or being in the same building at church on Sunday. The deVignes did not attend the local assemblies, and the Sommers ladies held themselves above going to deVigne’s annual public day to rub shoulders with tenant farmers and fishermen. There was no common meeting place, and so through the years they never met.

Though they were not formally acquainted, one of the gentlemen on the hill became aware of the quiet young lady who did not curtsy to deVigne, who looked past them all with a nonchalant gaze which successfully concealed her rampant interest in them and all their doings. He became first aware, then interested, and finally infatuated to an almost insane degree.

Delsie did not hear, while at Bath, that Mrs. Grayshott had died in childbirth. When she returned to Questnow after graduation, Mr. Grayshott was already a widower of one year, and Miss Sommers had blossomed into a handsome, accomplished young lady with a pair of clear, imperious gray eyes, a strong chin, a lofty bearing, and a crown of chestnut curls. He made any excuse into the village to see her, spent whole mornings lounging outside the local inn, just to catch a glimpse of her as she went to the post office or to the shops. Finally, the week after Mama’s death, he came to call.

In her gratification at seeing Mr. Grayshott, brother-in-law to deVigne, at her door, Miss Frisk lost her head and had Delsie called down to her own parlor to meet him. Mr. Grayshott had a young daughter-he was clearly come to offer Miss Sommers the job of tending her. What a blessing for the girl! Her mama just dead, and money certainly in very short supply. Delsie spoke of looking for a position. Though she never learned the truth of that meeting, she could not have been more surprised than Miss Sommers herself at what transpired.

Upon first entering the parlor, Delsie had recognized Mr. Grayshott. His general contours, his outfit, were familiar, as one knows by sight a familiar landmark, yet on closer examination she found the face to be not as she expected. Older, for one thing, more lined, the eyes fatigued and the mouth having a despondent downward curl to the lips. Ah, but Miss Frisk had mentioned his losing his wife-that would account for it.

Before long, she also discerned something unmentioned by Miss Frisk. Mr. Grayshott had been drinking. The aroma, and a certain unsteadiness in both speech and legs, told this as clearly as if he held a bottle in his hands. “Forgive my coming here, unknown to you,” he said, bowing formally. “I am Grayshott. I live up on the hill.” He waved a hand vaguely towards the north.

“How do you do, Mr. Grayshott. I take it you are aware who I am, as you have asked to see me.” Her conclusion as to his asking to see her coincided exactly with Miss Frisk’s. She had been elated at first. What an excellent thing to have a good job land in her lap, one as well that would take her up the hill. When she realized he had been drinking, she wondered if it were a regular thing with him, in which case she was loath to go to work for him.

“Does not all the world know Miss Sommers?” he asked, his voice becoming wild.

“I shouldn’t think so,” she replied, in confusion.

“Modest! Oh, too modest. You must know I have been admiring you from afar.”

“Indeed, Mr. Grayshott!” She looked at him in alarm, eyeing the door in case of requiring a hasty exit.

“Forgive me! My emotions overpower me, seeing you like this for the first time. So lovely, lovelier even than I had supposed. Since the death of your poor mother, I have begun to hope-only hope, Miss Sommers-I do not by any means take it for granted…” He stopped, weaving on his feet, and a foolish smile settled on his hagged features as he sank into observing her.

She arose and edged towards the door. “What is it you want of me?” she asked, deciding on the spot she would refuse the position he had come to offer.

“I want you to be my wife.”

“Oh!” She stared in blank astonishment. “You cannot be serious!”

“I am totally serious. Marry me, Miss Sommers, and I will do all in my power to make you happy. I have loved you ever since your return to Questnow. I could not believe, when I heard in the village, that you were the little girl who left some years ago to go to school. Do not fear this is only a passing fancy.”

“It is quite impossible!” she replied, becoming angry at his impertinence.

“Make it possible! Say yes,” he implored, his voice becoming maudlin.

“I’m sorry. No, I could not possibly.” She reached the door and fled upstairs to her room, without even saying good-bye. She was trembling from head to foot when she sat on the edge of her bed, as if she had just escaped a horrible fate. She marveled at the strange interview for days, but it was just at this time that she received the offer from the Johnsons, and her life was busy arranging the move, so that she did not dwell on it as she might otherwise have done. It became, in time, a bizarre experience she could consider with amusement-the day poor Mr. Grayshott had come to her, drunk, and offered marriage.

When she returned to Questnow again after leaving the Johnsons, to take up her post at St. Mary’s School, she rather wondered if Mr. Grayshott would repeat his solicitation. Meeting him on the street one day a week after her return, she observed that he had gone rapidly downhill. His drunkenness was apparent now at a glance. His clothing had become disheveled, his hair not well groomed, and his face not lately shaved. He presented an altogether displeasing appearance. She crossed the street to avoid meeting him head on. But her tactic was in vain. Again he came to her at Miss Frisk’s, to which apartment she had returned, and again he made his preposterous offer, in more exaggerated phrases than formerly. And again he received very short shrift.

“Please go away and don’t bother me again,” she said coldly. She was older now, more sure of herself, and he was no longer a character of any importance. She gave it very little thought this time.

He had not bothered her again. He cast soulful eyes at her when they passed occasionally on the streets of the village, but he did not approach her, and after a few months she ceased to see him. Then her life settled into a dull routine, teaching at the school, reading in the evening, or playing piquet with Miss Frisk, who was making a bosom bow of her, going occasionally to a villager’s home for an evening of entertainment, as she would not have been allowed to do had Mama been alive. But a young girl needed some company after all, and so she went.

On that dreary morning in early November, she plodded along the road to the school, with no thought that before she had returned to her room a whole new horizon would have opened before her. There would be a crack in the magic door that would lead eventually to the hill.

Chapter Two

Baron deVigne sat in the morning parlor at the Hall in a deep concentration, staring with unseeing eyes through the French doors to the autumnal remains of a rose garden, with an occasional glance beyond to see if Lady Jane was approaching yet. He had a fair idea why she wanted to see him. After a little while he saw her tall, gaunt figure, wrapped up in a huge cape of gentian violet, trundling along the footpath from the Dower House, her head bent. Poor old girl, she’s getting on, he thought. It was with solicitude that he welcomed her, took her shawl, and ordered her a glass of sherry.