LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Sadly, our middle daughter, Catherine, now resides with her husband in America,” Robert said. “I have no doubt that she will be sad to have missed meeting you.”

      “Of course,” Varanus said.

      “And of course my son and heir, Richard,” Robert said, “his wife Anne, and their dear boy Stephen. They have just returned from India, and it is most fortunate that they are here to meet you.”

      Varanus gave father, mother, and child a quick appraisal. Richard was rather like a younger copy of his father: dark, flowing hair, a strong jaw, broad shoulders, and an air of confidence bordering on arrogance. The boy Stephen, who looked to be around twelve, was much the same. He grinned at Varanus, rather than smiling, in a manner that was not at all polite. And then there was Anne. Varanus saw at a glance all that she needed to see: the slightly hunched shoulders, the downcast eyes, the timidity in expression, manner, and voice. The way that she seemed both to fear her husband and to fear being too far away from him.…

      Varanus forced herself to smile. A husband’s tyranny was nothing new. It would do no good to comment upon it at such a time. Once her business was concluded, it would be a different matter.

      “A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure,” she said.

      “Alas,” said Maud, “our other son, Edward, is off on safari, God knows where. And he shall not return until he is finished.”

      “I always find it’s good for a young man to get out into the wild before he accepts the mantle of adult responsibility,” Robert said. “Do some hunting, you know.”

      “It is a shame that he is not here,” Maud continued. “I just know that he would have been delighted to meet you. Both of you,” she added, speaking in Ekaterine’s direction with sufficient emphasis to make Ekaterine and Varanus exchange looks.

      Just as well he wasn’t there, Varanus thought. It was bad enough having her son chase after Ekaterine. Having two family members doing so would be the end of her patience.

      “Well,” Robert said, “I expect you are tired from your journey. If you would kindly follow me, I will show you to your rooms. The servants will bring your luggage up presently. We have already dined, of course, but I have instructed our cook to prepare something hot for you to eat at your leisure.”

      “That sounds wonderful,” Varanus said. “We are very grateful.”

      “Perhaps after you have refreshed yourselves, you would permit me to give you a tour of the house,” Robert said. “I cannot imagine a Varanus having grown up without ever once visiting it. There is so much history in these walls, Cousin Babette. Your history. The history of your blood.”

      * * * *

      There was more than a little truth in what Robert had said. As Varanus followed him from room to room, through richly furnished parlors and elegant drawing rooms, she truly felt like she had returned home. Not her only home—both Grandfather’s estate in Normandy and the Shashavani valley in Georgia were immutably home as well—but walking through the house that had raised countless generations of her ancestors made complete some part of her that she had not known was missing. It was a strange experience, like having something added to an already filled glass.

      Only Varanus had come for the tour. Ekaterine had elected to return to the great hall to observe the family in its natural habitat. Varanus was secretly grateful, for by the evening’s end Ekaterine would have a whole catalogue of useful information obtained through idle chitchat. The temporary reprieve was a relief to Varanus, who dreaded what time she would be forced to spend conversing in the company of her cousins.

      “This is our humble library,” Robert said, as he led her into the room and turned up the gas lamps.

      The blossoming light revealed the ubiquitous dark wood paneling that adorned the house, lush Persian carpets in burgundy and gold, and tall shelves filled with books and tomes and even the odd vellum codex dating prior to the invention of printing. It was a marvelous collection, rivaling the one at Grandfather’s estate. Of course, it could not compare to the library of the Shashavani, but it was still incredible.

      “I fear, Cousin Robert,” Varanus said, “that ‘humble’ may be the wrong word for it. I do believe you meant to say ‘impressive.’”

      Robert laughed loudly and replied, “Well, we are rather proud of it, yes. For hundreds of years, Varanuses have learned and studied in this room, and in the castle chamber that preceded it. Even after Varanuses began attending school, this was where all their real education took place. We have always employed the finest tutors, as we still do now to educate young Stephen. Though,” Robert added, sighing wistfully, “he shall be departing for Eton next year. I do wonder if we shall retain the services of the tutor or dispense with him.”

      “How old is this collection?” Varanus asked, studying some of books nearest her.

      “More than eight hundred years,” Robert answered. “It was begun with three illuminated manuscripts, brought from France by our ancestor Henry I during the Norman Conquest.”

      “He was the first Varanus?”

      Robert laughed and said, “No, no, we weren’t Varanuses then. And of course, Henry didn’t begin as a Blackmoor.” He paused and looked at her very seriously. “Do you know the history of our family?”

      “Bits and pieces,” Varanus said. “My grandfather spoke of some things, but never our origins. Not in detail. I know that we came from Normandy and settled…well, here. But little beyond that.”

      “That must be attended to,” Robert said, smiling in his toothy way. “Come, follow me to the gallery upstairs, and I will show you your ancestors face-to-face.”

      Varanus followed him up a flight of steps just outside the library. They entered into a long gallery that ran what seemed to be almost the entire frontage of the house, save for the towers at either corner. Tall, narrow windows ran along the exterior wall, and on both sides were countless portraits of men and women, all of whom shared the strong features and sharp eyes of the Varanuses.

      Robert stopped about midway along the gallery, where the interior wall opened into the balcony that overlooked the front hallway. On the opposite wall stood a collection of paintings, slightly larger than the rest and all greatly ornamented. At the center, largest of all, was a portrait in baroque style depicting a man clad all in mail, standing beneath the silver moon with two great hounds at his feet, hands resting upon the hilt of his sword. The man in the portrait was tall and broad. His hair was dark, curled, and cut to just below the ear. His beard was full but trimmed. His expression dominant.

      “Our progenitor,” Robert said. “Henry of Rouen; later Henry, First Earl of Blackmoor.”

      “A striking man,” Varanus said. “I can see the family resemblance.”

      Robert laughed.

      “Most Varanuses have certain traits in common,” he said. “Most.” Before Varanus could respond, he continued, “Henry was one of the companions of William the Conqueror during the Norman Conquest in 1066 and, according to legend, fought with all the bravery and ferocity that his descendants have become known for. He remained at court until the winter of 1069, when the nobles in the North of England rebelled against the new king. King William sent an army to put down the insurrection, and Henry of Rouen marched with it. What followed is called the Harrying of the North. Villages were slaughtered, crops destroyed, the whole land devastated.”

      Robert looked toward the painting as he continued, his tone almost poignant, “By all accounts, Henry was among the most brutal perpetrators of the Harrying, yet by his orders a small number of select families and villages were left all but untouched by the retribution. To this day, it is not known why he chose them to be spared, but the King gave no complaint. And when it was done, it is said that Henry was offered the Earldom of Northumbria, but he refused it. Instead, he requested only a small, barren piece of land that he had spared from the horrors of the Harrying.”

      “Blackmoor,”

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