WindsGate, 1824
The last of the expected carriages had trundled up the long zig zag from the village in the rain, just after lunch, and now the Duchess of Winshire’s parlor was a chaos of noise and colour, with relative by blood and by choice filling the room. Sisters, daughters, nieces, and wives of sons and nephews sipped tea, coffee or hot chocolate. Sons, nephews, and husbands of sisters, daughters and nieces savoured brandy or quaffed beer. Or, in a few cases, the ladies savoured and quaffed, and the gentlemen sipped. In the wider Winshire/Haverford family, the women were as powerful in their own spheres as the men in theirs, and they had been blessed with strong marriages based on love and partnership.
Which accounted for the loudest contributors to the cacophony–children of every age, seemingly several dozen of them, but the duchess, Eleanor, was aware that the number was somewhat smaller. They moved fast, though, and counting them in a physical sense would have been impossible. Eleanor could count them by couple, but she would rather simply enjoy. There, in one corner, was a group building and destroying towers of blocks with loud squeals and giant crashes. In another, a group of schoolgirls nearly old enough to put their hems down and their hair up had their heads together in earnest conversation. Several boys were on the hearth rug, refighting Waterloo with miniature armies. Another group of both boys and girls had commandeered the globe and were either planning a major world voyage, or were exploring the journeys that some of these dear people had taken to join them for the summer holidays.
Her son Jonathan had brought his wife and children across northern Europe and then the North Sea. James’s second and third sons had brought their wives and children across the Mediterranean and up the coasts of Spain and France. Matthew, now King of Pari Daiza Vada in the Kopet Dag mountains north of Iran, and John, who ran Kopet Dag shipping from a veritable palace in Venice. Even one of James’s daughters, the one who had married the ruler of another mountain kingdom, was here with her solemn bearded husband and her wide-eyed sons and daughers.
Her wards, as dear to her as daughters, were all there with their children, and so were James’s England-based daughters, Ruth and Rosemary. Also his niece Sarah, her husband and their brood–his three young sisters as well as their own children. And David and Prue had come, with their nine children, several of whom were grandchildren to Eleanor, even if on the wrong side of the sheets.
Dearest of all, if a grandmother was allowed such an emotion, was the infant on the knee of James’s other niece, Cherry. Sally was currently demanding to be put down to join the attack on the blocks. Sweet little Sally, long-desired and finally born, after many disappointments. To Eleanor’s son Anthony, the Duke of Haverford, Cherry and Sally were the centre of the universe, and who could blame him? Indeed, the little girl was treated like a little princess, and – if not for a sensible nursemaid – would be thoroughly spoiled.
How wonderful to have them all together.