'I ought to begin this tour properly,' Geoff said, 'by telling you that you are now approaching the east facade of Crofton Hall, constructed in 1598 by William de Mornay the Elder.' He swept one arm out in a broad gesture that encompassed the soaring, steeply gabled building with its rows of staring mullioned windows, the ancient plaster of its walls grayed and mellowed by clinging lichen and centuries of exposure to the English climate.
'My wing of the house is older,' Geoff confided, 'and more historic, but not nearly as impressive. This is the view on all our postcards, of course.'
There were several postcards spread out on a small table near the door, to tempt the waiting tourist, along with a small stack of souvenir guidebooks presided over by a fresh-faced teenaged girl with corn-colored hair and a deliberately ingenuous smile.
'How's business?' Geoff asked her.
'Seventeen in this last group.' She beamed up at him proudly. 'We've had over fifty people through today so far. Cathy hasn't even had a break yet, but she said she's going to let me take the next tour through.'
'Fine. Cathy's our regular tour guide,' he explained for my benefit. 'Sally here comes in on weekends to lend a hand with the extra crowds. Sally, this is Julia Beckett.'
'The lady who's just moved into Greywethers? The artist lady?' The girl's eyes went round with awe, and I'd be lying if I said my ego didn't swell a little in response. 'It's a pleasure, I'm sure, miss,' Sally told me, shaking my hand with youthful fervor.
'I'll be taking Miss Beckett on a tour of the Hall,' Geoff continued, 'so keep an eye open for us, will you? We should be far enough ahead of your next tour group that we don't get in your way, but try not to hem us in, if you don't mind.'
'Yes, Mr. de Mornay.'
'She's a good kid,' Geoff told me, as we passed under the great stone porch and through the open front door. 'Her mother is the local chemist, quite a formidable woman.' He grinned. 'She's determined that I'm going, to marry one of her daughters, so I thought the least I could do was employ one of them.'
'How very noble of you.'
'Well, it's all part of the "lord of the manor" bit. I'm young, I'm well-off, and I'm not married. That makes me fair game in a place like this.'
I glanced over at him, eyebrows raised. He was either incredibly modest or incredibly thick. He wasn't simply young and well-off—he was downright gorgeous and a millionaire into the bargain. Small wonder that the mothers of Exbury were maneuvering on behalf of their daughters.
We emerged from the entrance into a room that rendered me momentarily speechless.
Walls hung with exquisitely cut velvet soared upward to meet an elaborately plastered ceiling, at least twenty feet above the gleaming oak floor with its covering of priceless Persian carpets. It was a room designed to impress, and it achieved its objective with relative ease; but what clinched it for me was the fireplace.
I had never seen a fireplace like that before, not even in films. It was large enough for two tall men to stand in with their arms outstretched, fashioned of a glorious white stone. Richly carved, fanciful figures twined their way up the sides and across the heavy mantelpiece, and above the mantel, crowning it, was a beautifully carved and painted coat of arms.
'The Great Hall,' Geoff said, beside me. 'Quite something, isn't it? That's a Genoa cut velvet on the walls, late Elizabethan and rather rare, I'm told. We had a conservator come in and patch it up for us—it's amazing the whole thing didn't fall to shreds centuries ago.'
I lifted my hand involuntarily, then let it fall to my side again. I knew better than to touch it. One of my neighbors in London had worked as a guide for the British Museum, and had frequently bemoaned the irreparable damage done by ignorant hands and flash photography. Clasping my hands behind my back, I looked round in awestruck, appreciative silence.
'The fireplace, of course, is absolutely unique,' Geoff continued his commentary. 'The white stone comes from Compton Basset, just a few miles from here, and the carving was done by a local mason.'
'Is that your coat of arms, above it?' I asked.
'Yes. Well, my family's, anyway. The arms were granted to William de Mornay, the Younger, in the seventeenth century. As a direct male descendant, I've a right to use them if I want—put them on my stationery, that sort of thing. But it always seemed to me a little snobbish. Besides, there's the matter of differencing to think of.' To my blank look, he explained: 'Arthur de Mornay—that's my ancestor—was, by his own account, William's grandson, but without proper records we've no way of knowing whether Arthur's father was a first or second son, or even a third or fourth. They'd all have had to use different marks on their coats of arms— roses and crosses and crescents and such-—depending on order of birth. Cadency marks, they're called. Only the head of a family is entitled to use the full coat of arms.'
'I didn't know that,' I confessed, moving closer for a better look. 'I'm afraid I'm a little rusty on armorial bearings. I had a teacher at art school who did work for the College of Arms, so I learned a little about the design and terminology. ...'
'Well, let's see how you do, then,' Geoff said, stepping up behind me. 'What can you tell me about the shield?' It was a direct challenge, and I had never been able to resist a direct challenge. I clasped my hands harder and gazed thoughtfully up at the painted carving. I knew enough to know that the shield was only part of the coat of arms, and that the two terms were not synonymous.