In the following days the castle began to hum. Gina was making a detailed inspection of every room, accompanied by Sonia and Imelda, who seemed to function as her aides-de-camps, taking notes of her ideas and scurrying around to carry them out.
John felt moved to protest.
"Gina, you are here as a guest. I cannot allow you to do the work of a housekeeper."
She seemed to consider this remark seriously.
"Very well. I will hand the work over to whoever you name."
That brought him to a standstill. There was nobody with Gina's organisational skills, except possibly Pharaoh and he was already fully occupied.
These days it was hard for John to know how to talk to her. The discovery that she had rejected him as a possible husband at the outset, even though he was officially unaware of it, was a blow to his pride.
At first he refused to admit that more than his pride was damaged, but as he thought of the sweetness of their friendship and what might have been, he discovered an ache of unhappiness.
Now more than ever it seemed pleasant to talk to her, but he had to make excuses to do so. Luckily their various duties in planning the ball gave him many opportunities, but it was always he who sought her out and never the other way round.
She had withdrawn altogether from the business of sending out the invitations. Ambrose had suggested that, as Lady Evelyn was to be the hostess, he could work just as well to her direction. Gina had agreed to this with relief.
So the invitations went out far and wide and almost at once the acceptances began to pour in. As Athene had predicted, the news of the young Duke's return had spread like wildfire. No family with a daughter to marry off, whether she be titled or moneyed, wished to miss the chance.
Lost sheep began appearing everywhere, although John saw few of them because they scuttled out of his sight at every opportunity. They were not afraid of him, but he was still unknown to them.
Their major task now was cleaning the picture gallery, which, like so many other chores, was under the direction of Pharaoh.
John came to inspect the work in progress and walked up and down silently, surveying the great room which looked better than it had, but still had one dismaying flaw.
"Is there something worrying Your Grace?" Pharaoh asked.
John stopped in his pacing and indicated the walls.
"It is a pity that my uncle had to sell so many of his pictures," he sighed. "It leaves great bare patches on the walls of a lighter colour than the rest. I know that people are supposed to see that the castle is in a poor way, but still –"
Pharaoh nodded sympathetically.
"It's a matter of pride, Your Grace. You want them to know in theory, but not see in practise."
"Exactly. But what can we do?"
"We could bring out some of the pictures that are in storage. The late Duke used to hide away the ones he didn't like."
"I don't blame him. Many of them are rubbish, but they will be useful now. Where are they?"
"In the attic."
Together they climbed to the upper floors where, by the light of a lantern, Pharaoh showed him a room packed with pictures, wrapped in brown paper, leaning against the wall. Together they began to unwrap them.
Most of them, as John had said, were rubbish, painted by indifferent artists.
"My grandfather considered himself a connoisseur," John said, trying not to wince at one particularly hideous example.
"Did he, Your Grace?" Pharaoh echoed. "Did he, indeed?"
His carefully blank tone revealed his opinion better than words could have done.
"And he knew nothing about the subject. I believe he squandered a fortune on poor pictures, most of which he had mistaken for Old Masters. He would bring them home, have them valued and then realise his mistake. But he wouldn't admit it. Too stubborn. And they still went up on the walls."
"Shall we put them back up for one night, Your Grace?"
"Yes, it's better than bare patches. I will leave it to you to decide which. But not that one," he added quickly, glancing at a large picture and then away again.
Pharaoh studied it.
"It's very – full of action, Your Grace," he said. "Unfortunately the artist had no skill in painting figures."
"I guessed that even as a child," John said with a shudder. "I remember my grandfather telling me that it was called the Crossing of the Rubicon. I think this figure here is meant to be Julius Caesar. Or it might be a donkey."
He added with wry self-mockery,
"Perhaps Miss Wilton could tell us. Her classical education was far superior to mine."
"Did I hear my name?" came a voice from the door.
Gina appeared, her clothes covered in a vast grey apron and a smudge on her nose. She looked enchanting, John thought.
"We were choosing some pictures to hide the gaps on the walls," John told her, offering his hand to help her pick her way through the debris.
"That one?" she asked, aghast, indicating the picture which Pharaoh was still holding.
"No, I promise you."
"What is it meant to be? It looks like a herd of cows fighting in a quagmire."
"It is the Crossing of the Rubicon. That is Julius Caesar."
"You will never get anyone to believe it," she said firmly.
She began to giggle, sitting down on a box to enjoy the joke better. John joined in, simply enjoying the sight of her merriment. Pharaoh quietly lifted the great ugly painting and hauled it away.
Suddenly John's smile faded.
"Gina," he said anxiously, "this is going to work, isn't it?"
"Of course it is," she told him firmly. "Everything is going to work out well, you simply must believe."
"I do, but only when you tell me. You seem able to make me believe anything. In fact, I realise now that that is what you do with everyone.
"I have seen you talking to Pharaoh and the twins, and some of the other lost sheep – those that don't run for cover when they see me."
"They only run because they are not sure they are safe here. They are afraid that you'll turn them out," she said.
"That would be very ungrateful of me, considering the work they are doing for me."
"Ah, yes, you need them now, but later, when you have money, you will probably want more conventional servants. Then you will send them away."
"Is that what they tell you?"
"Not directly. It is more something that I sense in the air."
"What do you tell them?"
She shrugged.
"I tell them how good-hearted and kind you are, but I cannot speak about your plans. I have no right."
"Good-hearted? Kind? It is not that long ago I was the most unspeakable, abominable – well, I forget the rest."
She laughed.
"I did not say you were not those things. I just said you were kind as well."
He grinned.
"Thank you. As for my plans, suppose I promised to do what you say?"
Regretfully she shook her head.
"You must not promise that to me.
"Why not?"
"Because I have no right to ask promises from you."
"But if I volunteer –"
"No, John," she said firmly. "Of course I would like to see you act kindly to them, but I have no doubt of that, because you are kind and generous. I trust to that. But there must be no promises because –"
"Because –" John prompted when she paused.
"Because one day there will be others in your life, who will have the right to ask promises of you. You cannot have divided loyalties."
She meant that he would have a wife, John thought, and telling him that she would never be that wife. In her sweet generosity, she was saving him from proposing to her and having to endure a rejection.
"Very well, no promises," he agreed quietly. "Except that I will say this. If you believe me to be kind and generous – though Heaven knows how you formed such an idea – then that is what I will be.
"I told you that it was your gift to put heart into people and for the rest of my life I will strive to live up to your belief in me. And that is something that you cannot make me unsay by any argument."
He thought that there were tears in her eyes, but in the gloom of the attic he could not be sure.
"I don't want you to unsay it," she told him at last. "You have told me that you will always be true to the highest in yourself and that is all I ask."
"Is that really all you want of me?" he asked, a little sadly.
"But of course. What more could I possibly ask than that?"
"Nothing, I suppose. I think –"
It took a moment for him to find the courage to go on, but when he saw her beautiful, earnest eyes on him he felt impelled to say the rest.
"I think, when I marry, my wife will owe you much."
"Oh, I don't think so," she said. "At any rate, you had better not tell her as much. Not if you wish to live in domestic harmony."
"I shall take your advice on that issue, as in everything," he said gravely.
"Which reminds me," she said, rising hurriedly, "I came to tell you that Lady Evelyn has received a letter from Athene's parents, accepting her Ladyship's kind invitation for her to remain here until the ball. Isn't that nice?"
"Wonderful," he agreed in a hollow voice.
*
With two days left to go, John's younger brothers came rollicking home from Eton. Timmy and Roly were twins, twelve years old and full of fiendish, zestful life.
Within an hour of arriving home they had released a pair of crows in the kitchen, creating mayhem and causing two scullery maids to have hysterics.
They followed this up by donning sheets and running up and down corridors making ghostly sounds until their brother threatened them with dire retribution. After which they gazed at him in wide eyed innocence.
Their mother praised their high spirits.
Drusilla said they should have been drowned at birth.
John said they were exactly like himself at the same age and he did not mean it as a compliment.
Benedict said they were 'great guns' and took them ratting in the barn.
Athene said she positively doted on them, but that was before they put a mouse in her bed, resulting in a shrieking fit that required all Benedict's efforts to comfort.
After that Athene maintained a deadly silence.
Gina got on well with them, because she always capped their blood-curdling ghost stories with even more spine-chilling stories of her own.
*
On the evening before the ball John took Gina aside, saying,
"Walk with me. There is something I wish to say to you."
For a while they walked in silence in the garden. Having made a start, John seemed to have difficulty deciding what he meant to say.
Gina waited with a heavy heart. She knew that after tomorrow she might never be happy again.
Then, as if their minds were intertwined, he said,
"After tomorrow, everything will be different."
"I know," she agreed sadly.
"Nothing in the castle or in our lives will ever be the same again."
Tomorrow night there would be the ball at which he would win support for the castle and probably announce his engagement to Athene.
"And that is why I wanted to talk to you now," he said, "before the wheel starts turning so fast that it cannot be stopped.
"Everything is due to you, Gina. It was your idea and I want the world to know what I owe you. When the names go up on the castle, one of them must be yours."
"I do not ask for that," she replied quietly.
"No, you never ask for anything for yourself, but people ought to know what you have done, not just now, but in generations to come."
"That is a long time. Things never work out quite as we plan. All sorts of unexpected results will flow from what we plan tomorrow."
"I know, I have been thinking about that. Once a variety of strangers have paid for the upkeep of the castle, I shall have to let them come and visit it as often as they please."
"It will never really be a private home again," she concurred.
"But in six months time, when most of the work will have been completed, I shall invite you here as our Guest of Honour."
Gina laughed.
"I will remind you of that invitation in six month's time," she told him, "if we are still in touch."
"Why should we not be?" John asked.
"You may be bored with the castle and everyone in it," she said after a moment. "You will sail away, as you have done before, to visit castles overseas and find, perhaps, that people there are more attractive than those at home."
"No," he said seriously. "I shall never find that."
Suddenly Gina sighed and looked around her. The grounds were so beautiful in the golden light of the sunset.
"I am going to miss all this," she murmured.
"But you won't be leaving us just yet?" he asked in dismay. "You will be more needed than ever when people start putting money into the castle." He attempted a feeble joke. "Where would I be without my best administrator?"
"There will be nothing that Ambrose cannot take care of. He is scandalously under-used, you know. The work here is not nearly demanding enough for a man of his abilities."
"Then why does he stay?"
Gina was silent. She had her own opinion as to why Ambrose stayed, but it was not for her to reveal the secret.
"You won't run away just yet, will you?" John begged.
"I will remain a day or two, but no longer."
She did not feel she could endure the celebrations of John's betrothal to Athene.
They were wandering under the trees now and from just above them came the sound of giggling.
John stopped and spoke loudly without looking up.
"If either of you are thinking of ambushing us, you can forget it now."
From high in the branches came groans of dismay.
"Spoilsport."
A piece of bark came tumbling down and fell at Gina's feet.
"That's enough!" thundered John. "How dare you alarm a lady."
"Gina isn't alarmed," came from the branches.
"She's not a spoilsport."
"Who said you could call her 'Gina'?" John demanded.
"I did," Gina said. "Don't be cross with them, John. There is no harm in them."
She smiled up into the branches.
"Perhaps you should come down now," she suggested.
They slithered to the ground at once and stood there, incredibly scruffy considering how spotlessly they had started the day, and looking up at their brother with an air of innocence that did not fool him for one moment.
He scowled at them.
"About tomorrow –" he said.
They stood to attention.
"And stop that," he commanded.
They saluted.
Gina covered a smile with her hand.
"And you just encourage them," John complained.
"No, I don't," she said at once. "They don't need any encouragement. And if you will talk to them like a Sergeant Major, what do you expect?"
"Whose side are you on?"
"Theirs."
The boys cheered and saluted again. One of them discovered something in his hair and tried to detach it to get a better look.
"I should leave it," Gina advised cheerfully. "It's only jam."
They both grinned at her.
"About tomorrow," John tried again. "You two will behave yourselves. You will be clean and tidy. You will speak only when spoken to and you will go to bed at the earliest possible moment. You will also refrain from introducing livestock, of whatever kind, among the guests."
"Their lives won't be worth living if you spoil all their fun," Gina objected.
"Now, scram, the pair of you!" John ordered.
Grinning, they ran away.
"I suppose it is time we went in too," John said reluctantly.
"Yes," she said wistfully. "It was such a beautiful sunset. I am glad we saw it."
Very tentatively he took her hand, wondering if she would rebuff him. But she did not, and they strolled hand in hand through the gardens and into the house.
*
Everything was ready. The house had been cleaned,
the kitchen garden raided of vegetables, the food had been cooked and the cellar stripped of drinkable wines. The stables were ready for an influx of horses and carriages.
But before the first guests arrived there was something that John was determined to do.
"Pharaoh," he called, "I want you to gather all the lost sheep together and bring them to the picture gallery."
He did not have to explain the term 'lost sheep' to Pharaoh, who understand perfectly and hurried away.
"What are you going to do?" Gina asked.
"Come with me and you'll see."
She followed him to the picture gallery. On the way they were joined by Benedict who silently asked Gina what was up and received the silent answer that she had no idea.
This was not strictly true. A hopeful thought was forming in Gina's mind, but if she was right it would be so wonderful that she did not dare to let herself believe it.
The musicians had not yet arrived and the picture gallery, now a ballroom, was empty. As the three of them entered, their footsteps seemed to echo.
"They should be here at any moment," John said quietly.
Soon they began to arrive, first the ones like Sonia and Imelda that the family knew. Behind them came the others, who existed in the nooks and crannies, hoping to live out their lives unnoticed, because they had always felt safer that way.
And how many of them there were, John thought with a sense of shock. Fifty? Sixty? And he had never known.
They were looking at him, some smiling, but cautiously. He was not the late Duke, who had made them welcome, but he had not sent them away and they were beginning to trust him.
For a moment he wondered how to say what was in his mind. Then he saw Gina's eyes on him. She was smiling as if to say that she knew he would do the right thing. And suddenly the right words came.
"It is so good to see all my friends together and to know that I have so many of you."
At once a ripple went over them. They were his friends. He had said so. They began to smile, not at him, but at each other, exchanging silent pleasure, sharing the good feeling. He had called them 'friends'.
He indicated for them to come closer and, carefully, they did so.
"I do not know how tonight is going to turn out," he told them. "With luck we may find enough money to restore the castle to glory and if that happens it will be your success, not mine.
"You have worked hard to help the family go on living here and to make this place presentable. Without you, it could not have been done."
He paused.
"If we do not raise as much as we need –"
They were all looking at him expectantly. Trustingly.
"If we don't get enough – then I promise you that we will continue here somehow. This is your home as well as mine. You have made it yours by your work and by your love. You may all stay here as long as you wish. You have my word on that."
There was an audible gasp from the crowd and then cheers of joy rang up to the roof as they vented their excitement, hugging and kissing each other. Tears of joy were flowing down the cheeks of just about everyone.
John saw this reaction with astonishment. He had known that they would be pleased, but this sudden glimpse of their desperation came as a shock. They had cared so much, been so afraid and he had not understood until now.
He had a sensation of almost terrified relief, as though he had narrowly avoided maiming a child. In his blindness he had so nearly caused a tragedy, but some power had guided him through.
Then he saw Gina and she too was weeping, although why she should weep he could not say. Yet, strangely, she looked happier than he had ever seen her.
He saw her open her arms to Pharaoh and be enveloped in his huge hug. Then the twins, Jeremiah, Harry. They all wanted to hug her, as though they knew that she had been on their side from the beginning.
And suddenly John felt lonely, because nobody was hugging him.
Of course, respect for his position would prevent them doing so.
But he still felt lonely.
Benedict too was beaming and overjoyed. He shook John's hand, pumping it vigorously.
"Well done, old fellow. You have done a wonderful thing. I knew you wouldn't really throw them out."
"That's more than I knew myself."
"No, no, you just talked that way. It didn't mean anything. Gina –" Benedict turned to find her beside him. "Isn't it wonderful?"
"It is the best thing that has ever happened," she said, her eyes shining. "John, I am so glad."
"Are you really?" he asked, wanting her approval more than anyone's.
"Of course I am. Just think what would have happened to them. They have nowhere else to go."
"That's not what I – Gina –"
But she vanished. An impromptu dance had started and somebody had whirled her away. Benedict followed, rescuing her from her exuberant partner and dancing with her himself.
John watched them, seeing how eagerly they were talking even as they danced and how they hugged each other again, as though in some secret understanding.
He turned away. He could not bear to see it.
Suddenly he found himself remembering the night he had docked at Marseilles and received the telegram that told him of his inheritance.
He had told Benedict then that he had been looking for something. He didn't know what it was, but it would be something different, something outside his own experience, that would make sense of the world.
But, with the title hanging round his neck, he had been sure that he would never find it.
"All hope is gone," he had said.
And yet, if he had had the sense to see it, that 'something' had been waiting for him when he stepped off the ship at Portsmouth and found a bright-faced eager girl, whose eyes were vivid with life and enthusiasm, who had wanted only to share her gifts with him.
But he had not had the wit to see it and the miracle had passed him by. Now he could see the truth, he could see that she was the one and only woman for him. But it was too late.
This time all hope was really gone.