“Oh, that’s our ruin.”
“Your ruin?”
“Yes, isn’t it jolly?”
“Yes indeed! But—what is a ruin, exactly?”
“Don’t you know about ruins?”
“Well, I’ve seen plenty of rotting old houses back in Nantwich—that’s where I’m from—but nobody called them ruins.”
Wakefield tugged at the reins to bring the pony to a halt. “They should have, Jane, because that’s what a ruin is. Aunt Margaret had it built last year.”
“She had it built?”
“Yes, she says they’re very fishinable, and that all the best people have them. Father didn’t want it. He said it was a complete waste of money, especially when we have a perfectly good Greek temple we could let go to rot.”
“You have a Greek temple?”
“Yes. You’ll be able to see it when we go round the bend up there. Oh, and McTavish was so angry about having to put all those vines on Aunt Margaret’s ruin that he gave notice.”
“Who is McTavish?”
“Our head gardener. Father doubled his pay to keep him on. He says that aside from Miss Humphrey, there’s nobody better at pumpkins than McTavish. Do you want to get a closer look?”
“I should say I do.”
“All right, let’s get down here. I say, Higson, you can take the cart back to the stables.”
“Very good, Master Wakefield.”
Jane and Wakefield climbed down from the seat and together went toward the ruin.
“Doesn’t it smell awful, Jane?” said Wakefield approvingly.
“Oh yes, it’s ghastly,” Jane agreed. “Is that on purpose, or accidentally?”
“That’s a very good question. We’ll have to ask Aunt Margaret. Don’t you wish we could go inside?”
“Yes, very much. This seems exactly the sort of place the ghost of Hamlet’s father would be.”
“Wouldn’t he just!” said Wakefield, much struck. “But Father says to keep out, because he’s not at all sure the roof will hold.”
“That’s very good advice, I think. Especially since one would probably carry out that bad smell, which would take several baths to get rid of.”
“I shouldn’t like that at all. One bath a day is enough. Come on, I’ll show you where the temple is.”
They walked in a leisurely way along the meandering path, which was rather rough and muddy, and Jane was glad she had decided to wear her old half-boots today, instead of the uncomfortable slippers which would already have been ruined by now. But both her pale-green gown, and the warm cherry-colored pelisse Livia had lent her, had hems which covered most of the boots, and thus Jane felt she had achieved the best of both worlds.
She took in a deep breath of crisp, cold air, aware, suddenly, that she felt very happy. She had been measured head to toe by Miss Simpkin the seamstress, and Great-grandmother had ordered a great many things on her behalf; she had learned some interesting things today, ridden in a pony-cart, seen a ruin, was on her way to meet a duchess, and—best of all—made a new friend.
“Wakefield,” she said, “I’m very glad you invited me.”
He was busy kicking a rock along the road in front of him. “It’s jolly that you came, Jane. One does long for company sometimes.”
“Yes, one does,” answered Jane feelingly. “Do you have many playmates?”
“No, not really. There are some boys my age about—servants’ children, you know—but Aunt Margaret doesn’t want me playing with them.”
“Oh.”
“She says I’d have plenty of chums if I went off to Eton.”
“That’s a boarding school, isn’t it?”
“Yes, in Windsor. It’s rather a long way away, and I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“I like being at home.”
Jane nodded. “It’s a lovely home. I mean—the estate, and everything.”
“Yes, it is. Look, there’s the temple.”
They had come around a curve in the path which had wound upwards on an easy gradient and now offered an excellent view across the lake to where stood a giant white building fronted by several massive columns, with a large triangular bit on the top, and practically reeking of antiquity.
“My goodness,” said Jane, awestruck. “Did your aunt Margaret have that built too?”
“No, my great-great-grandfather Osbert did. Father and I like to ride over there sometimes and he tells me all about the Greek gods, because he says that’s the perfect place to do it in. Ares is my favorite—he’s the god of war, you know, and he’s always getting into the most terrible scrapes. Who’s your favorite, Jane?”
“I don’t know yet. I still have to learn about them.”
“You might choose Athena. She had gray eyes, like yours.”
“What is she the goddess of?”
“Wisdom, peace, and war. Also, she was born straight out of her father’s head, already wearing armor and carrying a spear.”
“Dear me.”
“Yes, isn’t that capital? Father says Zeus—the father—must have had a frightful headache.”
“One would think so.”
“Aunt Margaret gets headaches sometimes. She has to go lie down for hours.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yes, but then she’s out of the way for a while.”
Jane didn’t know what to say to this brutally candid remark, and Wakefield cheerfully went on:
“Come on, I’ll show you the Duchess. She lives over there.”
He set off toward a small, charming brick house with a yard to the front which was enclosed by a stone balustrade four or five feet high. Jane followed, gaping in amazement. “The Duchess lives there?” she asked. Why, she wondered, didn’t the Duke’s wife live in that palatial old manor house with the rest of the family?
Had she stumbled across some dark, terrible mystery?
“Well, of course she does,” said Wakefield, and Jane, catching up with him, saw that the front yard was filled with clean, fresh straw, and that against the brick wall of the little house lay an enormous pink pig, dozing peacefully.
They came to the balustrade and stood looking down at the pig. Was it a pet of the Duchess? thought Jane. It would certainly be an unusual sort of pet, but, on the other hand, Great-grandmother Kent had talked quite a lot about the eccentric Duchess of York, who was known, among other things, for populating her country estate with more than a hundred dogs along with monkeys, exotic birds, and kangaroos.
“There she is,” said Wakefield. “Isn’t she splendid?”
“To be sure she is,” answered Jane, but glanced around, puzzled.
“What are you looking for, Jane?”
“I was wondering where the Duchess is.”
“She’s right there,” said Wakefield, in the tone of one trying to politely ignore the fact that one’s companion isn’t very bright, and gestured toward the pig. “That’s the Duchess.”
Jane looked at Wakefield, who seemed quite in earnest, and then at the pig again. “You mean—the pig’s name is Duchess?”