Never to Part by Joan Vincent

his hand. “Visitors usually go to see the house Lord Nelson called home until his death,” Mr. Tailor commented.
    “Dremore,” the baron responded. “'Twas passing through and thought I would visit my ancestor’s folly.”
    “My lord.” Mr. Tailor gave a small bow. “I have read about the Blanchard mausoleum. ‘Tis rather a curiosity.”
    The baron turned his gaze back to the door. “Is the key in your care, Mr. Tailor?”
    “It was not among the keys I was given when I arrived. I did not realize that for some time, but when I did I presumed you would have it.” Tailor wrinkled his brow. “’Haps the Clandon family has it in their keeping.”
    “If you will give me their direction,” Richard told him, “I shall pay a call.”
    “If you wish, you may accompany me this eve. I am to dine there,” the vicar offered. “Mrs. Clarendon would be delighted to have another male at table.”
    “Excellent,” the baron said. “I am obliged to you.”
    Tailor smiled. “Meet me at the rectory. That house,” he pointed it out, “at four. Early dining in the country. Now if you will excuse me, I must call on Mrs. Spenser. Good day.”
    Richard watched Tailor stride across the cemetery. When the vicar turned out of sight, the baron tried the door again. It didn’t budge. Frowning Richard stared at the door, and then an idea formed. Just in case the Clandons don’t have the key, I’ll have to see about getting the proper tools .
    Not wishing to overlook any clue, Richard next paid a visit to the church. Inside it the comforting odour of years of melted beeswax and incense greeted him. Sunlight beamed through the six stained glass windows, three on a side.
    A cursory assessment revealed one major difference in the windows. The one in the centre on the right had a box as part of the stone ledge beneath the window. Above it sat an odd stone figure.
    Inspecting it Richard was surprised to find an etching of what looked to him to be a pair of identical dryads on the front of the box. Between them was a five-sided depression as if for a key. He drew his fingers carefully along each edge and pressed on the edges of the box. It appeared seamless and apparently only for decoration.
    For all that I know I’m on the right track , Richard thought. I can almost sense something . . . someone guiding me . Realizing what he had just thought, the baron grimaced. “If that’s so,” he said aloud, “perhaps you can explain the verse?”
    When no one answered, he shook his head and left.
    “He’s the right idea,” Lord Ricman told his wife.
    “I doubt he’s surmised what the “Gemini” in thy verse means,” Lady Laurel fretted.
    “But the dinner invitation—”
    “That was well done of thee,” she admitted. “I wonder how Miss Stratton fares?”
    The note of concern in his wife’s voice unsettled Ricman. “Thou couldst have gone with her.”
    “Separation ‘tisn’t acceptable, my dear.” Lady Laurel caressed his bearded cheek. “We shall do well enough this eve when they are together. Besides, ‘tis it not rather romantic being in my home.”
    “From which thy father’s servants tumbled me down the steps—on his orders,” said Lord Ricman with great asperity.
     * * * *
Clandon Hall
     
    Daphne and Mary returned from their visit to Nelson’s house in time to change for supper. On their way up the stairs to their chambers, Mary’s younger sister ran to greet them.
    “I didn’t think you would e’er get home,” seventeen-year-old Amelia exclaimed. “The vicar sent word that he’ll bring a guest this eve,” she prattled. “You’ll ne’er guess who.”
    “Unless it is John, I don’t care,” Mary chided her.
    “But ‘tis a baron. Mama says a very eligible one. Isn’t it exciting, Miss Stratton,” Amelia asked earnestly.
    “He may be as old as Methuselah,” Daphne warned. “A title doesn’t guarantee that the gentleman be handsome or pleasant.”
    “Let your sister and her friend dress