Felicity Carrol and the Perilous Pursuit

by Patricia Marcantonio

  “I could not have stated it better myself. Well, perhaps a little,” he had said with a wink and a trace of a smile.

  “I didn’t appreciate such a notion until I took your class.”

  “I see.” Disappointment had passed over his face.

  “From your expression, Professor, you must think I’m trying to solicit high marks with the compliment. That is not possible, since I am already first in the class.”

  Kent had laughed his response. “So you are, Miss Carroll, so you are.”

  She went on to take all of the courses he taught. Most of her other instructors were crusty and rarely varied their tone in class. William Kent passed on his lessons with the warmth of a grandfather telling stories before a fire. Over the course of the four years she attended the university, they had become friends outside the staid classroom. At a nearby café, she and Kent had regularly met. In addition to the history of Great Britain and its place in the world, they had talked about present times. How theirs was an era of steam and invention, as Kent had called it. Between them rested a common love of education and a common hatred of the “Season,” to which they had both been subjected since birth. From house parties to hunts to the Derby, they detested it all. The only ball he hadn’t disliked was the one where he had met his wife, Marcia, Kent had said. After five years of marriage, Marcia had died of complications in childbirth along with their unborn daughter. He had never remarried.

  Kent had often held discussion groups in his chambers. There Felicity and other students had debated and challenged each other and Kent. Per tradition, he was supposed to be addressed as Lord Kent. But he had asked her and the other students to call him William.

  “Is that allowed? I understand you have royal blood,” Felicity had said.

  His grin bore irony and amusement. “I do, yes, Miss Carrol. But considering all of my other ancestors, I will probably end up just a footnote in history.”

  “I seriously doubt that, William,” she had replied.

  She and Kent also shared a love of Arthur lore, although his interest was far more intense and comprehensive than hers. Kent’s chamber at the university even resembled a miniature King Arthur museum, with a remarkable collection of paintings and books. She had once suggested he charge admission. Kent could talk about the Arthur story for hours. To catch up, she quickly read several books on the subject to ensure she could add to the discussions.

  One day, Kent had brought to class his most cherished and valuable possession from his personal and vast Arthurian collection. Slowly, he unwrapped the item from linen. “This is a rare and irreplaceable original manuscript of Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur. It is more than four hundred years old.” Pride and reverence mixed in his voice.

  The students had collectively breathed out in admiration, Felicity included.

  “Malory’s writings retold the previous English and French versions of Arthurian lore. He also touched on the now familiar characters of Merlin, Lancelot, and Guinevere. But Malory added new stories to the tale to enrich it further,” Kent had continued. “The manuscript is one of the cornerstones of the Arthur tale.”

  “Given that you teach history, why are you so attracted to this legend?” Felicity had asked. She hadn’t meant to be rude.

  His smile made him look years younger. “I suppose King Arthur has captured my imagination ever since I was a boy longing for chivalry and heroic deeds. In the stories, Arthur accomplished magnificent feats and had extraordinary hope. Camelot was a shimmering example of what Britain could be. But those dreams were foiled by human nature. By deceit and by corruption. And this is what makes Arthur so human and much loved. We can all relate because of our own hopes and failures.” He straightened his robe. “Of course, you students must realize that Arthur and company are only folklore. Marvelous and inspiring, but only what Miss Carrol has pointed out—legend.”

  As she neared the end of her university studies, Kent had informed her that he needed to quit teaching to attend to family business after the death of his older brother.

  “That will be a loss to education,” she had told him.

  His head had bowed in thanks for the praise. “And what will you do with your education once you leave the university?”

  Her cheeks were singed with embarrassment. She hadn’t thought of what she was going to do. “Whatever the direction, I hope to make good use of all that I learned,” she had answered.

  “You have a quick mind, Miss Carrol. But take heed, my girl. Employ that mind before you’re absorbed into society and it’s lost forever. You do not want to end up an automaton in silks and satins—aimless and blank.” Such had been Kent’s regular advice to her.

  During the years they were acquainted, he had appreciated, encouraged, and accepted her passion for knowledge. She had held William Kent in such high regard that she sometimes imagined what her life would have been like if he had been her father. What animated discussions they would have had over dinner or in the library! Traveling together to old lands made new with their examinations. He would not have forced her to go to balls or teas. He would not have urged her to marry for wealth or position. He would have let her become what she was meant to be, even though she was not sure what that was. These musings had become her own kind of fairy story, especially at night when they lulled her to sleep. Kent was fond of her, she was sure. No matter he didn’t share her feelings or look upon her as a daughter. She loved him for the respect and support he had shown her. She loved him for the possibilities of happiness.

  Since her graduation from the university months prior, she had not seen William Kent. She had planned to visit London and invite him to tea. Now it was too late. Instead, she was heading to London to attend his funeral. She should have told him how much he meant to her. How much she treasured his friendship.

  “Too late, too late,” Felicity said.

  Helen roused from a nap in the rocking carriage. “What, Miss?”

  “Nothing, Hellie.”

  “You all right, Miss Felicity?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “When will we reach London, do you think?” Helen said, and then yawned.

  “Not long.”

  “Good.” Helen closed her eyes again.

  The carriage swayed and Felicity should have dosed, but another emotion kept her alert. Another emotion encroached on her grief.

  Earl William Kent had been murdered, and she was angry. Unwrapping the bandage from her cut, she again squeezed, and this time felt pain.

  * * *

  A wreath of dried laurel tied with black ribbon hung on the door. Ebony crepe draped from the doorknob. A sure sign death had come and taken William Kent with it.

  With no other immediate family surviving, Kent’s creaking great-uncle and great-aunt greeted Felicity when she arrived at Kent House to offer condolences. Earlier that morning, the body of her friend had been interred in the cemetery on the estate. Not being a family member or business acquaintance, Felicity had received no personal written invitation to attend the burial, as was the custom. But she deemed it unthinkable to send only a note of sympathy at his passing. She wanted to honor him and was not alone in that intention. Fine carriages lined up along the road to the Yorkshire mansion.

  Wearing her best mourning dress, Felicity introduced herself to Kent’s remaining family. “This is a terrible event.”

  “The Queen herself sent a special representative to the internment. Such an honor for William,” the great-aunt wheezed.

  “Deservedly so,” Felicity said.

  “And how were you acquainted with Lord Kent?” Checking his watch and tapping his feet, the great-uncle appeared put out rather than grieving.

  “I met him at the University of London. He was one of my instructors.”

  “You attended university?” the great-aunt added in shock, as if Felicity and Kent had been cell mates at the infamous Tower of London.

  “I was a student, yes, ma’am.” Felicity imagined Helen rolling her
eyes at the admission. The older couple did exchange alarmed glances. “May I ask if his murderer has been apprehended? The newspaper reported nothing about the status of the investigation.”

  The great-aunt and great-uncle swapped another stare of alarm.

  “This is no place to discuss such crudities.” The old man’s lip stiffened to the consistency of pine.

  “Quite right. Forgive me.” Felicity bowed her head.

  “Thank you for your condolences, Miss. If you please.” The old woman motioned Felicity into the house with a reedy hand.

  Kent House was larger and grander than Carrol Manor, as befitting an earl of the realm. Crowning the top of a resplendent marble staircase was a stained-glass window depicting a knight holding his mighty sword aloft to heaven. At the knight’s feet lay the body of a red dragon. The window’s colors encased the room in subtle and warm hues. Given Kent’s love of medieval times, the theme was not surprising.

  Mirrors in the Kent House had been covered with a black cloth. This funeral custom had arisen from a superstition that when the soul left the body at death, it could become trapped in a mirror and taken away by the devil. All this Felicity had learned from Helen. Like a bank held on to notes, Helen held on to folklore and old wives’ tales. Felicity thought the funeral rituals the worst kind of balderdash. Solely to prove them nonsense, all the mirrors would remain uncovered at her funeral, Felicity told Helen, and she would even stipulate that in her will.

  Yet the black cloths over the mirrors at Kent House were an ominous reminder of a firm truth. Her friend and mentor had been slain in cold blood.

  A large painting of Earl William Kent sat on a golden stand at the foot of the staircase. He had posed in his university professor robes, hands crossed in dignity on his lap. His white hair offset the black of his clothes. The artist had faithfully caught his intelligence and compassion. Felicity also saw a hint of amusement in the eyes, which truly captured the man’s personality. She reached out to touch the painting.

  Where was the man who loved to discuss history but respected her study of the sciences? The man who saw not a well-off heiress but an independent soul? The man who laughed without constriction and treated her with absolute kindness and respect? The man who kindled her desire for education? Where was he?

  Gone.

  She withdrew her hand from the painting.

  Tea, port, biscuits, and cakes were served in the sizable library at Kent House. The black crepe and silk dresses of the female mourners rustled in the room like a horde of butterflies with hardened wings. Men in long black coats clustered in groups, talking in the deferential voices of funeral-goers. Among the men, Felicity recognized several instructors from the university.

  Gazing at the substantial walls of books, Felicity was heartbroken her friend was not there to converse with her about them. Displayed about the library were also samples of the art collection the newspaper article had mentioned. Fine paintings by masters and talented newcomers. Sculpture both exquisite and experimental. Of course, the centerpiece of his collection dealt with the King Arthur legend. A tapestry of the mythical Camelot took up the length of one wall. The plains, streams, and mighty castle on a hill had been rendered in silken and metal threads. A topography of fiber. Felicity ran her gloved fingers along a row of books containing tales of the mythic king, including the twelfth-century writings of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain and Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s Idylls of the King, among many, many others. A painting of a young Arthur listening to the wise Merlin in the midst of a shrouded forest hung above the fireplace.

  “Poor William,” she said to herself.

  “Yes, poor William.” A young man stood next to her. “I don’t believe I have had the pleasure.” His bow was practiced and natural at the same time.

  “Felicity Carrol.” She curtsied to the young man she had seen at the Wheaton ball. The man who’d had several young women near swooning. Up close, he was even more perfect.

  “How did you know Lord Kent?” the young man asked.

  After explaining how she and Kent had met, Felicity waited for him to make a polite excuse not to talk with a woman who favored knowledge instead of nuptials. But he didn’t move away and even smiled.

  “Both beautiful and intelligent,” he said.

  Felicity disliked compliments about her appearance. Despite that, she was intrigued by this man who didn’t recoil at her educational accomplishments. “And you are?” she said.

  “Duke Philip Chaucer.” He gently took her hand and kissed it. On a finger of his right hand was a ring bearing the likeness of an eagle holding a shield.

  She sank deeper in her curtsy to the duke. She had read that was the proper greeting when meeting someone of his rank. Rising, she looked right at him. “I saw you at the Wheaton Ball and guessed you were royalty.” She was somewhat gratified about her accuracy.

  “How could you tell?”

  “You appeared to command without even saying a word, as if standing on an invisible pedestal above everyone.” She tried to sound as logical as she could. God knows she wasn’t flirting with the man. It was just an observation, though it did smack of flattery.

  Chaucer scrutinized her as if he had just noticed her presence in the room full of people. His focus amounted to a sunbeam fixed through a magnifying glass on the hottest of days. When she had first met him, his eyes had been light blue. They had now deepened to the color of a volatile sky.

  “I am a fool,” he said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I am a fool for not noticing you at the ball.”

  She changed the subject to divert his focus and avoid another compliment. “Is that your family crest on the ring?” Heraldry usually bored her.

  “Regrettably. So predictable and dreary.”

  She noticed a lighter band of skin around the ring, as if he normally wore another, larger one. “Many a family would love to have any coat of arms. My father included.” She didn’t mean for the tartness to enter her voice, but it did when she spoke of him.

  “I am very familiar, Miss Carroll, with the space between how your parents envision you and who you really are,” the Duke said, regret shading his voice.

  “Yes, the space can be vast.” Such as the one between her and her father. A distance from the earth to the moon.

  “Then we share that.”

  He was fascinating and unexpected. He radiated a smooth detachment, as if nothing and no one could touch him. Felicity chalked it up to his being royalty and hundreds of years of privilege. “Were you related to William, I mean, Lord Kent?”

  “A cousin.”

  Kent must have been a very distant one. Chaucer’s handsome face was not drawn down by mourning. His voice was unaffected by grief. Then again, men rarely revealed true emotion. At least the ones she knew. She was curious about their relationship because Chaucer might have information about Kent’s murder. “Were you two close?”

  “Not as family should have been. But I suppose that does rely on how one defines family.”

  “In some cases, it’s just a word.”

  “Precisely. But I was fond of William. He was quite brilliant.”

  “I greatly admired him.”

  He nodded as if knighting her.

  “Do you know whether Lord Kent’s murderer has been apprehended yet? The Times reported that his killer was at large.”

  “Not that I have heard. I know only what I have read in the newspaper.”

  “Until the murderer is caught, William will have no justice.” She could have sworn the duke’s stare intensified further. If it had been a knife, she would have been sliced to the marrow.

  “The thief not only took his life but absconded with the Le Morte d’Arthur manuscript,” he said.

  “So that was the item stolen. I suspected as much.” She didn’t mean to sound so excited and quickly toned down her voice.

  “How did you know about it?”

  “Lord Kent brought the manuscript
to class once day. He called it his most treasured possession.”

  “My compliments on your knowledge.” He presented her with a light bow in salute.

  “The pages almost shone with history. It is superb. Priceless.”

  “An accurate description, Miss Carrol.”

  “And what a discriminating thief to steal that item in particular from all the other valuable antiquities in the museum. Not to mention leaving behind the pounds and coin in Lord Kent’s pockets.” In her grief, she had not registered this fact until she said it out loud. Now the detail jabbed at her like a stick in her ribs.

  “As you said, a discriminating thief,” the duke said.

  “A mystery.” She scanned the room with its other Arthurian treasures and took a step closer to the Camelot tapestry. With wide eyes and a smile, Chaucer also appeared to admire the artwork.

  “Your Grace, I can see that you, too, are an admirer of the Arthur story,” she said.

  “Who wouldn’t be? It’s a pillar of English culture. So, Miss Carrol, what else interests you besides history?”

  “Everything. I believe we are on this earth to learn.” Quit showing off, Felicity, she chided herself.

  “A grand pursuit, especially for a female.”

  “For all, Your Grace, for all.”

  After checking a fine timepiece on a chain, he said he had to leave and kissed her hand. “I am sure we will meet again, Felicity Carrol.” With a bow, he departed.

  She watched Duke Philip Chaucer walk out of the library with his proud and assured stride, on a mission only he knew. He had charm by the ton. If her father’s shipping line could have exported that charm, his company would have trebled its profits.

  CHAPTER 4

  The fork clinked against the dinner plate. In the hour since Felicity and her father had sat down to eat, the silverware against the china had been the only sound in the room. Muffled steps of the servants bringing out the courses broke up the quiet.

  Clink. Clink. Clink. With each sound, Felicity’s teeth gnashed—and not from the tough roast beef they had been served.