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“Never! I can feel a tune coming on! Now, which one are you going to choose? Any ideas?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I was thinking of ‘The Man of Kent’.” She was on the point of saying that it reminded her of Robert, but she thought better of it. “It doesn’t say who wrote it, but perhaps it was one of those songs that just happened.”

Neil turned over the pages and found the song. “Not bad,” he approved. “I could write a tune for this fairly easily. You’d better get Mrs. Vidler to okay it before I do much work on it, though, just in case she doesn’t like it. I’ll ask her, if you want to get home?”

“What about the others?”

Neil grinned. “Mrs. Vidler is the one who counts,” he assured her.

Sarah could very well believe it. She surrendered the book of songs into Neil’s hands, giving him strict instructions to ask Robert’s permission for them to use it before he began on composing the music.

“Why don’t you stay to lunch? You could ask him yourself and give that tender conscience of yours a rest!”

Sarah gave him a flustered look. It was two days since she had last seen Robert, but she felt that on the rare occasions when he was able to come home for lunch he ought to have his house to himself.

“I don’t think— My father—I must go ! He’ll wonder what’s happened to me!”

Neil put his hand on her shoulder, his expression kind. “Poor Sarah,” he mocked her. “Does Robert know?”

“Does Robert know what?”

He touched her cheek and smiled at her. “What is written, large and clear, all over that expressive face of yours. Poor Sarah indeed! You don’t stand much chance with the delectable Samantha around. Never mind, you can always fall back on Smart Alec and bury yourself in the theatre.”

“Oh, you!” Sarah exclaimed irritably. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Don’t I? I think I do, but I rather wish I didn’t.” He turned away from her, still smiling. “I’ll bring the music over when I’ve worked something out. We can try it out on the piano over there.”

Sarah only nodded and bolted out of the room, making good her escape while she could.

The weather changed suddenly at the beginning of August. Heavy showers of rain alternated with thin spells of sunshine, ruining the holiday season. The local farmers, who a few days before had been grumbling about the drought, were now anxious about the harvest. You can never rely on the weather, they muttered. If you thought that, you had only to look out of the window and see for yourself!

Sarah didn’t mind the change in the weather as much as most of the other villagers did. She rather liked dressing herself up in waterproofs and stout wellingtons, and walking for miles across the fields with only the rain for company. Even the occasional crack of thunder didn’t worry her, though she had to confess that she didn’t much like being exposed to the full brunt of a summer storm if there was any lightning about.

As the days ran into one another, she realised that she was more completely happy than she had ever been. It had been a shock to her to realise that she had fallen in love with Robert, but she didn’t see very much of him and the spells of wild delight that alternated with intervals of despair, because of course he would never see her in the same way, no longer shocked her as much as they had at first. She was growing used to living from one brief meeting to another and she had even persuaded herself to believe that she didn’t want any more, that the knowledge that she loved him was enough for her.

Neil brought the music for the song as he had promised, assuring her that he had sought and gained Robert’s permission for them to use his book of songs. Sarah had carefully made copies of the words, propping the, book up in front of her on her desk in the study at the Manor. Nothing would have induced her to take the book out of the house despite Neil’s assurances that nobody would ever miss it.

It was raining again when she tried out the song for her father to hear. Daniel Blaney liked to sit in the circular sitting room, watching the sun set after they had had their evening meal. Sometimes he would hardly wheeze at all and he would be tempted to smoke one of his cigars, but more often he would sit there, doing nothing at all, lost in dreams that Sarah had no share in.

“Neil has been very clever with the music,” Sarah told him now. “It varies a bit with every verse, because they’re all quite different.”

“Why don’t you sing it for me?” her father suggested.

“I’ll get Madge to try it out on Sunday,” Sarah smiled back at him.

Daniel coughed, drawing a deep breath and expelling it slowly through his mouth. “You’re too modest. You have a pleasant voice, my dear. What’s the song about?”

“It’s called ‘The Man of Kent’.”

“A piece of local history? Robert was telling me that the kingdom of Kent had a very interesting history, though it sounded to me as though the royal family were more interesting than anything else. They seem to have had more than their share of saints. St. Mildred was the most famous. She and her mother, Domneva, settled in Thanet, more or less where the nuns are now. They came back a few years ago—the nuns, I mean. Then there was Eanswythe of Folkestone, who founded the first nunnery on English soil, and her aunt, St. Ethelburga, who was Queen of Northumbria, who founded another nunnery a couple of years later at Lyminge, I think it was.”

Sarah chuckled. “What about the men?” she asked.

“They were the villains,” Daniel retorted. “It was their depravity that turned all the women into saints. There has to be something!” A quirk of humour deepened the lines on his face. “I have no idea! You’ll have to ask Robert if you want to know about them.”

“You’ve forgotten Queen Bertha, who brought Christianity and St. Augustine to England,” she reminded him.

“Another female!”

“At least she converted her husband,” Sarah said. “I wonder what it was like to live in those days, with the Danes plundering the coast and burning down the houses. It must have been rather frightening.”

“Is that what your song is about?”

“Not really,” Sarah answered. She went over to the piano and spread Neil’s music out before her. “I’ll play the music first,” she said.

She played through the whole of the music, delighting in the subtlety of Neil’s work and the humour of the variations he had made from one verse to another.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked her father.

“I want to hear the words,” he said again. “Sing it through, dear.”

Sarah played the introduction again and then began to sing in her low, husky voice :

“When Harold was invaded,

And falling lost his crown,

And Norman William waded

Through gore to pull him down,

The counties round, with tears profound,

To mend their sad condition,

Their lands to save, they homage paid,

Proud Kent made no submission.

Then sing in praise of Men of Kent,

All loyal, brave, and free;

Of Briton’s race, if one surpass,

A Man of Kent is he”

She looked over her shoulder and saw that her father had dropped off to sleep for a moment, though as she ceased playing he immediately struggled awake again.

“Very nice, my dear,” he said automatically.

“Sing it again,” another voice commanded from the french window. Robert pushed open the glass door and came inside, removing his mackintosh as he did so. “I missed the beginning,” he went on.

Sarah turned back to the keys of the piano, her nervousness making her fingers stiff and her voice a croak. She made a false start, apologised, and began again.

“I’ll play it for you,” Robert said abruptly. He sat down beside her on the stool, restraining her with a strong hand as she hastily made to rise. “Neil’s done a good job,” he commented as he ran through the introduction. “This is the wrong key for you. Try this!”

He played it again and, rather to her surprise, Sarah managed to come in on the right note and made quite a creditable effort at singing at the first verse.

“What are you so nervous about?” Robert asked her. “You sing very well.”

“Not really.”

“Relax. I shan’t eat you even if you do sing a wrong note! Shall we go on to the second verse?”

She nodded, not daring to look at him, and waited for the music. But when he didn’t begin to play, she was startled into looking up. His eyes met hers, his own full of laughter. She swallowed, feeling as though she had fallen down a precipice, and knowing that he knew exactly the effect he had on her.

“I—I think I’d rather stand up,” she said.

“Much safer!” he agreed.

He smiled at her, giving her time to recover, and then he looked down at the music and started to play again. This time, when she sang, he joined her in a deep, gusty voice that combined with and strengthened her own.

"We make a good team,” he commented as they finished the verse.

But only for singing, she reminded herself. She was no match for him when it came to anything else.

“At hunting, and the race too,

They sprightly vigour show;

And at the female chace too,

None beats the Kentish beau.

Possessed of wealth, and blest with health,

By fortune’s kind embraces,

A yeoman here surpasses far

A knight in other places.

Then sing in praise of Men of Kent,

All loyal, brave, and free;

Of Briton’s race, if one surpass,

A Man of Kent is he

Robert broke off, laughing. “This should go down well locally!” he congratulated her. “My father would have loved it! Particularly the Kentish beau bit. He rather fancied himself with the ladies.”

“Don’t all the Chaddoxes?” Sarah asked demurely.

“It depends on the lady in question!” His eyes glinted dangerously as Sarah coloured and edged away from him on the stool. “Tell me how you plan to dress your choir? I imagine tonal variations won’t be enough for the good ladies of the village?”

“Certainly not! We’re going to have part of the choir in the appropriate costume for each verse, and they’ll stand in the front and make appropriate actions while that verse is in progress.”

“You’ll have your work cut out! Still, Mrs. Vidler says you have a gift for this sort of thing. I believe you’re enjoying it!”

“I am!” Sarah declared. “It won’t be so difficult really. For instance, we’ll have period English and French uniforms for the verse about Wolfe. That reminds me, I must check and see if they wore anything peculiar when they were in Canada.” She made a mark on her copy of the words and music. “Let’s try that verse,” she suggested.

“Right. I’ll sing it this time and you can listen. Ready?”

She nodded, very aware of his strong, muscular body beside hers. It was tempting to lean back against him and she gasped audibly when he put one arm round her and began to play again. She scarcely dared to breathe lest she disturbed him and called attention to herself, for she couldn’t believe that he wanted so close a contact. While it lasted, though, it was a wonderful moment and one she would treasure all her life long.

“Augmented still in story,

Our ancient fame shall rise,

And Wolfe, in matchless glory,

Shall soaring reach the skies;

Quebec shall own, with great renown,

And France with awful wonder,

His deeds can tell, how great he fell,

Amidst his god-like thunder
—"

The music thundered out under Robert’s strong fingers and Daniel started in his chair.

“I didn’t know Wolfe was a Kentishman,” he said quickly, lest anyone should notice that he had been asleep.

“Not a Kentishman, sir,” Robert answered. “A Man of Kent.”

“Is there a difference?”

“All the difference in the world. On this side of the Medway we’re Men of Kent, on the other they’re Kentishmen. Two quite different people, even if we do share a county.”

“Then the kingdom of Kent was really the kingdom of East Kent?” Sarah asked him.

He grinned. “Are you disappointed that it was so small? It has a history that can compare with Wessex. They had Winchester, but we had Canterbury—”

“And a parcel of saintly women!” Daniel put in wryly. “Sarah says you have some very fine books on Kent in your library. Would you object if I borrowed some of them while we’re here?”

“I’ll bring you over some,” Robert promised. “My father began the collection, and I try to keep it up when and where I can. We have some very fine volumes. Some of them have been in the family for generations. We had more at one time, but Neil’s mother sold a lot of them for ready cash.”

Sarah was visibly shocked. “Without your father’s consent?”

“As she pointed out,” Robert said bitterly, “my father had endowed her with all his worldly goods at their wedding ceremony. Just how true that was was rammed home to us by the double dose of death duties I had to pay because she survived my father by a few hours.”

“I still think that was a terrible thing to do!” Sarah went on in outraged tones. “Whatever he promised her, they weren’t hers to sell! It would have been bad enough if he had sold them, but at least he was a Chaddox!”

“My dear Sarah, most wives consider they belong to their husband’s family!”

“Yes, in a way. But the books were a trust for the generations to come—”

“I don’t think you’d find many people to agree with you!”

Daniel roused himself once more. “Why not?” he demanded. “One doesn’t have to belong to an old family to know that they are the caretakers of our history, does one?”

Robert looked from one to the other of them. “I don’t see why you should think that way. Neil doesn’t, and nor did his mother.”

Sarah escaped his restraining arm and went and sat beside her father. “Neil’s mother was in the theatre,” she told her father.

Daniel breathed in and out, beginning to wheeze again. “There are good and bad in the theatre, just like everywhere else,” he said with difficulty.

“Not quite the same as everywhere else, sir,” Robert contradicted him. “In the theatre you become so accustomed to living with make-believe that it spills over into real life. Anyone in the theatre seems able to convince themselves of anything!”