busy, Hugo. What do you want of me?”
“May I sit down?” said Longmaster.
“Yes.” The Marquis returned to his chair at the foot of the great railed bedstead, and drummed his fingers on its arms.
“Well, as you are so determined to dispense with all common civilities — doubtless rightly — cousin, I may as well tell you — but could you, perhaps, provide me first with a glass of wine?”
“Help yourself,” said the Marquis, indicating a tray on the side table with a movement of his head.
Longmaster got up with unnecessary speed. He poured a glass for himself and then one for his cousin, reflecting as he did so that it would be quite impossible for him to put in a good-humoured, humble plea for what he wanted. He had never done so before, and he would make himself ridiculous.
“Thank you,” said the Marquis, raising his eyebrows as Longmaster handed him the glass of wine. He had always been rather afraid of his older cousin, but hoped he had never shown it.
“Dear coz,” said Longmaster, fingering his purple top-knot with one hand and flicking open his snuff-box with the other, “I came in such haste because it was only very lately that I heard old Chrysander Blandy had died — not a fortnight ago, I think. Apoplexy, was it not? I hope — I do most devoutly hope — that you have not appointed his successor, because I have a fancy to be Warden of the Westmarch Quarter myself.”
The island on which Hugo and Meriel lived was divided into four independent provinces, called Marches, of the West, South, East and North. Three were ruled by their own Marquises, of whom Meriel Longmaster was one; but for more than a century, Northmarch had been equally divided among the other three principalities, and each third was called a quarter. The Westmarch Quarter was the most ruthlessly run and most disaffected part of the northern territory, quite unlike Westmarch itself.
“Good God,” said the Marquis; and laughed, which he rarely did.
Meriel Longmaster, Marquis of Westmarch, was white-faced and red-haired, and twenty-three years old. He was far too thin for his six foot one inches, riding less than ten stone, and his hands and feet were unusually small. He wore his hair tied back with a black ribbon, in a mode preferred by his dead father and long since abandoned by fashionable people. He had the face of an unworldly, unhappy, deep-thinking boy; but the Marquis was in fact careless, commonsensical, and a hard rider to hounds.
Hugo Longmaster shared the narrow, slanting features of his cousin, but his complexion was ruddy, his hair’s natural colour was brown, and he was only five foot eleven, though his figure was broad to match. Most people considered him the handsomer man.
“Never tell me you are in earnest?” said Meriel.
Hugo took a pinch of snuff and struggled for well-balanced words. “Very likely I never was in earnest before,” he said, “but oh, I am very much in earnest now. That I promise you. Have you appointed someone? There was nothing to the purpose in today’s Gazette .”
There was a pause. The Marquis looked over at the darkening window and said, “I’m sorry, cousin, I cannot appoint you. And — no I haven’t appointed anyone yet.”
Longmaster got up. “Then appoint me.”
“Hugo,” said Meriel, quite gently, “I shall never give you any responsible post. You must know that.”
“Damn you.”
This remark of his cousin’s made the Marquis feel very powerful. For years, Longmaster had managed to make him feel that he was in some sense a usurper.
“It is scarcely my fault that my birth put your nose out of joint, cousin,” Meriel said suddenly, making the other start. “Besides, you are still my heir, you know.” He smiled a little.
Hugo swung round. “Then in that case as your heir , cousin, some such position as the Wardenship is my due!”
“It would be, if you wasn’t a damned fribble!” Meriel shouted. “Do not dare speak to me like that!” He was