by Shana Galen
When she glanced up at Ethan, she saw he’d closed his eyes and was resting his head comfortably against the soft squabs of the coach. “Ethan?”
“Hmm?” His arm tightened around her waist, anchoring her to him more securely.
“It’s very important to me to make a good impression on your staff.”
He didn’t open his eyes, just nodded.
“I want them to respect and like me.”
“They will,” he murmured.
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.” He opened his eyes. “I hope they don’t completely throw me over for you.”
She frowned in confusion. “What a ridiculous thing to say. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The servants at Tanglewilde?”
“What do they have to do with anything?”
“Maybe it was the way each of them managed to turn my short interviews about your attack into an opportunity to further your application for sainthood.”
“They were trying to protect me.” She waved his statements away, rocking on his lap from the movement. “They didn’t know you then. They didn’t know your intentions.”
“What about the defection we witnessed yesterday morning? I’d have needed half a dozen more coaches and another estate to accommodate all the servants insisting on accompanying us.”
“Now that is an exaggeration!” She straightened indignantly and had to grasp his arm to steady herself. “Besides, they would never have left Tanglewilde. It was a gesture, a way to say goodbye.”
“Francesca, they had their valises with them.”
“I’m sure they were empty.”
He gave her a dubious look, closed his eyes, and settled back on the green-and-gold material of the cushioned seat once again. “Were I you, I wouldn’t worry about my staff at Winterbourne Hall. You’ll win them over in no time.”
She clasped her hands together. “I sincerely hope so. But I would have your assistance.”
He opened one eye. “My assistance?”
She nodded and scooted off his lap onto the seat across from him. He scowled at her, but she couldn’t risk the distraction of his closeness. Schooling her face into what she hoped was its most serious expression, she waited for him to give her his full attention. He regarded her as a mouse regards a cat.
“I’m sure I will regret asking this, but how exactly am I supposed to assist you?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking—”
“A bad sign,” he mumbled.
She pretended not to hear. “I’ve been thinking it might help if I had some background on the house and the staff before I arrived. That way I can impress everyone with the extent of my knowledge and familiarity with the estate. Don’t you think that would make this adjustment easier for all of us?” An idea came to her just then, and she eyed him suspiciously. “The staff is aware I’m coming, aren’t they?”
“I sent word.”
She nodded, satisfied. “Good. Should we start with the estate or the staff?”
“Neither.” He closed his eyes again.
“Ethan!” she said in exasperation. “We’ve already wasted a day and most of the morning! We can’t afford to waste any more time.”
He opened his eyes again, and his languorous gaze traveled over her disheveled state. “Is that what we were doing? Wasting time?”
She was immediately contrite. “No, that’s not what I meant at all. I—” She paused, uncertain how to extricate herself from her latest predicament.
He sighed, seeming resigned. “I know, I know. You’re a woman with a mission. I can’t expect you to waste time in the frivolous pursuit of pleasure.” Francesca tried to protest again, but Ethan shook his head. “We’ll begin with the house, my eager pupil. I imagine you want the whole history?”
Francesca nodded enthusiastically, a little trickle of excitement rushing through her. “Oh, yes! Start at the very beginning.” She wished she’d thought to pack foolscap and a quill in her satchel so she might take notes.
He looked heavenward as she folded her hands in her lap and gave him her complete attention. “From the beginning—you’re certain you want to hear this? I’m convinced I can find a much more gratifying way for us to pass the time.” Hope flickered in his eyes.
She squashed it. “From the beginning,” she instructed, her voice firm.
He sighed again and began. “The house was built between the years 1519 and 1523, during the reign of Henry VIII. It was commissioned by Edward Louis Caxton, the second Marquess of Winterbourne.”
His voice was a monotone, but she didn’t mind. She’d endured her mother’s inexhaustible prattle for twenty-one years; nothing he could say would bore her. He paused, a weary look in his eyes, but she only murmured encouragingly, settling back to hear the story of her new home.
She made him tell it twice so that she could commit as much as possible to memory, but when she requested a third recitation, Ethan balked. He was only successful in silencing her by taking her in his arms and making love to her until she forgot even her own name. They passed that night at the inn in much the same manner, and Francesca decided she and Ethan would have to travel together more. It didn’t matter where. She always had questions and though Ethan’s answers weren’t very informative, they were incredibly satisfying.
Thirty
Just past noon on the third day, Ethan looked up and out of the carriage window. Though Francesca had stared at the landscape for hours, never tiring of the changing landscape, it was the first time he’d shown any interest in the scenery. She scooted forward to peer at the passing roadside.
“What is it?” she asked Ethan, frowning at the view that, from all appearances, was perfectly unchanged from her last inspection.
“We’ve turned onto the road for Winterbourne Hall. It’s about a mile from here.”
Francesca shot up. “A mile!” She fumbled desperately with her hair, which never seemed to be in order when Ethan was near. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.” His gave her a bemused look.
“Yes, but why didn’t you tell me earlier?” She abandoned her hair and began trying to smooth some of the wrinkles from her skirt. It wouldn’t do for the staff to see their lord and lady occupying the same seat—married or not. Ethan raised an eyebrow, then gazed, with a paternal air, at his estates.
Winterbourne Hall was much larger than Francesca had imagined. She’d known from rumor and Ethan’s own description that it would be grander and vaster than Tanglewilde, but the drive alone was turning out to be quite lengthy. When she saw the large lake to her right, complete with ducks and a pretty little gazebo Ethan said his mother had enjoyed during the summer months, she knew they were finally nearing the house. A moment later, on her left, she stared at what appeared to be the ruins of a castle.
“Is that the castle?” she breathed. She pointed to the jumble of falling stones, though enough of the building was left standing so she could fill in the outlines of a medieval structure.
“Just the keep,” Ethan answered.
“Did you remember the name of the baron who built it yet?” His information about the castle had been vague, amounting to: “Some baron built it after returning home from the Crusades.” Needless to say, that had not satisfied her.
“Ask Mrs. Carbury. She’s a walking textbook of Winterbourne Hall.”
“That’s the housekeeper, correct?” She confirmed it, though she knew already. She craned her neck to catch a last glimpse of the romantic ruins as they drove past. The coach finally rounded a bend in the road, and when she looked forward again, her jaw dropped in true admiration. At the summit of the drive, shimmering white in the noon sun, was Winterbourne Hall.
“The north façade,” Ethan told her. She barely nodded, still taking it in. Were there people who actually lived in such places? It was like a palace or a monument. The north façade, as Ethan had called it, was regal—Palladian in design and so long and rectangular that, as
they drove up the front walk, she could not even see the far end of the building.
The house itself was cream in color, the rows and rows of windows outlined in red. Like a regal white tiger, it reclined at the top of an impossibly green, grassy hill, and when Francesca turned her head to see the view, she almost gasped aloud. It seemed she could see the whole of Yorkshire, and all of it was lush and emerald and dotted with trees.
“Do you like it?” Ethan asked.
“Oh, yes,” she breathed, enchanted.
She saw him smile and could have sworn a look of relief flickered across his face.
The coach slowed, and Francesca turned frantically to Ethan. “Quickly! I’ve forgotten the name of your steward. Remind me!”
“Francesca.” He didn’t even try to disguise the note of irritation.
“Oh, Mr. Brown!” She nodded vigorously to herself.
Brown was the steward and the housekeeper was Mrs. Carbury. Pocket was Ethan’s valet, of course, and the butler was—oh Lord!—now she couldn’t remember the name of the butler.
She clutched Ethan’s hand. “I’ve forgotten the name of your butler. Help me!”
His warm fingers closed around hers and, with mounting panic, she felt the coach pull to a stop. He leaned forward trapping her against the back of her seat.
“Take a deep breath.”
She nodded and gulped air, a fish thrust from the sanctuary of the water and plunged onto the treacherous shore.
“Everything will be fine.” His eyes stayed focused on hers, his expression calm and confident.
She nodded again, her lungs expanding like gills. The wave of dizziness began to pass, and Ethan sat back. She took another deep breath, just beginning to feel that she might not drown after all, then made the mistake of glancing from the coach’s windows.
What appeared to be the entire staff was lined up on the front steps of the house, and the sheer size of their numbers rivaled that of the house itself.
She was doomed. She would never, never remember all of their names.
But she did, floating through the introductions in a haze of wonder and apprehension. After each member of the staff had been presented to her, the butler, Grendell—in the end she had no trouble recalling his name because he looked as fearsome as she imagined the beast from the old Anglo-Saxon legend had—opened the door of the house for them. Francesca was immediately swept away on a tour led by the indomitable housekeeper Mrs. Carbury.
As Ethan had promised, the woman was a walking textbook. With only the smallest encouragement, Mrs. Carbury proceeded to point out the various rooms of the house as they passed them and to give Francesca the history of those she had missed. She learned all she wanted and more about the dining room, library, billiard room, China room, music room, watercolor room—even with Ethan’s tutoring, Francesca could not keep them all straight.
After the first half-dozen rooms, Francesca didn’t need to. They were all the same—cold and formal, beautiful but almost completely devoid of all warmth. She dutifully followed Mrs. Carbury from room to room, and in each she was reminded how different this place was from her own home at Tanglewilde.
As far back as she could remember, Tanglewilde had been filled with the sound of her father’s bellow and her mother’s prattling. John and Lucia were forever scampering from room to room, laughing and teasing one another. She couldn’t imagine anyone scampering or teasing at Winterbourne Hall. Lord, she was almost afraid to breathe.
She knew Ethan hadn’t grown up here. He’d been raised in London after his mother had married the late Earl of Selbourne. From all accounts, that marriage had been a disaster, and Francesca wondered if the lack of warmth in Ethan’s home stemmed at all from the coldness of the union between his mother and stepfather.
But the house was beautiful, Francesca thought, as Mrs. Carbury showed her the delicately carved pianoforte in the music room. It was not without potential. This was to be her house now, as well as Ethan’s. Together they would bring warmth and light to its barren halls. They’d infuse it with life and love. And they’d be happy here.
Finally Mrs. Carbury paused before a door on the first floor and opened it. She waved Francesca into the prettiest room she had ever seen in her life. The chamber was done all in white—white carpets, white bedclothes, and billowing vanilla silk drapes. The blond wood furnishings were so pale they looked almost ivory, and there was a large, pure white marble fireplace along one wall. Accenting the white decor were sashes and flounces and ribbons of emerald green and gold. Mrs. Carbury motioned for Francesca to enter the room, and she floated inside, going first to the tent bed and running the soft, satiny green- and gold-tasseled sashes through her fingers. The dark color of the green reminded her of Tanglewilde.
“I hope it meets with you approval, my lady.” Mrs. Carbury glanced at the chambermaids silently unpacking Francesca’s trunks. Francesca realized that at some point all of her things had been unloaded from the second coach.
“Oh, it’s absolutely perfect, Mrs. Carbury. Perfect.” As much as she loved her mother, she knew now she would never miss the frilly pink of her bedroom at Tanglewilde.
“I am relieved to hear you say that, my lady. We had so very little time to effect the changes Lord Winterbourne ordered in his letter announcing your arrival.”
“Changes?” Francesca gave the housekeeper a puzzled frown.
“Yes, your ladyship. This room was Lady Winterbourne’s. Oh, I suppose I should call her Lady Selbourne as she remarried, but she spent the last years of her life here, and I have always thought of her as a Winterbourne.”
“She was Lord Winterbourne’s mother.”
“Yes, my lady. A wonderful woman, though I’m afraid that in the last years of her life she was much given to melancholy and sadness.”
No doubt as a result of her husband’s philandering, Francesca thought. Her marriage would be different. It would be happy and filled with joy. Three days in the coach had already brought her and Ethan closer together.
She watched Mrs. Carbury survey the room, a plaintive look on the woman’s lined face. Francesca wondered if the older woman was imagining the room as it had been. Then the lines around the housekeeper’s face brightened, and she smiled again.
“Of course we could not put such a pretty young girl as you in that dark room. Lord Winterbourne ordered it done in white and emerald green, and now that I meet you, I think it was the perfect choice.”
Francesca smiled with genuine warmth. “I do too.” But a small part of her wondered at Ethan’s choices. It was almost a fairy-tale room, and she felt like a storybook princess standing inside it. But she was not a princess. She was a real woman, and she wanted Ethan to see her as such.
Pushing her silly worries away, her gaze swept the room again, and she was more moved than she would ever admit by Ethan’s thoughtfulness. She didn’t know how she would ever thank him, but she blushed at the few ideas that came to mind. Her eyes lighted on a door artfully concealed in the paneling on the chamber’s far side, and she felt her cheeks heat further.
Mrs. Carbury, no doubt trained from a young age to anticipate the wishes and desires of her employer, offered, “That door adjoins to Lord Winterbourne’s room, my lady.”
“Of course,” Francesca squeaked, certain that her face resembled a big red tomato. Finally, she managed, “Thank you for all your assistance, Mrs. Carbury. You have made me feel very welcome.”
Mrs. Carbury puffed herself up in the manner Francesca was beginning to associate with pleasure. “We’ll leave you alone now, my lady. Please call on me if you need anything further.”
“I will.”
Mrs. Carbury and the maids trooped silently out of the room, leaving Francesca to contemplate the door between Ethan’s room and her own. She didn’t know why the sight of that door should so unnerve her, except that it reminded her of her new status as wife. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed being a wife thus far, but, as she gazed at the door in the paneling, she knew she
wanted more from Ethan than a romp in his carriage or free access to his bedroom.
She wanted his trust, his devotion, and, most of all, his heart. And no one—not the very capable Mrs. Carbury or even a battalion of dedicated servants—could help her with that.
Thirty-one
It was as if she’d always been there, Ethan decided one night after dinner, which he and Francesca had taken in his library as had become their habit. In the two and a half weeks she’d been at Winterbourne Hall, she’d become such a part of the house, insinuated herself so well into the inner workings of its each and every aspect, that he was beginning to have difficulty remembering what it was like before she’d been there.
Cold and lonely were two words that came most readily to mind as he gazed at her now. She was curled in her regular spot—a crimson-and-gold armchair—and her hand was wrapped around her cup of tea. Her eyes were on the fire and her mind was probably a thousand miles away.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked quietly, unable to resist.
She glanced up at him, and he took his seat in the matching armchair beside her, glass of wine in hand. She gave him a sheepish smile that intrigued him. She seemed quiet and pensive tonight, whereas her custom was to greet him at the end of the day full to bursting with all that she’d seen and done. Lately he’d found himself watching the clock on his mantel as evening neared, waiting for the sound of her tentative knock. She always waited for him to ask her to enter—though he’d told her half a dozen times that she needn’t even knock—then poked her head around the doorframe to ask if he was busy.
He never was, having made sure to complete his work and send his steward away well in advance of her predictable arrival. But he would set down the papers he was pretending to peruse anyway, and tell her no, he was never too busy for her. Each evening, from her first night at Winterbourne Hall to the present, had begun in this same fashion.
