by Eva Devon
Much as he had done, she also surveyed the people before her.
Instead of the intimidation one might expect from a young lady being presented with thirty-some odd servants, she beamed at them.
Beamed and fairly shone with an air which suggested they had nothing to worry about and never would again.
How was she doing it?
He took her immediately to the head butler, Taylor.
Taylor bowed, his silver hair glistening like snow in the sun. "How do you do, Your Grace?" he said.
She inclined her head to him. “It is a pleasure to meet you and I hope that you will help me and allow me to learn from you so that this estate will be the best in the country."
Taylor’s chest puffed with pride and pleasure. "Your Grace, it already is the best in the country, but I am more than happy to show you how to keep it that way."
"Of course it is,” she exclaimed easily. “But I am very grateful that you shall help me keep everything up to snuff."
Taylor all but bobbed with his happiness with a mistress who was eager to learn from him.
Adam took her arm then, gently. "We must go in. It's been a long journey and we shall have the opportunity to greet every servant individually at another time. Thank you all for coming out. We are deeply appreciative of it."
Adam led her up the stairs and into the massive foyer.
"Goodness," she whispered.
"Yes, it is something, isn't it?" he said, trying to see it through her eyes.
He could still recall the awe it had inspired as a child. But over the years he’d grown accustomed to it.
"Something?" she echoed. "It's a veritable cathedral."
"It does have a certain sort of religious zealotry to it, does it not?" he agreed, peering at the soaring buttresses and murals.
Augusta turned slowly, taking in the frescoes upon the ceiling and the crystal chandelier hanging from the dome above.
The floor was green marble traced through with cream, black, and gold. "It's so, it's so—”
"Cold?" he offered.
"Magnificent," she supplied.
Again, he tried to see it through her eyes.
He had grown up in this place, racing about the floors, sliding along them, playing in winter months.
He'd played often on the banisters of the stairs, sliding up and down them as well. It had been one great big playground for him.
But as he'd grown older, it had come more and more to represent a sort of tomb for him, a tomb of oppression for his future. Then when he'd reached manhood and what had happened with, well, no, he would not think of that. Not with Augusta standing beside him. It had grown icy and there had been nothing welcoming about the estate.
Yet Augusta seemed to think it miraculous.
"Look," she said, pointing like a delighted tourist. "Look, look, look up at the ceiling."
He turned his head and looked as instructed.
It was indeed a beautiful fresco of Roman gods and goddesses enjoying a beautiful pool with a bright blue sky with clouds dancing across it.
"Is it an Italian painter?" she inquired.
"Well-spotted," he said. "It was indeed an Italian painter. Signor Bersconi lived with us for five years whilst painting that fresco."
"It was done when you were a child?" she queried.
"This particular one was.” His jaw tightened. “My father commissioned it. He particularly liked Rome. He would have liked your name," he said.
She smiled at that. “I'm glad he would have liked something about me."
"Don't be," he said tightly. "My father was an irredeemable, irascible, awful old man. You would not have liked him, Augusta."
She did not say anything but gazed at him curiously.
He did not wish to speak of his father and so, again, he tucked her hand over his arm. "Come, I shall show you to your rooms and then we shall retire for the evening."
"That sounds wonderful," she breathed, relieved. "And will you join me? This evening?"
He looked at her for a long moment. "There's something I must do tonight, but I shall see you in the morning for breakfast."
She nodded. Her intelligent eyes searched his face and he hated himself anew. ”And then we shall begin?" she prompted.
"We shall begin," he agreed, "with whatever project you choose.”
“We're going to do something truly important."
“Indeed, you are, Augusta," he said. "Without a doubt.”
And he meant it.
But now that he was here, in this place that had nearly destroyed him, he wished to God he wasn't. The weight crushing down upon him was as horrible as the stones that crushed witches in the past centuries.
But there was nothing that he could do now except prevail.
So he led Augusta up the sprawling, elegant stairs to her chamber, a chamber that he had once hoped would belong to another person so many years ago.
But that. . . That was the past, and this was the future. Still, he felt himself being drawn backwards into memory again, and he did not think he could resist.
Chapter 29
Something was terribly wrong.
Augusta paced the lavish morning room, decorated in the height of French fashion, back and forth, back and forth.
She hated it. Not the room, which had been given to her for her particular use. No, she hated her current state of emotional affairs.
She felt like she was wearing a trail in the carpet much like a sheep over the moors. And a sheep she was not, so the feeling was most upsetting.
Her path was a beautiful Axminster carpet, she granted. Its light blue and cream hue depicted flowers and winding vines. If one had to walk one’s worries away, it was a splendid surface to do so.
But even its beauty did not lift her spirits.
In fact, the entire room, though it was absolute perfection, could not. The stunning light blue and white striped silk walls covered with paintings of foreign fields, flowers, and beautiful women in perfect gowns from previous centuries could not alleviate the concern that was now pressing in upon her.
What the devil had happened?
They'd arrived at the estate and she'd been so certain that they would be able to start making meaningful change.
Adam had seemed so approving of her idea.
Granted, he had not been terribly enthusiastic about coming to the country, but if such a thing had been so terrible to him, surely he would have simply not come?
But now that they were here, he was avoiding her.
At least, she assumed he was.
He never visited her.
He barely smiled at her.
He barely gave her any time at all.
It was as if he had come here and. . . vanished.
Oh, he exchanged mild pleasantries. He wasn’t cruel, but somehow it felt as if his whole spirit was gone.
It felt horrible. It felt like her childhood, when her father had suddenly retreated, leaving her alone to her own thoughts and feelings to navigate the difficulties of this world.
Was this the kind of person he was? That once he had her, once he felt close to her, he would rid himself of her or abandon her?
No, she would not think such a thing of him.
He was nothing like her father. She refused to give such a thought credence.
Something had to be wrong, so as she stopped in front of the tall windows and gazed out into the gardens that stretched out before her, she spotted him walking down one of the large sets of beautifully inlaid stone stairs that led to a manmade lake. Neptune emerged from the center of that lake, his muscled body slicked with a fountain of water shooting into the heavens.
And her husband kept walking, walking, and walking.
That's what he seemed to do a great deal of the time. She understood the need to walk. When the world had seemed unbearable, she had taken to the parks, putting step after step, determined to outpace her difficulties.
Only she had hoped that here she would have been on t
hose walks with him.
He had not invited her.
No, every morning at dawn, he left the house before she awakened and went out. He was not spending the night with her either. This was something entirely different than how he had behaved in London.
Was that brief stay in the city just a honeymoon period for them? In fact, was this how he meant it to go? It's certainly what he had said before they were married, that they would have no relationship at all. And now that they were here in the country, he seemed to be acting upon it. Perhaps she should have believed him entirely.
Now, she felt a bit like a fool. Oh God, it hurt again. For one glimmering moment of promise, it had seemed as if that pain that had lived within her heart most of her life had vanished.
She held the pamphlet in her hand. It was going to go out to all of the families, communities, and churches on the vast estate lands that soon girls would have the opportunity to go to school.
She'd already met with the builders and commissioned a beautiful new building for the girls to learn their letters and sums. She'd written out several letters to various girls’ schools in the area asking for young teachers who might wish to come and teach the daughters of farmers and their tenants.
Because Adam spent so little time with her, she had little else to do, except of course get to know the estate well and work on her project.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Thompson, and Taylor had been teaching her everything that they possibly could, showing her the many account books, leading her throughout the house, giving her access to the gardener who had happily showed her all the mazes and the various different areas of the garden—the Chinese garden, the French garden, the Elizabethan garden, and the Italian garden. And then of course there was the wild part of the estate, which they had told her she was, of course, more than welcome to go out into. But possibly not to the small chapel at the edge of the estate.
That, they advised, was unwise.
Why?
That was the direction Adam wandered every day.
Was that where he was going? Was it some sort of private sanctuary for him? And if it was, why?
She dropped the pamphlet on her small, polished writing desk and crumpled her hands into fists. It had all been going so well. She didn't understand how things could have gone so poorly.
She wanted to rail at him. Why would he cut her off so abruptly? It didn't seem at all like him.
He was such a kind, pleasant person. But now she was allowing her thoughts to repeat, again and again, embedding that pain in her heart. She couldn’t allow that. Life was too brief for such continued sorrow.
Suddenly, she realized that she only had two options.
She could either absolutely ignore what he was doing, which was probably what he hoped, or she could address it.
Ignoring it would only leave them both in pain. She'd lived in pain far too long to continue in such a thing and, well, she was done with that.
Which left her one recourse.
First, she needed help.
Of that, she was certain.
So she sat down at her small writing desk and began writing invitations. She would not allow herself to be put into a corner without a bit of a fight on her part.
She wrote letter after letter asking her sisters, Charlotte, and Lady Montcrief to visit, and also Adam’s dear friend, Brookhaven. Surely, they would all have something to say, and surely together they could help Adam. Or, at the very least, they could help her find the strength to choose happiness. But she prayed, oh how she prayed, that happiness would be with him.
Chapter 30
Adam sat in his room in the dark, not even having bothered to have a fire lit.
He knew it was morose and should have had little patience with himself.
But there was nothing that he could seemingly do.
He held the small baby shoes in his hands and he ached.
How had he allowed himself to be pulled back into this place of sorrow?
He knew, of course he knew.
He never came to the estates, not even since his father died. But he'd longed to fulfill Augusta’s dream, for it was full of nobility and would improve so many lives.
But every day since the day he’d taken her up to the duchess’s chamber, he'd been pulled out to the chapel to visit the graves.
Every day he tended them, put flowers upon them, and spoke to them. He was unable to stop feeling that, somehow, he should have saved them both.
But each action had not helped.
Sitting by himself by those unlauded memorials had seemed to pull him back into the dark recesses of his grief. A grief he had not allowed himself to experience since he'd fled the country and gone abroad.
Now as he held the small shoes in his hand, he wished that he could be holding the child instead. He cursed himself for agreeing to any of Augusta's ideas to begin with. He never should've come back here and he certainly shouldn't have allowed her to host a celebration in honor of the announcement of the school.
But he had, and now there were guests milling downstairs. Many of them. He was going to have to somehow manage to navigate it, even though he felt like lashing out at everyone around him. It felt as if a poison had been unleashed within his heart.
Was there an antidote?
There was a soft knock at the door and he quickly tucked the shoes away into his desk drawer.
He adjusted his waistcoat and stood.
"Adam?" Augusta called from the other side of the panel.
He drew in a deep breath.
He could not bear to tell her. He could not bear to expose his secret. And every time he allowed her to become close to him here, he felt as if he was betraying a memory.
"Just a moment, Augusta. I shall be down in a moment"
"The guests have arrived."
"So I hear,” he drawled.
She hesitated on the other side of the door and he kicked himself. He knew he was being unkind and selfish. He could see in her gaze every day that his withdrawal affected her.
But somehow fear had got a hold of him. It was holding him in a vise-like grip, refusing to let him speak.
He sighed, then forced himself to say lightly, “I'll be down in a moment, Augusta."
There was another long silence on the other side of the door and then he heard her footsteps retreating.
What was he doing?
He should have sent her to the country alone. That's exactly what he should have done, but now he had to see it through, so he tugged on his evening coat and headed for the door.
He turned the handle and strode out into the hall.
Tonight would be the last night he would spend on the estate. It was the only solution that would free them both from this interminable darkness. He could no longer bear it here and he would not stay for anything. Not even Augusta.
Chapter 31
The entire county filled the gold-edged ballroom.
Lords, ladies, wealthy merchants, and other landed gentry were all in attendance. It was a mix of people that was not necessarily common to a ducal gathering, but tonight they were gathered in the pursuit of a future for all, not just a few.
The ballroom was a crush of people chattering away happily and drinking wine as servants rotated about the room offering libations and other dainties.
The orchestra, at the end of the long hall, played excellent and rather jaunty music.
The dance floor was full of people presently dancing a reel. So many couples had joined the line that the floor felt as if it was bouncing ever so lightly under the feet of the guests.
Augusta was quite pleased, considering that she had never hosted such a large party before.
It was a wonderful thing that her love of organization had finally paid off.
Perhaps she actually had been born to this.
It was a rather remarkable thought.
She wished that Adam was pleased with it too, but the dratted duke, who she cared about more than she wished to say, stood
across the room looking as if he was a pillar of salt.
No, not salt. A magnificent, fierce-faced stone statue. He did not smile at anyone. He didn't encourage anyone to come near him. He leaned in superior splendor near the fireplace, gazing at all like he was some sort of dark king overlooking his kingdom.
Philippa sashayed up to her, her soft yellow silk skirts skimming her body lightly. "My goodness, whatever is wrong with Blacktower?" “He's been like this for days,” Augusta confessed.
“Days?” Phillipa repeated, aghast. "That's not possible. I've never seen him look this way. Not even before he was married to you." Augusta pressed her nails lightly into her gloved palms. "I do not think it is my presence that has made him thus. It's something else, but he won't tell me.”
“He won't confide in you?" Philippa asked. “I'm surprised as he seems to like you so well."
"I don't think he likes anyone well enough to confide in them," Augusta said truthfully. "I think that he has some great secret hidden inside him and he makes his happiness a mask to keep all of us out." "Oh dear,” Philippa lamented, "I never thought that might be the case. I thought he'd be the perfect match for you."
An uneasy feeling struck Augusta as she snapped her gaze to her sister. “I beg your pardon?" Augusta asked.
"I thought he would be the perfect match for you," Phillipa explained easily, though she looked doubtful now as she contemplated Blacktower.
Augusta’s pulse began to race. She licked her lips. There seemed to be something deeper to what Phillipa was saying. ”What are you implying, Philippa?"
"Oh, nothing," Philippa assured quickly, even as her eyes widened at being caught.
“You are most definitely implying something," Augusta hissed. “Why did you think he would be the perfect match for me?"
Phillipa nibbled her lower lip, then rushed, "Because he was so happy and full of life, and I could tell that he was actually a good person. From all the things that I've read about him and whenever I saw him, I liked him."
Augusta gaped, panic mounting inside her. “How could you see such a different person than I did?"
"Because you were looking for all his faults,” Philippa pointed out.
Augusta groaned. “Philippa," she whispered. "You didn't possibly orchestrate what happened in the hall, did you?"
