That was too accurate to not be amusing. “I always thought Charlotte was the one you should have called sweeting. She was actually sweet.”
“Charlotte was a dear.” Lucas set his hand atop hers. For the first time since his return from the Continent, she didn’t feel the need to immediately pull away. “But Stanley and I adored your fieriness. You insisted on joining in our adventures around the estates. The significant difference in our ages would have made that an utter annoyance if not for your fierceness and adventurous spirit. You weren’t afraid to climb trees or wade into streams. You hadn’t the least misgivings telling us in no uncertain terms what terrible people we were if ever we tried to prevent your participation.”
“You didn’t always let me,” she reminded him.
“We were quite a bit older than you,” he said. “Most in our situation would have refused all the time, would have resented a little tag-along playmate. But we adored you. We loved Charlotte, of course. But her softheartedness didn’t make her a better person than you.”
They sat like that, side by side, his hand on hers, neither one talking and neither one pulling away. He used to hold her hand when they sat on their rock by the Trent. That was a long time ago. She’d missed that. She’d missed him.
After a moment, a footman came inside with her small traveling trunk.
Lucas stood, letting her hand slip free. “One of the maids will likely be along soon, wanting to begin unpacking your things once the rest are brought in.”
“This is all she has, Lord Jonquil,” the footman said.
Lucas turned to her, confused. “Only the one trunk? This couldn’t hold anything beyond your clothing.”
“I didn’t wish to bring anything else,” she said.
The footman slipped out.
“Why not? Did you not wish for trinkets and baubles and things to make your room your own? The space will hardly feel as though it belongs to you if there’s nothing familiar in it.”
“And it would hardly feel welcoming filled with reminders of the home in which I no longer felt valued or wanted.” She folded her hands on her lap.
Lucas walked to the door that led to the little antechamber linking their rooms but stopped and turned back to face her. “I do hope you will be happy here, Julia.”
“Ours is not a circumstance which lends itself to happiness,” she said. “But I’m hopeful I can at least feel content.”
A tense breath escaped his lips on a frustrated sigh, and he turned and left.
Julia climbed from the bench onto the bed and curled up in a ball, burying her head in the soft pillows. She was so very lost, so entirely alone. She had tried to be honest and up-front with Lucas, and that had only made him frustrated with her.
She wanted to be happy; she truly did. But life had been so full of pain the past years that she wasn’t even certain she remembered what happiness felt like.
Chapter Twelve
She had already given up on being happy. Lucas had attempted to make sense of that declaration in the twenty-four hours since Julia had made it, but he couldn’t. Not entirely. He could understand that she was uncertain or nervous or overwhelmed. He himself felt a bit out of his depth. But to say so bluntly that she didn’t expect anything better than mere contentment . . . Their parents had created an even bigger mess than he had realized.
He tossed a stick across the wide expanse of lawn. His dog, an energetic white terrier with quite a few years behind him, chased after it. Lucas had worried that Pooka would forget him entirely while he was away on his Grand Tour. A year was a long time. But the enthusiastic welcome he had received from his four-legged friend had put even his parents’ joy to shame. He and Pooka had been playing fetch for thirty minutes, their second time that day alone, their third since Lucas’s return the day before.
It was good to be out of doors. He enjoyed fresh air and being surrounded by nature, but he’d also needed to get out of the house. Brier Hill had always before been a place of refuge and ease. Though he traveled a lot, he’d never been unhappy in his little corner of Cumberland. Now he spent every moment looking critically at each corner, each piece of furniture, the view from every window, the wall coverings, the decorations. Which bits of it met with Julia’s approval? Which parts contributed to her conviction that happiness was out of reach?
He wasn’t opposed to making some changes if it helped improve the odds for an eventually happy marriage. But what if changing everything wasn’t enough? He’d still have a miserable wife, and he’d also no longer have his home. Julia wasn’t the only one whose hoped-for future had been snatched away.
“But I am the only one who’s trying.”
Pooka brought the stick back, panting and slower than he’d been managing the thing thus far. Lucas took it and petted the dog’s head.
“Are you going to warm to Julia?” he asked Pooka. “You were both a little unsure of each other yesterday.” He looked up at the house. What if she insisted he get rid of his dog? “Maybe I’ll just take you with me next time I go traveling. She’d likely be happier with both of us gone.”
Julia used to like having him around. She’d even been sad when he’d moved away from Lampton Park. They used to be friends. Now he wasn’t entirely sure she didn’t hate him. Actually, honestly hate him.
Pooka sat looking up at Lucas with adoring eyes.
Lucas knelt in front of the dog and scratched him behind the ear. “At least you like me. That much is the same.” The tightness in his chest grew as the moments passed. Pooka lay down, resting his head on Lucas’s leg. “I need a place for myself in this house where nothing changes and no one hates me, where I can breathe. Where things are stable and predictable and calm.”
A sanctuary in the midst of the chaos would work wonders. He slowly ran his hand over Pooka’s fur, allowing the warmth of the dog’s loyalty to calm and soothe him.
“Have I worn you to a thread? Let’s get you back to your favorite corner of the estate, and I’ll retreat to mine.” Lucas unfolded his long limbs and stood. His faithful companion kept at his side.
Pooka had a rather impressive little doghouse in his own little pen on the side of the barn, sturdy enough that it stayed warm even in the winter, though the stablehands brought the universally adored dog into their quarters during the truly bitter nights. They hadn’t yet reached that point in the year.
Lucas opened the gate, and Pooka trotted inside, perfectly happy to be back in his domain. He slipped inside his little house, where he no doubt curled into a ball and fell quickly into an exhausted sleep.
Mrs. Parks, Lucas’s ever-loyal housekeeper, crossed his path shortly after he stepped inside the house. “Oh, Lord Jonquil, I’d hoped to see you.”
“I’m beginning to suspect you might be a little fond of me,” he said.
“Not in the least.” She reached into the pocket of her serviceable, always-clean apron and pulled out several letters. “Tom brought these from Irthington.”
“Brilliant.” Lucas took them. The first was addressed in Mother’s steady, elegant hand. “My parents.” He held it up. “They likely sent it within minutes of my leaving. They, too, are a little fond of me.”
“Someone ought to be.” Mrs. Parks grumbled a great deal, but Lucas didn’t for a moment think she was actually displeased with her position or employer. At least someone in this house was happy.
“How are you adjusting to having a mistress of Brier Hill?” Lucas asked as he flipped through his unopened letters one at a time.
“More than a week’s warning would have been appreciated.”
“I didn’t have more than a week’s warning.”
“Lady Jonquil has kept the footman busy moving furniture around,” Mrs. Parks said.
Lucas had suspected as much. “It’s not so unusual for a lady to make her mark on a house.” Though he was as uncomfortable with the
changes as Mrs. Parks seemed to be, he wasn’t willing to side against his wife. His wife. Mercy, that had happened too suddenly.
“She will also need to hire a lady’s maid.” Lucas knew her abigail had remained behind in Nottinghamshire. “If you know of anyone who might be a promising candidate, do make her aware.”
“Of course, Lord Jonquil.” She dipped her head and went about her work.
Mrs. Parks wasn’t thrilled with their new situation. Julia was miserable. Lucas was growing increasingly frustrated. There likely weren’t enough sanctuaries in the house for all of them to survive these adjustments.
He pushed out a breath as he made his way up the stairs. A quiet hour or two in his favorite room never failed to restore his spirits, no matter how low or overwhelmed he was. It was there where he had retreated when he’d been lonely and homesick early in his tenure as master of Brier Hill. He’d spent long hours in the peace of that room after word of Stanley’s death had arrived. He’d spent time there on his poor little sister Harriet’s birthday, remembering and missing her. He’d done the same on James’s and Philip’s birthdays, stepping onto the balcony to look out at the hills and mountains, imagining what it would have been like if they’d still been alive and able to join him on his many climbs to those summits.
That balconied sitting room had seen him through countless storms. He needed its particular brand of magic now.
Though the door to Julia’s bedchamber was closed, he could hear the faint sound of voices within. She was likely giving instructions to a maid or the footman.
His bedchamber was quiet, but it didn’t offer the peace he sought. He paused long enough to pull off his greatcoat and gloves and lay them on his bed before moving to the door leading to the little circular sitting room.
He pushed his door open to find the door on the opposite wall was open, the one leading to Julia’s room. And she herself was inside his haven, directing a footman who was just then entering, carrying a long Queen Anne–style desk.
“Just over here,” she told the footman. “Near the french doors, facing the windows.”
A matching chair sat very near the spot she pointed to.
“What is this?” Lucas asked.
She spun about, clearly startled. “Lucas. Why are you here?”
“I live here.”
She shook her head. “You know what I mean.”
“I spend most days in this room,” he said. “Why are you in here?”
“This desk and chair were in the book room, tucked into a corner. They did not appear to be in use, so I’ve had them brought over.”
How very matter-of-fact she was about the upheaval she was creating in his desperately needed refuge. “This is a small room. There is not a great deal of space. And the unusual shape makes it a tricky room to furnish.”
The tiniest bit of misgiving entered her expression, but she answered without hesitation. “It is a long desk but not a deep one. It hardly extends into the room.” Her eyes settled on the missives in his hand. “Letters?”
“Some from friends of mine and one I’m certain is a business matter. Also my parents.”
She nodded, but something almost like disappointment flitted over her face. In the very next moment, her posture straightened and her expression cleared. She motioned to the furniture the footman had brought in. “There wasn’t a desk in here, but having one will be so very helpful when I’m working.”
“In here?”
She nodded without looking back at him. “It is a very nice room.”
“But it’s not a working room.” That was, in large part, the entire point of this space. An escape. A peaceful retreat. A refuge.
“But it will be.” She turned back toward him even as her fingers brushed the desktop. “How perfect it will be to sit here and look out the window while . . .” Her words trailed off, and confusion entered her expression. She watched him, uncertainty growing by the minute. “Was I not supposed to make changes?”
His first inclination was to say no, but he held back.
“You did say that I could,” she continued on. “Yesterday, sitting in my room, you told me that I could.”
He had, yes, but he hadn’t meant for her to change this. “There are limits, Julia. For one, the estate isn’t self-sustaining; it hasn’t any tenants or sources of income.”
“But this desk was already in the house. There was no cost involved in bringing it down the corridor.” She’d poked a hole in that argument rather quickly.
“That isn’t the only consideration.” How could he explain his objections without admitting that he needed an escape . . . from her? That without this retreat, he would struggle for patience and optimism?
“I thought this might be a bit of an improvement.” Julia waved to the desk sitting beneath the window, where it ought not be. “I can more easily work in here if I have a desk.”
“The book room is meant for work. It is a fine space, already designed for that purpose. This is not.”
“But it could be.”
He and Julia were in the midst of a gathering storm. He needed this shelter if he was to weather it at all. Her insistence on overturning it was plunging him, panicking, beneath the waves. “This room is just as it should be.” He spoke firmly. He simply could not lose this room. Everything would fall apart if he did. “Changes can be made elsewhere, but not in here.”
“Why not in here?” she asked. “You’ve said I can make changes in the house, and this is part of the house.”
“Part of my house.” He paced away. “I’ve lived here for eight years. You’ve been here barely more than twenty-four hours. Some consideration must be given to my longer residence.”
From behind him, she asked, “Is it the desk being in here that bothers you, or is it my presence?”
How could he answer that? How could he explain in a way that didn’t hurt her feelings?
The silence between them stretched out. He didn’t dare look back at her.
After a long moment, she spoke. “I don’t think I can move the desk back out by myself, and the footman left already.”
“I’ll move it,” he said quietly. “It can go in your room for now. Perhaps you’ll find you like having it there.”
The desk was awkward but not terribly heavy. He carried it through the door leading to her room and set it against a nearby wall. It was not the most logical place for it, but he would be willing to move it once she decided where she wanted it. She followed after him, carrying the chair. She set it against the same wall.
He moved to the sitting room again but turned back a mere few steps inside, hazarding a glance in her direction. She stood alone in her room, looking around the space with a heaviness in her expression that hadn’t been there when he’d first encountered her moments ago.
“You really can make changes elsewhere,” he said. “Whatever you want.” But that dredged up the fledgling panic again. “Within reason,” he added.
She nodded and stepped closer. “I won’t bother you in this room again, I promise.” She set her hand on the door. “In time, I will know which corners I am welcome in and which I am not.”
“Julia, I—”
“Our parents may have forced you to marry me, but I don’t expect you to—” She didn’t finish whatever it was she meant to say. After a quick, tight breath, she closed the door. The latch slung, locking it.
To his frustration, his shame, his confusion, he felt an unwelcome bit of relief. He leaned his forehead against the closed door. “I am trying, Julia,” he whispered. “But I haven’t the first idea how to fix this.”
Chapter Thirteen
Julia knelt on the floor of the round sitting room, using the seat of the Queen Anne chair as a table, papers stacked there and her book of mathematics instruction open on the floor beside her. She wasn’t meant to be in this room—she knew
that—but Lucas was away from the house, and the servants had already tended to the bedchambers that morning. She had a few precious minutes to pretend she had claim on this room she so desperately longed for.
“It’s my house. It’s my home.”
Lucas’s words from the day before joined those he’d spoken the day after their engagement had been announced.
“She will be a weight.”
“I have options.”
“Julia has no suitors.”
“I do not gain anything by being married to her.”
His dismissal of her weighed on her heart and mind, haunting her steps as she tiptoed around this house that, she began to suspect, would never be her home. Not truly.
Those first moments at Brier Hill had given her a tenuous grasp on hope. Lucas had sat beside her and so kindly and gently told her this was her home now. He’d either been insincere or he’d changed his mind. In the end, it amounted to the same thing. She was an interloper living in an estate where she wasn’t welcome.
“A weight.”
“It’s my home.”
She sat back on her feet, sighing as she took yet another moment to simply look over the space. It truly was beautiful. The interior wall was hung in a pale-yellow silk, so light in color it almost seemed white but without the starkness of the truly white walls in her room. A few paintings were hung here and there, all peaceful country scenes. The furniture was clearly not new, but it was cared for. She had sat on the sofa and in the armchair and could attest to the comfort of both. But her self-guided studies were difficult to manage without a desk. Even when she’d taken her book and papers out to the Trent to study, she’d used the obliging flat surface of the well-traversed rock as a makeshift table.
The desk she’d originally intended to place in this room had proven a poor fit for her bedchamber. Try as she might, she could not find a spot in that room where the desk could sit easily without being in the way or tucked into a dim corner. She was absolutely certain the footman had been silently cursing her by the time she’d given up trying and asked him to simply return the desk to the book room. She had kept the chair, though, placing it beside a window so she could look out at the view. It was not the coziest chair for lounging and relaxing, but when used as an odd sort of table, it made working in this room possible. She could enjoy the space, as she’d let herself daydream of doing in those first twenty-four hours, then slip herself and the chair back out with Lucas none the wiser.
Forget Me Not (The Gents Book #1) Page 9
