We even speak of cabbage!
Not in a specific sense.
I have no opportunity to discuss yields (fifteen pounds per ten-foot row), but Mr. Holcroft relates his disenchantment with the vegetable, and I stumble over the pronunciation ofCruciferaeso that he may have the pleasure of teaching me something new. When he congratulates me on my ready adoption of the term, I blush prettily.
Twenty minutes later, when Sebastian enters the drawing room with Russell at his heels, he takes note of the genial scene and smiles happily. He has no idea how monstrous his familyhas been to me, and if I have anything to say about it, he never will.
I just need to hold my own for another five days, and then Kesgrave will arrive and we will employ the Prince Ravenzio stratagem and then the whole family will adore me and loathe the duke, which he will not mind because he is a duke, which means everyone loves him even when they loathe him.
Five more days.
I can do it.
All will be well.
Chapter Two
For no reason at all, Red Oaks has a peel, and there it stands, a gray stone medieval tower, all rigidity and doom, flanked by two elegant wings designed in the neoclassical style beautifully executed by Robert Adam. Having never been north of Arnside in the Lake District, I have no idea how a stronghold of this order—a bastion against marauders from Scotland—looks in its natural setting, and as such, I am willing to give it the benefit of the doubt. Presumably, the forbidding towerdoesadd something piquant or interesting to the landscape.
In Bedfordshire, however, it looks wildly out of place.
Would I go so far as to say it looks silly?
I think I would, yes, given that this patch of England has not seen an invasion in more than seven hundred years. Its inhabitants have little need for an impenetrable fortress to which they could escape with their valuables in the event of an enemy attack. And yet the Red Oaks peel looms over the rest of the hall, casting the western portion of the otherwise gracious home in shadow for much of the day.
To be fair, it is not quite accurate to say there is no reason at all for the tower, as its original owner was born and raisedalong the northern border and could conceive of no notion of safety that did not include the fortification. Although I generally favor a display of prudence, as things tend to go awry when you least expect, I cannot bestow my approval when the precaution creates an eyesore.
And a drafty one at that!
As soon as I stepped into the entry hall upon arriving at the estate, the temperature dropped ten degrees—and notjustbecause of the chilly reception we received from the family. It is as though the stones themselves hoard the frost of winter.
Fortunately, the rest of the home is capacious and pleasant, with comfortable east and west wings, built in 1751 and 1775, respectively. Our bedchambers, which are on the second floor, are nicely sized, with sturdy furniture and wide windows overlooking the park.
On my second night at Red Oaks, I have no trouble falling asleep, as I am exhausted from a day of dodging insults, and rain, pattering softly against my windows, creates a gentle lull. I am cozy in my bed and have no wish to rise, but a thunderous knock sounds suddenly at my door and a brisk voice announces that it is seven o’clock and I am to present myself to the breakfast room by eight.
Poor Annie!
My maid looks tired before the day has even begun, and she has to flit from my room to my mother’s to help her dress as well. Annie does an admirable job despite these setbacks, and I arrive a full six minutes before the appointed time. Although I assume the early start means my hosts have an assortment of activities planned, our day consists of little more than needlework in the blue parlor.
Before settling in with our embroidery, we take a walk through the park.
A very sedate walk that allows me to see little of the grounds, which are dominated by English oaks, sycamores, and field maples. When I ask about red oaks, Mrs. Dowell informs me there are no red oaks at Red Oaks. “There have never been any on the property,” she adds blandly, as though it is the query that is odd, not the lack of the variety of tree after which the estate is named.
Ordinarily, I do not require verisimilitude in the designation of a family seat—the quirkier the better, I should think—but the hostility I have encountered here makes me churlish.
Suddenly, I find everything disagreeable.
Even Sebastian.
He is being lovely, of course, and the care he takes with my parents is deeply touching. Clearly, he is determined to make a good impression, which is essential, as Mama bears a resentment toward him for being so wealthy. She does not want to be overawed byallher relatives, an unnecessary concern, as Russell counts among that cohort. My brother is most certainly not going to make a brilliant match. The greenhorn would be lucky if our neighbor with the wide, sloping nose looked at him twice. (Apologies to Bea, who hates when I identify a woman by her least attractive feature.)
Even so, I wish Sebastian would pay some attention to his own family and take note of their treatment of me. If he couldjust oncenotice the condescension and object.
The two hours devoted to embroidery are more enjoyable because I am somewhat skilled in the pursuit, as I have done over a dozen patterns fromAckermann’sover the years. When the clock strikes three, however, Mrs. Dowell instructs me to put down my embroidery and take out my knitting.
Take out my knitting—as though I am a governess or a widow or a lady’s companion!
I am twenty years old and have never knitted a stitch in my life.
