That man had nothing to do with her present or her future. When one did the math, she’d only known him four months in total—and that was ten years ago. A man very definitely in her past.
Yet …
She was stirred up.
That man, whom she’d known for only four of the three-hundred-and-fifty-two months of her life, was supposed to have been in Africa—not sharing the air of Yorkshire with her.
That they were, indeed, sharing approximately the same air was unsettling.
Her stomach hadn’t been itself since receiving the information.
Yet it had been three days since her return to the Grange, and not a word about a visitor at Château Bottom’s Roost, locally known as the Roost, the estate of her eccentric neighbor, Sir Abstrupus Bottomley. But the information had come from LordBranwell’s brother, the Earl of Stoke, who wasn’t likely to get such a detail muddled.
Of course, she didn’t wish to see Lord Branwell.
Not after what he did.
But a part of her wouldn’t be able to rest until she had the definitive answer.
Really, it wouldn’t be able to rest until Lord Branwell took himself back to Africa.
Except …
He wouldn’t be taking himself back to Africa.
He’d been injured severely enough that he was no longer a soldier.
As she approached the manor house, she took in its grand sandstone exterior glowing gold in the changing light of afternoon, its decorative turrets and crenellations imbuing the house with a whimsical character and charm. She’d come to feel a deep affection for this place. It was her home. Though it was a novel feeling, this, of being the lady of the manor.
Of course, she’d been the lady of this manor since her eighteenth year, when her beloved Grandmama had passed away. As Endcliffe Grange had been unentailed, Grandmama had been at liberty to leave it to whomever she liked—and that person had been her only granddaughter. Though a duchess by marriage, Grandmama had harbored firm notions about a woman’s right to self-determination. Mother, of course, had rolled her eyes at this familiar tangent of her mother-in-law’s, but in the way children could see their parents with a specific clarity, Artemis saw that was precisely how Mother went about her own life.
Upon inheritance, and for the intervening decade until last spring, Artemis had been pleased to let estate managers and housekeepers run the Grange. But now she was here and ladyof the manor—a manor that wasn’t operated like other manors, given that it was now a sanctuary for animals.
Yet the Grange wasn’t only a sanctuary for animals. It had become her sanctuary and—somehow … improbably—it had become her vocation, too. At the house party, when Beatrix had asked when she would be returning to London, she’d replied she would, eventually.
But it had been an untruth.
The truth was she didn’t miss London.
The truth was she enjoyed being lady of this manor.
The truth was she was staying where she was—indefinitely … possibly forever.
With Bathsheba at her side, she pushed the door open to the boot room and called out, “It’s only me!”
“Off with those mucky boots,” came Mrs. Hopper’s quick reply from the kitchen, adding a beat later, “milady.”
Artemis waggled her eyebrows at Bathsheba and lowered onto the oak bench, switching sturdy outdoor boots for elegant indoor slippers—switching from estate worker to lady of the manor. She took up a cloth and wiped all three of Bathsheba’s paws, who suffered the ministrations with a series of impatient yawns. Mrs. Hopper would have treats waiting, and Bathsheba had no intention of leaving them untasted. So, too, would the cook have treats waiting on the kitchen table for Artemis in the form of a steaming pot of bergamot tea and a plate of her favorite shortbread.
From her place at the stove, Mrs. Hopper dangled scraps for Bathsheba to snap up and said, “It’ll be mushroom bean stew for the evening meal, unless you have objections?”
“None.”
Mrs. Hopper had taken to experimenting with replacing meats with various other ingredients, to surprisingly delicious effect, it must be admitted.
Artemis snapped off a corner of shortbread. “I’m sure it will be exceedingly tasty.”
Mrs. Hopper nodded and got on with the business of what she did so well—keeping everyone fed and happy. As she chopped a bunch of parsley, she began explaining the coming week’s menu, meal by meal. Artemis let her mind wander, content to leave the food planning in Mrs. Hopper’s capable hands.
