Louisa scanned the letter. “Oh, yes. It sounds wonderful! I shall look forward to it. Which reminds me, while you were away last week, we also received an invitation to Uncle Isaac’s eightieth birthday party. It’s not till September the twentieth, but if you could make a note to keep that week free, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem, my dear.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “I’ll see you at lunchtime. It’s a fine day. Perhaps we can eat on the terrace.”
“That would be nice,” Louisa said, reading the letter again, admiring Jane’s penmanship and the cordiality of the invitation.
As yet, she hadn’t met any of Maxwell’s friends or associates. More than anything, though, she was happy at the thought of spending some rare leisure time with a husband who tended to be more absent than present in her life. She prayed there wouldn’t be any obstacles, such as a last-minute crisis somewhere in Maxwell’s ever-expanding empire. And, as a second thought, she also uttered another prayer for fine weather.
Then, once again, she turned her attention to her journal.
*
As it happened,the week rolled by without mishap. Maxwell had been at home the entire time. Granted, he’d spent most of the daylight hours ensconced in his study with Finlay, but he’d been present for dinner each evening and in Louisa’s bed most nights, though, true to form, he’d never stayed till morning. Still, it had almost been like a second honeymoon and Louisa had reveled in it. Even so, it wasn’t till Friday evening that she dared to uncross her fingers. To her utter relief, there had been no last-minutesummons from Maxwell’s minions, and the weather looked promising.
“An early night might be in order,” he said on the Friday night, dabbing a kiss on her cheek. “I’d like to leave at sunrise.”
Thusly dispatched, Louisa took to her bed and lost herself in some of Wordsworth’s poetry before finally snuffing out her candle. She awoke before dawn, hurried to her window, threw back the curtains, and gazed out at a sky littered with stars. “Yes,” she whispered, her subsequent sigh of relief clouding the glass. Unable to resist, she drew a heart in the misted patch and then laughed at her foolishness. A little over an hour later, following Archer’s expert attentions, Louisa regarded her reflection with satisfaction. Her dress of white cotton muslin, printed with a delicate pink rose motif on the sleeves and around the hem, looked as fresh as the summer morning. Her rebellious hair had been tamed, but not severely so. The soft style framed her face and complimented the whimsical style of her outfit.
“Worth every penny,” Maxwell said, rising to his feet as she entered the breakfast room.
Louisa blinked. “What is?’
“The small fortune you spent at Francesca’s. At least, I’m assuming that’s one of your new outfits. In any case, my dear, it’s very becoming.”
“Thank you. Yes, it is new.” She regarded her husband, whose crisp white shirt and pale blue vest contrasted well with his dark looks. As always, a sweet ache of attraction rose beneath her ribs. She tussled with a desire to wander over and kiss him, to show him some simple affection. “You look rather splendid too, Maxwell.”
He merely smiled. She took her seat, and he did likewise.
Not long after, they left Northcott Manor and set out under a golden sky, seated comfortably in Maxwell’s barouche for the two-hour—or thereabouts—journey.
As the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves merged with the crunch of carriage wheels upon the road, Louisa settled back against cushioned leather, savoring the sweetness of a perfect summer’s day as the countryside passed by. The inimitable scent of fresh-cut hay blended with hints of wildflowers. Cattle shared emerald-green meadows with sheep. On occasion, the less pleasant offerings of a farmyard soured the air.
Conversation remained light and casual, no business, no politics. Louisa wanted to know more about her hosts, and Maxwell furnished the information. Charles Fairburn was apparently descended from landed gentry in Derbyshire, where his family still owned sizable tracts of farmland. And Jane’s father had been a tutor at Edinburgh University.
“Which is where she met Bruce.” Maxwell brushed a speck of lint from his trousers. “I believe she met Charles while visiting friends in York. He was a minister there before taking his current position.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting them.” Louisa shifted her gaze to the passing countryside once more, thankful for the movement of air as they travelled. The morning coolness had vanished as the sun had climbed higher. She breathed deep and released a contented sigh. This was, she realized, their first shared excursion since their honeymoon. “How fortunate we are. It’s the perfect day for such an outing.”
Maxwell took her hand and raised it to his mouth, sending a sweet little thrill down her spine. “Perfect, indeed,” he muttered. “I guarantee they’re looking forward to meeting you as well.”
At last, the streets of Knaresborough rumbled beneath the wheels. The rectory, an elegant Georgian house surrounded by a capped stone wall, stood on the northwest edge of town, facing the road. The carriage halted in front of the black wrought-iron gate, and Maxwell helped Louisa down.
“Oh, how lovely!” She raised her parasol against the sun and cast an appreciative glance over the flower gardens surrounding the house. The air hung with an intoxicating fusion of floral scents, that of the rose being the most dominant, yet exquisitely delicate.
After giving the driver his instructions, Maxwell opened the gate, and gestured for Louisa to pass. “Jane enjoys gardening, as you can probably tell,” he said, closing the gate behind them. “She’s something of an expert on roses.”
A pinch of jealousy threatened Louisa’s composure, but she immediately shoved it away. Maxwell had known the lady for several years. It only stood to reason that he’d know something about her likes and dislikes.
The front door opened before they reached it, and a man and woman—the latter with a straw bonnet clasped in her hand—appeared on the threshold.
“Here you are, at last!” The man’s sermonic voice boomed over the garden. “I trust you had a pleasant journey?”
“Very pleasant, thank you,” Maxwell replied and placed his hand in the small of Louisa’s back. “Charles, Jane, allow me to introduce Louisa, my wife. Louisa, this is Charles and Jane Fairburn.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Harlow.” The vicar inclined his head. “Welcome to our home.”
Other than his white collar and cravat, the man was clad entirely in black. Though almost as tall as Maxwell, he had a softer physique, one that suggested a less vigorous lifestyle. An impressive set of eyebrows and sideburns adorned his features, their reddish hue similar to that of Yorkshire’s beloved brown ale. His abundance of wavy hair, however, was a shade darker, and held firmly in place by a sheen of pomade. His brown eyes, while friendly in their assessment, seemed possessed of a perceptive light, able to see past any attempt at a counterfeitfaçade. He looked to be older than Maxwell, though not by much. And the man’s deep, mellow voice had surely been created to deliver Sunday sermons.
“The pleasure is mine, Vicar,” Louisa replied, “but please, both of you, address me as Louisa.”
