She could not finish the sentence. A title she was entitled to? A title she wanted? Fortunately, she did not have to complete the sentence because Lucien appeared beside her.
“Henry, we talked about this. Marianne is my friend. She lives with us.”
“But Mrs. Greaves said?—”
Mrs. Greaves, she thought. That was the housekeeper, was it not? Who gave that lady the right to speak about such personal matters?
Henry did not seem bothered in the least.
“Do you like frogs?” he asked her earnestly. “I tried to catch one so we could put it in your chamber so you would have a pet when you arrived, but I could not catch it. If you like frogs, perhaps you can help me catch one. You can pick your own.”
She paused. “Frogs are...” She could not tell him that they were slimy and made her shudder. She did not want to hurt his feelings—possibly for the second time.
“I enjoy watching frogs at the lake.”
“We have ever so many frogs,” the boy informed her. “They leap from the big leaves, one to the next, like this.” He turned, squatted, holding his arms out so they were at an angle. Then he leapt once, twice, three times until Lucien picked him up and settled him on his hip.
“That was a grand demonstration of a leaping frog. But I think we should let Lady Marianne decide for herself if she wishes to have a pet. I shall let it be known that I would not enjoy a frog as a pet any more than I enjoyed having the squirrel as a pet that you attempted to procure for me last week,” he said.
Henry looked at her. “Papa did not want the squirrel. I had thought that he would very much like it. I thought so because Papa said the squirrel was such a fantastic spec…spiciment.”
“Specimen,” Lucien said, enunciating the word. Then he looked at Marianne. “We have a great many squirrels here. They live in the garden. The two of us like to feed them together. They are all named after British royalty—Henry’s decision.”
“I see,” she said. This was becoming too much. Lucien was acting as though she ought to know this boy. It was not that she intended to ignore him—it was just that she did not know how to talk to children. That seemed to come easily to Lucien; he engaged the boy in simple conversation. But she did not know what to say to him, how to entertain him. Squirrels and frogs? It was not at all what she had in mind.
“I am rather fatigued,” she said. “Would you mind if I retired to my chambers?”
“Of course not,” Lucien said, evidently unbothered. “Mrs. Greaves can take you. She is back from the church already.” He rang the bell—or rather, he had his son yank on the thick rope that hung by the front door.
A footman entered, and Lucien requested the housekeeper’s presence.
They stood for a few moments as a small quarrel broke out between Henry and Lucien, with the boy insisting on ringing the bell again and Lucien giving him a lecture on not overusing the bell because it would eventually confuse the servants.
Then the housekeeper appeared. Marianne recognized her at once. She had been at the church, sitting in the second or third row. She wore a lavender-colored gown and a smart bonnet that fit her ensemble. She had assumed she was an aunt of some sort—but now it turned out she was the housekeeper. How irregular.
“Mrs. Greaves, this is the new Countess of Wexford.” The woman curtsied deeply in a way that made Marianne realize at once that she was well accustomed to the protocol in a house such as this, although that protocol did not usually include attending church and sitting in one of the front rows.
“It is such a pleasure to have you here, Lady Wexford. I assure you, you will fit in wonderfully. And our Henry is a darling,” she said, ruffling the boy’s blond hair.
“I am sure he is,” she said, looking at the little boy who was now occupied by a hangnail on his index finger.
“Lady Wexford is tired, Mrs. Greaves. Would you show her to her chambers?”
“Of course,” the older woman said, and motioned towards the grand staircase. Without saying a further word, Marianne followed her. They walked to the second-floor landing, and Mrs. Greaves waved her hand around. “Down the hall is a grand library, an upstairs drawing room, and a room we call the sewing room because Lord Wexford’s mother used to use it primarily for needlework. There are guest chambers at the end of the hall. Your chamber will be upstairs.”
She followed the woman up, taking in her surroundings. Huge paintings hung on the walls, most of them depicting hunting scenes. Between the second and third floors, three large tapestries hung, depicting a scene of three Greek gods gathered around a water well.
Upstairs, they made their way down a long hall lined with a red velvet carpet.
“You have been assigned Her Ladyship’s old chambers. But do not fret—they have been thoroughly cleaned, everything dusted, fresh linens, and some new furnishings as well. His lordship wanted to ensure that his wife was very comfortable.”
“Thank you,” she said as the housekeeper opened one of the doors and then deftly stepped aside. The chamber wasenormous. It was perhaps the size of three of the rooms at her father’s old home and two rooms at her aunt’s current home. A bed that looked so large she felt she might get lost in it stood to the right-hand side, with four thick bedposts carved with an intricate pattern. The curtains had been drawn back and tied, and the canopy above was blue with a depiction of stars matching the bed curtains tied to the bedposts.
Along one wall stretched a long sideboard with a looking glass—obscenely large. Two armchairs were at the end of the room, along with a fireplace that seemed so far away from her bed she feared that it would not even warm the room properly.
Several doors were dotted around the room, and she wondered where they led. A dressing room, no doubt—but the others?
“Would you like a bath?” Mrs. Greaves asked. “Your room has a bathing chamber. There is a tub installed already, and one of these fancy new showers. I have never used it—devil’s contraption that it is—but his lordship wanted one for you in case you were accustomed to it.”
