Catherine stands beside Lady Jones’ mud-splattered carriage in front of the large, sandstone stucco two-story main house. She tries to take deep breaths, a little nauseous from the winding end to their ride. Or it’s the butterflies rioting in her stomach.
Sitting beside Rosalie for the past few hours, swaying into each other, hands touching briefly, eyes meeting fleetingly before they looked away—it’s left Catherine riled up, and eager, and terrified, and excited.
They’re finally here. It’s almost nighttime. And she and Rosalie are going to be truly alone again, soon.
“Ah, Lady Jones!”
Catherine turns. Lady Jones has just stepped down from the carriage and is smiling brightly at the approaching owner of Blaise Castle House, Mr.Tarton. Lady Jones looks remarkably put together despite her discomfort from the journey.
“Mr.Tarton,” she replies, taking his hands as he reaches her. “So wonderful to see you. We thank you for your hospitality.”
“I would not pass up a chance to hear your stories for all theworld. And I am always excited to share my grounds with new friends. I fear it’s a little late to head to the castle, but we’ll sup and talk and get up early tomorrow for a full tour?”
His long, narrow face is split in a charming smile, blue eyes sparkling. His white hair catches the sunlight almost like a halo.
“Wonderful,” Lady Jones says, taking his arm. “Young people, follow us.”
Rosalie loops her arm through Catherine’s, interrupting her brief fantasy about Rosalie grabbing a saber and running through the woods, Catherine’s hand in hers, to escape to the castle, chased by thieves, or pirates, or something equally ridiculous. The very touch of her arm makes Catherine shiver.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Rosalie asks calmly.
“Very. You, ah, came here as children?” Catherine asks, trying to push the fantasy from her mind.
“Mr.Tarton has always been fond of Aunt Genevieve,” Rosalie says, walking them so frustratingly sedately through the front portico of Blaise House, beneath the immense white columns. “She’s brought us here most summers for at least a week. Sometimes we stay in one of the cottages, sometimes in the house. Mr.Tarton’s a lovely man.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Catherine says, trying to imagine visiting such a property each summer, before or after being home at an estate the size of the Tisend lands.
The Pine estate is sizeable in its own way, but hardly this grand. Most of their land is rented out. She’s missed the rowdy dinners they used to throw for their tenants.
“Christopher and I once played a game of hide-and-seek that lasted over a day,” Rosalie says, her voice ringing around the grand entryway to the house.
Catherine takes in the high, two-story ceiling; the marblefloors; the white walls covered in enormous landscape paintings. If the rest of the house is this grand, it wouldn’t be hard to hide somewhere sneaky.
“If I recall, Mother nearly had a fit when they couldn’t find me,” Christopher says, appearing at Catherine’s side.
“We had to search for seven hours. It was dreadful,” Rosalie replies.
“Where were you hiding?” Catherine asks, noting Mr.Dean following Mr.Tarton and Lady Jones toward the dining room without a backward glance at their trio, as usual.
“There’s a little attic door hidden by an armoire at the back of one of the dressing rooms in the largest guest suite,” Christopher says, smirking while Rosalie sighs.
“He shimmied behind the armoire and managed to tug it backward so it was nearly flush with the wall. Lucky he didn’t get stuck in there and starve to death, honestly.”
“Oh, that was horrible,” Lady Jones says.
They’ve caught up with Lady Jones and Mr.Tarton in the massive, red-wallpapered dining room. Historic crests and more landscape paintings line the walls between the tall windows looking out on the sprawling lawn. The table is nearly three times the size of Catherine’s at home, bedecked with expensive silver candlestick holders and enormous floral centerpieces. It’s set for just the five of them, but so opulent.
“Please take your seats,” Mr.Tarton says, beckoning them to join him at the far end.
Catherine ends up between Rosalie and Lady Jones, with Christopher and Mr.Dean across the table, Mr.Tarton at the head.
“You were both banned from playing anything in the house after that, weren’t you?” Lady Jones asks.
“When young Mr.Tisend sent us on a wild goose chase? Indeed,” Mr.Tarton agrees.
“My only defense was that I was seven. I think the mandatory history lessons for the rest of the visit were punishment enough,” Christopher says.
“He could recite the entire chain of ownership in his sleep,” Rosalie says.
