Since Wycliffe was satisfied that his master was presentable enough to meet the world, Ian turned his steps to the highlight of his day — breakfast with his wife. Not that she had conceded the privilege easily, but it was a point which, for once, he had demanded.
“Why do you want to see me so early in the day?” she had said, pouting a little. “I shall not even be dressed, and I dislike conversation at such an hour.”
“Izzy, I must know what you have planned for the day — whether you will be out for dinner, whether we are expecting company, that sort of thing.”
“Mrs Worthing can tell you such things.”
“I have no intention of asking the servants about my wife’s engagements. I wish to hear them from your own lips, and breakfast is a convenient time to do so. We need not talk at all, apart from that, but I so rarely have you to myself, even when we happen to be under the same roof, that I must have one meal each day with no distractions. I insist upon it, Izzy.”
She had surrendered gracefully, perhaps assuming that he would tire of the arrangement when he saw herdéshabillé,but he never had. Whether she wore a robe over her nightgown, her hair tumbled down her back, or her grandest ball gown, herhair piled on her head and crowned with jewels, she was just as beautiful to him. He never tired of her.
Thus it was that he made his way with eager steps to his wife’s sitting room. It had never quite recovered from Izzy’s first disastrous attempts at redecoration, and even though she had subsequently received good advice on the subject, and had even listened to some of it, the results had never pleased her. Every time she stayed at Stonywell, she had one wall or another redone, so that now four entirely different styles glared balefully at each other.
Ian had no interest in what was on the walls, so long as Izzy was there. She was late, of course. Izzy never could get anywhere on time. She joked that she would probably be late for her own funeral.
She had certainly been late for her wedding. Ian had stood in the chapel at Corland Castle, Izzy’s home, as the minutes ticked away, so utterly terrified that she would not come that his legs would barely hold him up. At any moment, he expected a footman to come in with a note for him.‘Fooled you! There will be no wedding. Whatever made you think I would marry anyone like you?’But miraculously, there she was on her father’s arm, coming nearer and nearer. She stopped beside Ian and smiled up at him, and he had melted all over again, just as he had the first time he had seen her. Then Nicholson had begun the service, the words had been spoken and it was done. She was Lady Farramont.His wife!
Today, she was only twenty minutes late, still yawning, her eyes heavy with sleep. As always, his heart somersaulted at the very sight of her. Five years married, yet he was just as besotted as ever. Did it never get any easier?
There were no greetings. He had quickly learnt that, however loquacious she was at other times, at breakfast she was as taciturn as he was, completely calm for once. She sat, he pouredher chocolate for her, she crumbled a piece of cake. Today there was nothing to say, for he knew her plans — she was going away to visit friends, leaving him alone once more. He waited for just the right moment to produce the purse.
“For your visit to the Cotterills,” he said, as he placed it on the table in front of her. “Two hundred. I know they play high, and you will not want to refuse to join in. Besides, if you should happen to go into Lincoln, there might be something you want to buy.”
“Thank you!” she said, pleasure lighting her face. “You are very good to me, husband.”
He never knew what to say to her at such times. Some men managed it easily, the glib words falling from their tongues without effort, but he had never had the way of it. So he merely grunted and continued to work his way through a mutton chop. She turned back to her slice of cake, now reduced to an almost perfect mound of crumbs.
“Will you be sure to tell me where you are?” he blurted into the silence.
She looked surprised. “You know where I will be — at the Cotterills. Somerton Manor.”
“Yes, but if you should decide to move on… go elsewhere… there could be news from Corland any day.”
“Grandmama? I have seen her not a month since, and if she should die — Or are you talking about this ghastly business of the murder of Nicholson? Who would murder thechaplain, Ian? Who would go to his room in the middle of the night and hack him to death with an axe? It is quite unbelievable!”
“Your father has engaged people to discover the murderer. I was not thinking of that particularly, no. There are a number of issues which might arise for your father and mother. I need to know precisely how to locate you, should anything occur whichyou would need to know. All I ask is that you inform me if you decide to leave Somerton Manor.”
“Of course,” she said vaguely, her attention already drifting away.
After breakfast, Ian went to his library to begin work for the day. His cousin and heir, Henry Farramont, who acted as his secretary, was already at his desk, head down, pen scratching across the paper.
“The Caswell papers are on your desk ready for signing, also the new leases, and I am just drafting a letter to Hillman,” he said, without looking up. “Three personal letters for you.” The head lifted briefly to catch Ian’s eyes. “Still nothing from Corland.”
“It could be weeks.”
“True. There is a vestry meeting on Thursday to talk about the roads — again! But I can go, if you prefer. It is deadly dull stuff. The new curate would like to pay a courtesy call to introduce himself. I have tentatively made an appointment for tomorrow.”
“How efficient you are, Henry.”
Henry looked up and grinned. “I was well taught. Besides, I have to catch you while you are here. Whatever whim brought Izzy back from town so soon, I am glad of it, for it brings you, too. You will be back there soon enough to support that bill of yours.” A hesitation, then he went on, “Izzy is off again, I hear.”
“To the Cotterills, yes.”
Ian heard the implied criticism in Henry’s voice, but chose to ignore it. It was one of the few points on which they disagreed. From the day Henry had arrived on the doorstep at the age of eight, his dark eyes filled with awe at the imposing scale of Stonywell, he and Ian had been the best of friends. The two boys had gone to Eton and Oxford together, made their first steps in society together, grieved together at age fourteen whenIan’s father had died, and when Ian had come of age and gained control of his fortune, had learnt to manage the estate together. Not once had they fallen out until the day the Lady Isabel Atherton entered their lives.
“She is too overwrought, if you ask me,” Henry had said. “Likely to be firing off in all directions at the least setback, you mark my words. Too unstable a female for a steady fellow like you.”
But Ian, deep in the throes of his first passion, could not be deterred. “She will liven me up,” he said. “A wife as staid as I am would be dreadfully boring.”
