As she had suspected, the air was cold enough to freeze a girl’s very bones, but the snow was not deep if one walked with care to avoid places where drifts had gathered. Augusta, of course, managed to walk through the deepest piles, so that the hem of her pelisse was soaked. Charlotte gently chided her, in her rôle as temporary mama. As the eldest, she was always in charge whenever the sisters ventured forth without Mama. If ever a woman had been born to be a wife and mother, it was Charlotte, with her stream of gentle admonishments and herhousewifely instincts. It was a puzzle why no man had ever seen the possibilities in her.
Sofia herself could not quite see the attraction in motherhood. The improved status of being a married woman was a consideration, naturally, and she would quite like to be mistress of her own establishment, and not be merely the youngest, and frequently overlooked, daughter. But to spend one’s life breeding, as Rowena seemed condemned to do, did not appeal. As for a husband, no matter how dutifully she chased after every likely young man, and a few less likely ones, too, it had to be confessed, she had never been greatly drawn to them as companions of her heart. There had not been a single one whom she could look at and say honestly that she would be content to meet him at breakfast every morning for the rest of her life.
Nevertheless, it was her bounden duty to do her utmost to marry, and so she set forth with her sisters in pursuit of Mr Payne. Their efforts were in vain, however. Once they caught a glimpse of him with Richard on the far side of the lake, and occasionally there was a faint drift of their voices far away, but the only person they saw was the gamekeeper, out with his gun. They returned to the house cold and wet, especially Augusta, and with bright red noses. The rest of the day was spent in bemoaning their ill-fortune, and planning the next stage of their campaign.
But on one matter they were all agreed, even Mama — from now on, they would eat breakfast with the gentlemen in the breakfast parlour, a far more comfortable method of pursuit than trailing about in the snow.
5: An Invitation
“AGreek temple?” Richard Merrington said in astonished tones. “Great heavens!”
“Roman,” Simon said diffidently. “It is in the Roman style.”
The gentlemen had gathered in the duke’s study to examine Simon’s first drawings of his proposed orangery.
“I suppose it will be filled with statuary and all manner of marble decorations,” Merrington said.
“That is the general idea, and some suitable murals on the inner walls. A hypocaust for heating.”
The duke laughed. “This is very different from your efforts, Richard,” he said, leaning over the table where Simon’s drawings were laid out. “I like it, and the setting is interesting, with the lake around it. It will look charming from the front of the house.”
“That is the idea,” Simon said.
“It will cost the earth,” Merrington muttered.
“What does that matter, for Rowena?” the duke said, his brows lowering ominously. “It will be a suitable celebration of the birth of the heir. Have you any costings, Payne?”
“Not yet, Duke.”
Merrington gave a‘Pft!’of disgust, and walked out of the room.
“He is on edge at the moment because of Mrs Richard’s imminent confinement,” James Hammond said in conciliatory tones.
“That is no excuse,” the duke said. “If you ask me, he is jealous of a man of real talent showing him how it should be done. These are proper architectural drawings, not those piffling sketches of his. And I never met a more penny-pinching man. When I am gone and he inherits all this, he will doubtless turn off half the servants and live on mutton dripping and stale bread. I cannot abide such parsimonious ways.”
Simon said nothing, leaving it to Hammond to remonstrate gently with the duke.
When the drawings were shown to the ladies later, he was gratified to find that they were almost universally admired. The only naysayer, although in the mildest terms, was Mrs Richard Merrington herself, for whom the project was ultimately intended.
“It is quite splendid,” she said, after the effusions of the others had died away somewhat. “It will be rather a long way to walk to enjoy it, however.”
“There will be an admirable view from the front of the house,” the duke said, his brows lowering again in the manner Simon had come to recognise as a sign of displeasure.
“Oh, yes, and it will be quite lovely to gaze out at it over the lake,” she said. “But I shall want to sit in it, too. There is nothing so delightful as the sight of all those exotic trees flourishing and watching their wonderful fruits burgeoning day by day. To get there, I shall have to cross the stream by the bridge at the top of the lake and walk round the far side to the orangery.”
“You will hardly want to be out there every day,” the duke said dismissively. “It will be a pleasant stroll in the summer.”
“Well, yes, but—” she began.
Simon put in hastily, “How about a bridge across the narrow part of the lake? That would be a shorter route to the orangery.”
“Even more expense,” Merrington muttered, but Simon was given leave by the duke to design a suitable bridge.
“After all, nothing is agreed yet,” he said, glowering at Merrington. “I want to see all the possibilities before I make a decision.”
Simon retreated promptly to his room, and settled at the table there, sketch book ready. How easy it would be to run up some elegant designs for bridges, and yet… He could not help recalling the endless hours he had spent talking to Mr Thwaite, discussing his requirements in minute detail and then modifying the plan of his great house accordingly. Not that he had yet agreed to build, but still, everything had been discussed.
Yet he had never talked to Mrs Merrington about the orangery. To Merrington, yes, and to the duke, but never to the lady in whose honour it was to be built.
