He wanted to tell the driver to halt, to allow him to study the surprising view. Instead, he remained silent as the carriage climbed the top of the next rise. Here, the scene was even more improbable. An arched bridge reminding him of structures in Italy spanned a roaring river. Behind it, as if protected by the river itself, sat a house. No, a castle. No, perhaps a combination of the two. Three stories tall, of pale yellow stone, it was dominated by a white marble pediment stretching up to a roof surrounded by a railing and adorned with a series of statues.
“What is that?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“That, Mr. Eston, is Chavensworth.”
“It’s the size of a mountain,” he said. A two-story wing sprouted both on the left and the right of the larger section of Chavensworth, each wing disappearing intothe forest of trees forming the house’s backdrop.
“Hardly a mountain, Mr. Eston.” A small smile formed on her lips. “Chavensworth has always been one of the most famous of the stately homes of England,” she said, her tone back to being that of a duke’s daughter. “Thomas Archer worked on the plans, and the waterworks in the gardens have survived two hundred years. The north front, the public entrance, of Chavensworth dates from the fourteenth century, when Sir Matthew de Baines was given license to crenellate.”
“And you cannot bear to be parted from it.”
She turned her head and regarded him again. Surprise rounded her gray eyes, but what was the reason for the sudden blush on her cheeks?
“It’s my home,” she said simply.
“People deserve that type of love, Sarah. Not structures.”
There was that look again, the one that prompted him to lean forward and place his hand on her knee. She flinched, but he didn’t relent.
“Right this moment, tell me what you’re thinking. It doesn’t matter what it is. Tell me.”
“You haven’t the power to command me to speak, Mr. Eston.”
“That’s a start, Sarah.”
“I have been in your presence exactly one hour, Mr. Eston. Bits of minutes gathered up together that probably totals one hour. Add this journey, and it’s two, perhaps nearly three. You have no knowledge of me.”
Nor would he, if she had anything to say about it.
The carriage rolled through the gates of Chavensworth.
Tall bushes and feathery trees sat amidst a closely cropped lawn sloping down to the river in the front of the house. In the rear, a road led to the rest of the buildings of the estate, and the stables. Chavensworth was set among prosperous farms and dominated the countryside like the regal house it was. The placement of the many windows and large doorway always made it appear as if the house were smiling, and anticipating her return.
Sarah concentrated on the approach. The winter had been one of ice storms, and the road was pocked badly, necessitating that the gravel be replaced. The paint on the shutters needed to be retouched, and the landscapers needed to finish smoothing out the winter mulch and removing the muslin from the smaller of the rosebushes. The change of seasons always resulted in a myriad of chores, and by the time all the tasks were done, the seasons were changing again.
She made a mental list of things needing to be done as the weather warmed, not simply to take her mind from the man still watching her too closely but to keep her from thinking of her mother. Still, a prayer crept into her thoughts. Please, dear God, let her be well. Let her have wakened. Let her be eating again. Let her recognize me.
She wished she’d thought to have hay spread across the gravel, but then, she hadn’t known how loud the wheels would sound.
The carriage rolled to a stop, and she took a deep breath.
Her husband was quite chivalrous, exiting the carriage before her and turning to hold his hand out to assist her down the folded steps. She took his hand andschooled her features so no one could see how much she feared the approaching moments.
After fluffing her skirts, and surreptitiously arranging her hoops, she straightened her shoulders and began to walk up the broad steps toward Chavenworth’s front door, praying as she went.
Chapter 4
Thomas, anticipatory as always, opened the door just as she put her foot on the last step. For a second, his smile of welcome faded as he glanced at the man on the steps behind her. His face smoothed into an effortless expression, and he bowed from the waist.
“Lady Sarah,” he said. “Welcome home.”
Sarah began to remove her gloves one finger at a time, sliding the silk from knuckle to nail slowly, a task requiring so much concentration that she’d needn’t look at Mr. Eston.
“And my mother, Thomas? Is she well?”
She counted ten agonizing beats of her heart before he answered. Ten, in which she wondered if he was going to hang his head low and murmur the words she so dreaded to hear: Your mother, Lady Sarah, is dead.
Twelve more beats, and Eston moved to stand closer.
