Lady Lowry put down her roll. “The earl has arrived?”
“Yes.”
She tucked strands of fair hair beneath her cap. “I must get busy. Such a lot to organize. Of course, he will want to meet those in society equal to his rank. Whom shall I invite?” She frowned. “So few to choose from. Mr. and Mrs. Crompton of the Pastures, and the widow, Mrs. Herrington, and of course, Mr. Lancaster, the squire at Northoaks…” She drifted off for a moment in thought.
Olivia’s cheeks warmed. She told herself she was immune to her mistress’s callous disregard for her feelings but feared she wasn’t. Would never be.
Impervious to any hurt she might have caused at the mention of the squire, Lady Lowry stared up at her. “Don’t daydream, girl. The reception rooms need to be cleaned. Thoroughly. Take up the rugs and make sure the piano is properly dusted and polished. The servants always make a poor job of it.” She tapped her chin. “We might have some music. And see they are careful with my china ornaments. Any chips, and the girl will find herself out in the street. Tell Cook to come here. I wish to discuss the menu.”
Lord Redcliffe’s arrival had stirred Lady Lowry into a frenzy. Relieved to escape, Olivia hurried from the room. In the kitchen, Cook sat with her morning cup of tea, something delicious baking in the oven. “Sit down and have a bite to eat before you fade away,” she said, eyeing Olivia. “Is Madam in one of her moods?”
“She wishes to discuss the menu for the party she plans for the Earl of Redcliffe. He has arrived in the village”
“Oh?” Cook pushed her cap on straight. “Well, his nibs will have to take what he’s given, won’t he. I’m not one of the Prince of Wales’s fancy chefs.”
Olivia laughed as she poured herself a cup of tea. When free of her duties, she would call on Lord Redcliffe. As soon as she learned of his expected visit, she had given this considerable thought, for she feared he may not remain here long. If he planned to restore the house with even a skeleton staff for further visits, he would soon see what a pickle he found himself in and could hardly refuse her offer. She rubbed her aching temples. The success of her endeavor rested on his acceptance of her proposal.
Chapter Two
James Williams, Dominic’sestate manager, unlocked the Redcliffe Hall gates, and Grimsby drove the coach onto the grounds. The vehicle bumped and rattled along the ill-kept gravel drive through an avenue of ancient elms.
Reeling from the state of the gardens, Dominic’s spirits sank further at the daunting sight of the Elizabethan house, built centuries ago by courtiers in the hope of the queen staying there when she traveled north. As far as he knew, she never did. Ivy grew rampant over the pale stone walls. He anticipated smoking chimneys and a leaking slate roof.
The coach stopped outside the front doors, set in a recessed stone archway above a short flight of steps, where he alighted with Williams.
Williams produced a large key and unlocked the solid oak doors.
“No servants stayed on?” Dominic asked in despair.
“Not a one, milord.”
The entry, with a cedar settle, led into an echoing great hall, the ribbed ceiling two stories high, a mammoth stone fireplace at each end. A refectory table and a few straight-backed chairs were the only furnishings. Portraits of the family’s ancestors still hung on the walls, along with massive tapestries depicting battle and hunting scenes, getting ragged. The air smelled thickly of dust.
It was odd to imagine his father spending his childhood here before he went to boarding school and on to Cambridge. He’d spoken often of the beauty of the Northumbrian landscape, and its history, but to Dominic’s knowledge, he’d never visited again after he married.
He removed his hat and gloves, then flicked the dirty table with his handkerchief before he laid them down. The vast hall was cold as a tomb. He should turn around and go back to London. Leave it to Williams to find a tenant, or failing that, sell it. He sighed. “How many bedchambers are there, Williams?”
“Not sure, my lord. All but a few, shut up for years. Shall I have them counted?”
A widower of some fifty-five years with dark hair graying at the temples, Williams had a reassuring manner Dominic appreciated. Especially now. He had taken to him immediately, finding wisdom in his hazel eyes.
“Leave it for now.”
“Servants’ quarters are up near the attics.”
They crossed the slate floor to the carved timber staircase rising to the floors above.
More portraits of his ancestors hung in gilt frames in the long gallery, which ran the length of the house. Dominic paused before a gentleman on horseback, his riding clothes in the style of the last century.
“Your uncle,” Williams said at his elbow.
“He would have sat for this in his middle years, well before his riding accident.” The portrait differed from the idea he’d formed of his uncle. Alberic was a big man with a powerful build and keen green eyes, uncomfortably similar to his own. Astride a magnificent jet-black horse, a riding crop resting in a large, capable-looking hand, he appeared in control and confident, every inch the earl.
They entered through a stone arched doorway into the drawing room, paneled in dark oak, and crossed the boards covered by an Aubusson carpet. Beautifully proportioned, the room still displayed a shabby elegance. Slender columns framed the white marble fireplace, the mantel reaching up to the ceiling, from which hung twin chandeliers of Italian crystal, dulled by neglect, as were the cherrywood Queen Anne sideboards, gate-leg tables, and needlepoint covered chairs. The silk curtains were threadbare, and the damask upholstery on the sofas, faded.
Dominic eyed the blank patches on the walls. “Some paintings are gone.”
“Before I came and made an inventory. Your uncle may have sold them.”
