“Yes,” he said, his gaze drifting to the window of the carriage. “I think so, too.”
Nestled into a little valley, Crossthwaite was also beautiful. A sprawling house, added on to over the years so now it was quite large. And only Oliver and his young son lived here?
“It’s originally Tudor,” he told her as he helped her down from the carriage. “But there have been improvements made, both before and after I purchased it, and I hope you’ll find it adequate.”
He was very patient, making sure the grooms knew she wanted to lead Zephyr into the stables herself. After letting her fuss over settling her horse, Oliver took her into the house and made introductions to the rest of the staff. He must have sent word of his marriage because no one seemed surprised to have a new mistress. He then took her on a tour of the rooms on the ground floor before suggesting she must want to rest before dinner.
Not fatigued in the slightest but eager to please, she climbed the stairs. On the landing, she stopped in front of a portrait of a woman with pale skin, fine bones, and enormous, dark eyes. Dark hair like Oliver. And beautiful, like him.
“Is this your sister?”
“I have no sister. This was my second wife. Nathaniel’s mother.”
Oh. The woman in the painting was ethereal. Exquisitely delicate. So very much Henrietta’s opposite in every way. She heard Oliver step onto the landing behind her, come closer to her.
She couldn’t think. She blurted, “I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry you had to marry me because I wouldn’t leave you alone. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
“I’m sorry . . . your wife died. She was beautiful. You must miss her a great deal.”
He said nothing.
“And Nathaniel must miss her?”
“He never knew her. She died giving birth.”
Henrietta knew that. She meant the child must miss a mother? A motherly influence? She turned her head to look at Oliver, but he was staring at the painting.
“Emily was frail,” he said.
“I’m not frail.” Another blurt.
His head moved, and he took her in as if seeing her for the first time. “No, you’re not.”
“Is there a portrait of your first wife, too?”
His face closed, his eyes shuttered. “No.”
“I see.”
The air was a bit damp, so the curl was dangling. Shiny and soft. Tempting. She could reach out and touch it. But she mustn’t. She should not impose herself, either.
“Where’s the nursery? I’d so very much like to meet Nathaniel.”
Oliver looked up the stairs. “He might be resting.”
“Oh, please may I have a peek at him? I can creep away quietly if he’s asleep.”
After a pause, her husband nodded and took her up another flight of stairs and down a hallway. He stood in an open doorway for a moment and then gestured for her to approach.
Inside what must be the nursery, a dark-haired, dark-eyed little boy sat in a chair that was much too big for him, at a table that was much too high for him. He listlessly pushed blocks around on the table top, every once in a while looking up at his nurse who was in the chair next to him, darning a small stocking.
“Hello.” Henrietta used her softest voice which still sounded too loud in this quiet room in this quiet house.
The little boy’s head turned and his eyes immediately fixed on his father. The nurse hastily got to her feet and bobbed.
“Sir. Madam.”
