Cynthia actually laughed. “You must be joking.” When Wilhelmina merely smiled, Cynthia said, “What happened to the caretaker and his wife?”
“They’re still there, but I don’t intend to let them toil away while I do nothing. Besides, I rather think it would do us both a world of good to exorcise all the pent up aggravation roiling around inside us through hard physical work.”
“Do you know,” Cynthia said as she straightened herself in her seat. “I believe you may be correct. London has not been good to me since Henry’s death. The brief joy I knew with Michael has been snuffed out completely, lowering my spirits and making me dread every day.”
“So we are in agreement then?” Wilhelmina asked. “You’ll come with me to Renwick?”
“Indeed I shall, Mama. More than that, I shall enjoy every moment of it.”
Wilhelmina grinned. For the first time in months – years even – she felt as though there was light upon the horizon.
6
It took James and Michael three days to reach their destination by mail coach, during which they spoke little to each other. After being crammed together with other passengers heading north, James didn’t mind the two mile walk they had to take once the coachman dropped them off on the main road. He wasn’t sure Michael felt the same. His mood had not improved since leaving London. If anything, Michael seemed more forlorn than ever. And he clearly wasn’t ready to forgive James for disapproving of Mrs. Petersen. Even though any sensible person could figure out it would be a calamitous match, Michael was hell-bent on blaming James for not being able to marry her.
James sighed. Hopefully Michael’s temper would ease in response to the fresh air and sunshine. It was early summer, and the day was pleasant and bright. Colorful wildflowers crowded each side of the country lane that would take them to Clarington House. Already, James could see the wide stone edifice peeking out from behind a cluster of trees in the distance. Extensive fields of green swept toward the horizon on either side, a mile in each direction before the tenant lands began.
With his leather satchel flung over one shoulder and a carpet bag in each hand, James quickened his pace. He was suddenly eager for a glass of cool lemonade on the terrace with a few of Cook’s tasty sandwiches to go with it. Behind him, his son huffed a breath. He sounded disgruntled. James grinned. The young man detested walking, but it was good for him to use his legs and to recognize the value of having a carriage take him wherever he needed to go.
“We’re almost there,” James encouraged. “Come on.”
“I don’t understand why we could not hire a private coach,” Michael grumbled. “It’s not like we can’t afford it.”
“True, but then we would have been denied that riveting conversation about the difference between silk and satin.” James threw his son a grin.
Michael rolled his eyes. “Those women made my ears bleed.”
“Really? I see no evidence of that.” Another eye-roll was followed by silence. James told himself Michael just needed time. He’d soon recover whatever heartache he suffered. The lad was still young. A brief separation from Mrs. Petersen, followed by an introduction to other more suitable ladies, would do the trick.
Satisfied with this plan to cure Michael of his problematic infatuation, James started along the final stretch of road, lined by elm trees. Planted centuries ago, they seemed to bow in greeting, their lustrous canopies shading the travelers from the afternoon sun.
“My feet hurt,” Michael complained.
“Don’t worry,” James told him brightly, “you’ll be able to rest them soon.”
They reached the front door of Clarington House ten minutes later with Michael insisting he’d gotten a blister.
“You can discard your boots and soak your feet once we’ve greeted your grandmamma and grandpapa,” James said. He grabbed the knocker and gave the door three loud raps before trying the handle. The door swung open with ease, granting them entrance before the butler managed to arrive.
“Mr. James and Michael Dale,” the servant exclaimed as he hastened toward them a moment later. Robert Warren had replaced the previous butler three years earlier and was roughly the same age as James. He was also less stiff than his predecessor and lighter of foot. “Welcome to Clarington House. Mr. and Mrs. Dale will be overjoyed to see you both, I’m sure.”
“Thank you, Warren,” James said. He and Michael had set their bags on the floor and were now in the process of shucking their outerwear garments. Warren stepped in to help while a pair of able footmen collected the luggage. “I apologize for arriving unannounced.”
“No need,” Warren said with a bit more butlerish flair than he’d initially shown. “The maids will have your rooms ready within the hour. Until then I recommend you join your parents for refreshments.”
“Might I request a pitcher of lemonade?” James asked.
Warren smirked. “It is waiting for you on the terrace as we speak. I’ll have some extra glasses brought out right away.”
The butler strode off and James turned to Michael. “Shall we?”
Michael shrugged as if indifferent, but James had not missed the eager look in his eyes at the mention of lemonade. He stifled a grin and led the way through. Had he been as prone to emotional contrariness when he was that age? James shook his head and entered the drawing room at the opposite end of which a pair of French doors were flung open to let in the fresh countryside air. He crossed to them and stepped out onto the uneven paving stones he’d helped his father lay nearly thirty years earlier. They matched the grey façade of the building while lending a rustic feel to the place. Complemented by the perennials his mother had planted, the space provided a peaceful retreat.
James’s mother, who sat facing the house, spotted him first. “Good heavens, James. Is that you?”
His father turned in his seat. “My God. And it looks like you’ve brought Michael with you.”
They both stood, allowing James to embrace them with all his might. His parents had never been frugal in their show of affection, neither between each other nor toward their children, and while that might not be the norm among upper-class families, James was grateful for it. He’d never doubted his parents’ love for each other or for him.
