“Look after her,” William said.
“Every day,” James vowed.
William looked at him. Whatever he found there satisfied him, because he nodded once and stepped back. Then he turned to Isadora and hugged her.
Cecily was last. She held Isadora’s hands and looked at her warmly.
“Well?” she prompted softly.
“Well,” Isadora said.
Cecily smiled. “Good. That’s all. Just good.” She squeezed her hands once and then released them.
The carriage was warm, and the roads were wet from the storm. James sat beside Isadora rather than across from her. Every few minutes, his gaze would find her, rest there, and then flicker away again with a small smile.
“What?” she asked.
“What what?”
“You are looking at me.”
“I am allowed to look at my wife.”
“You have been doing it every four minutes since we left Blackmoor.” She blushed.
He smirked. “I spent days not being able to look at you. I am making up for them.”
She looked out the window, feeling warm in a way that had nothing to do with the carriage.
Briggs met them at the door. “Your Grace,” he greeted James, then turned and bowed his head to Isadora with warmth that made her stare. “Your Grace.”
“How is she?” Isadora recovered quickly.
“In high spirits, Your Grace. She has been conducting experiments with her breakfast.”
“Successful ones?”
“Largely on the floor, Your Grace.”
“I’ll go up shortly,” she said, feeling relief wash over her.
They were barely through the door when James said, “Come with me. There is something I want to show you first. Before anything else.”
“James, I should see Violet.”
“Five minutes.” He held out his hand. It was becoming impossible to ignore the flutter in her stomach every time she looked at him. “Please.”
She looked at his hand, then took it.
He led her toward the west wing, towards the incomplete library.
James stopped in front of it. He looked at her once and then opened it.
Isadora peeked inside.
The room was now completed, running the full length of the west wing, with windows at both ends that looked out over the grounds on one side and the kitchen garden on the other. The shelves ran from floor to ceiling on three walls, solid and dark-wooded and built with the care of something made to last. A reading chair sat at an angle that would catch the morning light, and a small, uncluttered desk stood near the south window.
The shelves were full. Not partially full, not arranged with the sparse optimism of a room waiting for its contents to accumulate, but full, properly full, carrying the weight of books collected with attention.
