“Yes,” James said.
William looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded once and turned away.
Cecily embraced Isadora near the church door. James did not hear what was said. He watched Isadora’s face over Cecily’s shoulder—the way it softened for just a moment, the way she closed her eyes briefly, the way she straightened again when they pulled apart.
She caught him watching, and he looked away.
CHAPTER 10
The carriage had barely stopped before James began talking.
“The east wing has been prepared for your use,” he said, handing her down. “Mrs. Holt has arranged the rooms. And the blue sitting room connects directly to the bedroom—suitable for reading. There is adequate light in the mornings on that side of the house.”
“Ah, I see. That sounds fine,” Isadora murmured.
“The dressing room is smaller than ideal, but Mrs. Holt believes the wardrobe situation can be managed with some reorganization. She will speak to you about it this afternoon if that is convenient.”
“Of course.”
She stood in the entrance hall and looked around.
She had stood here before. Several times over the past two weeks, she had crossed this floor and climbed these stairs and moved through these rooms with the freedom of a guest, which was the freedom of someone who could leave.
The house had felt large then, and grand, and slightly overwhelming in the way of places that had absorbed centuries of consequence and wore it without apology.
It felt different now.
She could not say precisely how. The floor was the same stone. The staircase was the same dark wood. The portraits on the wall were of the same slightly intimidating ancestors, regarding her with the collective composure of people who had nothing to prove.
But she was not leaving. That was the difference. She was not leaving, and the house seemed to know it.
She was not entirely sure how she felt about that yet.
“The nursery schedule runs at six, ten, two, and six,” James was saying. He had produced a paper from somewhere. She was not sure when. “The nurse—Mrs. Plum, you’ve met her—she manages the morning shift. I thought you might prefer the afternoon shift, since Violet settles more easily with you present. Then, but if you would rather a different arrangement?—”
He wrote a list. He is standing in our entrance hall on our wedding day, holding a list.
“The afternoon shift is fine.”
“Good.” He tapped the page. “The household accounts will come to you on Fridays. Henderson has prepared a summary of the estate’s current position, which I’ll have sent to your sitting room. It is not urgent reading, but I thought you should have the full picture?—”
He was moving now, leading her toward the east corridor with the focused energy of a man with considerable ground to cover.
“James.”
“—as soon as possible. The cook’s name is Mrs. Farrow. She has worked here for twelve years, and she will tell you things about the menu that I have stopped contesting because the food is excellent and the alternative is an argument I do not have time for. If you wish to change anything, she will require?—”
“Yes,” she said.
She looked at the side of his face, the list held slightly aloft—the momentum of a man who was conducting a very important briefing and who had not once looked at her in the past ten minutes to see how it was landing.
She thought about saying something.
She couldn’t help thinking about the ride over, the quiet of it, or the way he had edged away from her when she had foolishly thought he would kiss her.
“—some careful handling. Not difficult, simply careful.” He flipped the page. “Tenant meetings take place on the first Thursday of the month. I do not expect you to attend, but Henderson suggested you might want to be informed of?—”
“Mm.”
