Page 5

“Over there, Charlotte.” Grandmama pointed out the carriage window. “Do you see it?”

Charlotte leaned closer. Gently undulating fields dotted with white sheep stretched out like a deep green blanket marked with hedgerow seams. Small groves of trees and an occasional cottage interrupted the rolling pastures, and in the distance, where the sky met the land, a narrow strip of blue sparkled in the sunlight. Her breath caught. They had reached the sea.

“Do you think we would hear the waves if we were to lower the windows?” she asked.

Her grandmother laughed. “Not yet, perhaps, but it is quite possible that you may be able to hear them from Tribbley Hall.”

“Really? Are we getting close?”

Grandmama nodded. “Very close. I believe the house will come into view around the next bend.”

Charlotte waited impatiently as the carriage slowed to take the turn in the road. They rolled past a handful of large sycamore trees, and then the vista opened up. Not more than half a mile away, a gray slate roof topped with a dozen or more chimneys showed above a tall hedgerow.

“There it is,” Grandmama said, sounding uncommonly pleased. “Tribbley Hall.”

Charlotte supposed that she could have made a polite comment about the height or number of chimneys, but instead, she waited, watching quietly as the carriage rumbled closer. They turned another slight bend, this time passing between two stone pillars that marked an opening in the hedge. The drive curved slightly to the right and, all at once, they were pulling up before a magnificent red-stone house.

“Oh my.” The words left Charlotte’s lips in a whisper.

Her grandmother looked pleased. “I am glad to see that it is just as I remembered.”

“I’ve rarely seen such a beautiful house,” Charlotte said.

A white portico hung over half a dozen stone steps leading to an imposing set of double doors. On either side of the doors, rose bushes—which would undoubtedly be a mass of color later in the year—filled narrow flower beds. Beneath the gabled roof, three stories of white-framed windows lined the front of the home.

As they watched, the doors opened, and two footmen came out to meet the carriage. Behind them, a lady with white hair, an exceptionally fine floral gown, and a walking cane appeared in the doorway.

“Is that Lady Cheston?” Charlotte asked.

“It is, indeed,” her grandmother said.

The woman’s bearing spoke of high breeding, but her somewhat severe expression softened into a welcoming smile when one of the footmen opened the carriage door and helped Grandmama out.

“Marion, you are come at last.” With the aid of her cane, Lady Cheston descended the stairs and moved to greet her old friend with a kiss on each cheek. “It has been far too long.”

“It certainly has,” Grandmama said.

“And this must be your granddaughter.” Lady Cheston’s attention shifted as Charlotte stepped out of the carriage.

“Yes.” Grandmama waited for Charlotte to join them. “Charlotte, this is my dear friend, Lady Cheston. Daphne, this is Miss Charlotte Densley.”

Charlotte curtseyed. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Cheston.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Densley,” Lady Cheston said. “I have heard a great deal about you from your grandmother.” She studied Charlotte carefully. “And I must say, you are just as lovely as she claimed.”

Perhaps Lady Cheston’s eyesight was not what it had once been. Charlotte’s yellow silk gown was covered in wrinkles. After having slept with her head resting against the carriage seat for well over an hour, she was quite sure that her blonde hair was falling from its pins beneath her bonnet. And although others had commented on the unusually blue color of her eyes, she knew full well that her nose sported far too many freckles to be considered attractive.

“You are very kind, my lady,” she said.

Lady Cheston smiled and slid her free hand through Grandmama’s arm. “Come. After such a long journey, you both must be travel-weary. Let us go inside.”

An hour later, Charlotte had marveled at the splendid great hall with its swooping banister rail, marble tile floors, and enormous oil paintings in gilded frames. She’d admired the tastefully decorated drawing room and neighboring, more personal, parlor. And she’d fallen in love with her assigned bedchamber. When her grandmother had declared her need for some quiet time, Charlotte had tried—and failed—to take a nap on the comfortable, four-poster bed covered in a pale green and white striped bedspread. She had then stood at the window admiring the view for at least ten minutes before finally succumbing to her excitement and opting to take her exploration outside.

Tying the ribbons beneath her bonnet, she nodded her thanks to the butler who opened the front doors for her. She stepped outside, and closing her eyes beneath the portico, she took a deep breath. The air was fresh and carried the song of birds and the bleating of sheep. Opening her eyes again, she took in her surroundings. The drive curved around the front of the house, looping back to join the main thoroughfare on the left and branching off to go around the back of the house on the right. Curious as to what lay behind the stately home, Charlotte chose to go right.

The gravel drive cut through manicured lawns. Flower beds with the last of the season’s daffodils and tulips were a splash of color against all the greenery. If the grass’s verdant color and the small puddles spotting the drive were any indication, Tribbley Hall had received significant rain this spring.

Up ahead, the drive ended in a small courtyard surrounded by three buildings. Based on their size, Charlotte assumed one was the stables and one was a carriage house. The function of the third escaped her. A small copse of trees and shrubs stood nearby, the undergrowth more tangled and wild than the flower beds she’d recently passed. She moved closer. And then she heard a cry. Or at least, she thought she did. Veering left, she approached the shrubs cautiously, pausing to look through the foliage. The cry came again. This time it was louder and more urgent.