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“He who stands at the threshold of love must first shed the garments of fear.”

Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner

DECEMBER 4, 1821

Marco faced a towering white marble wall carved with images. He stared at his reflection in the polished surface, and his reflection moved with a life of its own, gesturing to him as if to question his past choices and urge him to contemplate the future. And as he stood there, attempting to make sense of his gesticulating self, Marco became aware of a heavy weight upon his back.

Realizing he was carrying the stones of his indecision, he peered about in search of an exit from this transitional place. He did not belong there, for he had every intention of reaching a decision and earning his place at Molly’s side. With great relief, he noted a narrow pathway leading toward a cliff, and he hurried in that direction, eager to leave and find the gates of paradise …

Marco awoke with a start, momentarily disoriented until he realized he was in his new bedchamber, smaller than the one damaged in the fire, yet comfortably and tastefully appointed. He rolled onto his back as the pale light of morning filtered in and groaned softly. Perhaps it was a mercy that the landscape of his dreams had shifted from hell to purgatory, a sign that his fears had changed now that immediate danger no longer lurked in the shadows. Even so, the vision unsettled him. It was some comfort to know that guards had been stationed belowstairs at the baron’s insistence.

The marble wall had made plain that he had not yet earned his place as Molly’s husband, and he knew he must rise and seek a course by which he might reclaim his own esteem, having disappointed her too often with his vacillation.

A knock at the door announced the arrival of the baron’s valet, come to assist him in preparing for the day, and Marco rose at once to wash and dress.

An hour later, after having breakfasted with the baron, who had been in fine spirits regarding the resolution of the MacNaby situation, Marco had gone to the baron’s study to sit at the desk and peruse Simon’s notebooks concerning the estates once more.

It would not be such a terrible thing to pursue a new life here. The notes regarding the tenants and their circumstances had proved unexpectedly thought-provoking, as their recent visit to Elmstead had demonstrated. It was no small thing to relinquish the life one had known, the ambitions one had long entertained, but Florence lay a long sea journey away, and he must now seriously consider his place in England.

Perhaps before he attempted to resolve the matter of his worthiness to offer for Molly, he might take a modest step regarding the barony, something tangible that would allow him to assume responsibility as the baron’s representative.

Staring down at the notebooks, he attempted to discern what action might reasonably fall to him. No tenants were due to renew their leases until the following year, leaving nothing to negotiate. Rents would be collected by the stewards, and the same was true of servants’ wages, all matters were already ably managed.

A knock at the door interrupted his reflections, and he called out permission to enter.

Duncan stepped inside, faint shadows beneath his eyes betraying the late hour of their return, yet Marco found comfort in the familiar sight of him.

“The coffee you requested, sir.”

The head footman was neatly attired despite his fatigue, his livery immaculate as ever. He carried a large silver tray bearing a tall, tapered coffeepot and cups, crossing the room to set it down. Marco dimly recalled having asked for the tray earlier in the breakfast room. Rubbing his tired eyes, he inhaled the rich aroma with pleasure, his appetite stirred anew. Rising to pour himself a cup, he watched as Duncan prepared to withdraw and was struck by a sudden clarity of purpose.

He could take hold of the reins of this new role with a single, meaningful decision. Perhaps he ought to consult his uncle John … but perhaps not. Perhaps this was a choice he must make for himself, addressing any objections after the fact. Would it not strengthen his confidence and affirm his place here if he acted as his own man?

“Duncan, I would like to speak with you.”

The footman halted. “Sir?”

“Close the door, if you please.”

Duncan obeyed and returned to the desk, where Marco indicated a chair before reclaiming his own. The servant appeared uncertain, perching on the edge of the armchair.

“I was impressed by your conduct last night, Duncan.”

“Thank you, sir. Miss Carter is much liked belowstairs, and it did not seem right what Mr. MacNaby did … though I confess I do not fully understand the matter, only that it concerned Miss Carter.”

Marco inclined his head, appreciating the delicacy of the servant’s position. Duncan’s assistance the previous night, his readiness to act and his guidance to the gamekeeper’s cottage, had not been expected. He had proved himself a man of principle, worthy of trust.

“How long have you served in the baron’s household?”

The footman cleared his throat. “More than ten years, sir.”

“And how would you regard a promotion to the position of butler?”

Duncan’s eyes widened. “I … sir, are you quite certain I am equal to such a post?”

“I believe you are. You already oversee the footmen and have undoubtedly assisted MacNaby with the silver and china. You know our suppliers. And should there be any skill you feel you lack, I would see that you receive proper instruction. The Duke of Halmesbury would, I am sure, permit you to spend some weeks observing his own butler, if you wished.”