Beyond Innocence (17 page)
He seemed to feel the same. First he buried himself in the
London Times,
and then in a pile of correspondence. She told herself she did not care, could not possibly care. She'd enjoy the trip, just as she'd enjoy their stay at Greystowe.
She had plenty of time to test her vow, for the journey was not a short one. Greystowe, Freddie
informed her, was in the
East Midlands
, not far from the Peak District. As they clattered and chuffed towards the heart of
England
, they passed picturesque villages and thriving market towns. To her relief, the stench of
London
quickly cleared the air. The building stone turned gold and soft, and the landscape took on a pleasing roll. Sheep grazed the slopes, but crops had been planted as well. They shimmered
low and green beneath the clear June sky.
The country girl inside her drank it in like a healing balm.
At last, as the sun began to sink behind the hills, they entered a sheltered valley. Its fields were fed by
the
London
, the color almost hurt her eyes.
The station bordered the
"Thank God," Freddie said, stretching until his spine cracked.
Florence
echoed his sentiment with a smile, but saved her stretch for later. Aunt Hypatia would not have approved, even if she had been sleeping for hours. With a tenderness that belied his surly mood, Edward touched his aunt's shoulder. His face was achingly beautiful in its kindness.
The duchess awoke with a start. "Goodness," she said.
"Must have dropped off for a minute."
No one was rude enough to contradict her, but even Edward joined the exchange of grins.
A big old-fashioned coach awaited them on the road, accompanied by a much plainer wagon into which half a dozen liveried servants were loading their luggage. Their silent efficiency was impressive to behold. Clearly, Edward's arrival had whipped them to their best.
"Not far now," said Freddie, and draped his arm around her back. His warmth was twice as welcome after all those hours of Edward's chill. She had to admit, though, she was surprised to find him eager to resume his rural life. If ever a man had been made for the city, it was Freddie. He loved people and parties and gossiping till dawn.
"Tell me Cook has a big dinner waiting," he called to the coachman, obviously an old retainer.
"Could be, sir," said that large, grizzled fellow.
"Did think I smelled a Yorkshire pudding afore I left."
Florence
's stomach growled at the mention of food. They'd had a light tea on the train, but that was all. Freddie, of course, could not ignore the unladylike sound.
"Roast beef," he said, rubbing his hands in exaggerated glee.
"Horseradish sauce and gravy."
She laughed and pushed his shoulder to make him stop. "You'd think you'd been fasting for days!"
Beside her, Edward rediscovered his frown.
The church was farther into town, with a handsome stone school beside it. The town fathers—here she glanced at Edward—had not stinted on the windows, all of which would be taxed. She smiled when she remembered her father bullying the council to put in his windows.
Children need light,
he'd exhorted.
Light and air and a place for little eyes to wander.
As always, the thought of him brought a touch of sadness.
Poor Papa.
So much love in that big, warm heart and no one to spend it on but his daughter
and his flock. They hadn't been enough. Hard as he tried to hide it, she'd always known a part of him
had broken with her mother's death.
Freddie noted what had drawn her attention. "You'll have to visit when school starts up."
"Yes," she said and shyly squeezed his hand. Would they be here then? Did Freddie mean for them to live at Greystowe? Would he allow her to teach?
Florence
had done so at home. As the vicar's daughter, it was expected. When she married Freddie she'd be a lady but, oh, how little she'd like that honor if it meant she had to sit home all day and stitch!
These questions massed inside her as they rolled through the pretty town, but Edward's presence compelled her to hold them back. She didn't know if Freddie had spoken to his brother about the future. Would they have a small place of their own? Would Freddie want one? She could have burst with all
she wished to ask. Even not knowing, the thought that this might be her home added interest to every
soul they passed.
People called out to Freddie, she noticed, and tipped their caps to the earl.
All thoughts of the future faded with her first glimpse of the estate. The railway carriage should have warned her, and the mention of the cotton mill. Despite these hints, the sheer size of the place took her aback.
Greystowe sprawled across its grassy rise like a small Gothic town: a fortress town.
Though of relatively modern construction, with all the attendant tracery and windows and archwork, the house was topped
by battlements of stone.
The lake reflected its blocks and towers, not so much in vanity as in emphasis. Swans aside,
Florence
couldn't help being reminded of a moat. This house made no bones about its intent. It was built to impress, to dominate, to hearken back to a time when lords were lords and
everyone else was not.
Her lips twitched as she snuck a look at Edward's stern, feudal visage. She bet he'd have liked clumping about in armor, or galloping off on Samson to terrorize
England
's foes. What a step down he must feel it, to be reduced to terrorizing country mice!
"Home, sweet home," said Freddie, and
Florence
's burst
of humor faded. Anything less like a home she could not imagine. The setting sun flamed across a numberless march of windows: rose on the lower stories, lime on the upper.
It would take a miracle, she thought, to make a girl like her feel comfortable here.
Even as she pondered this impossibility, the front door— a great ironbound arch that required two brawny footmen to prop it open—released a long double line of servants. They filed down the wide granite steps, crisp as you please, like a regiment forming ranks. Their livery was black and fawn, with shining brass buttons on the coats. Edward waited for them to assemble, precisely as if he intended to review them. When they'd finished, one man and one woman stepped forward.
The man was tall and elegant, with salted black hair and pale gray eyes. The woman, a bit older, was round and merry. Good humor notwithstanding, she held herself with authority.
Florence
suspected she was the housekeeper.
"Welcome home, your lordship," said the man. "We received your telegram and everything is in readiness."
"I've prepared the best upstairs apartment for the young lady," the woman added, "and the duchess"—here she dropped a curtsey—"shall have her usual rooms on the ground floor."
"Very good," said Edward. He turned to
Florence
, his eyes strangely wary. If she hadn't known better, she'd have said he was worried about her reaction. "
Florence
, this is our steward, Nigel West, and our housekeeper, Mrs. Forster. They've both been with us for years. Should you require anything at all,
one or the other of them will be happy to oblige."
"And may we say," Mrs. Forster put in, "that we're very pleased to meet young Lord Burbrooke's intended?"
"I believe you have said it," Freddie cried, and pulled the older woman into a hug.
The woman laughed as he spun her around, her dignity forgotten.
Florence
smiled at the spectacle.
Leave it to Freddie to put everyone at their ease. Edward, naturally,
called a halt to the merriment.
"We should go in," he said. "I'm sure the ladies would like to freshen up."
Mrs. Forster immediately squirmed down and sobered.
"At once, my lord.
If the ladies would
follow me?"
He's an ogre,
Florence
thought as the housekeeper led her up the main stair. He's an old sourpuss who can't bear to see anyone happy. The thought steadied her, as if it were a shield against confusion.
But when she stepped into the blue and white splendor of her rooms, something awaited that put her to shame.
It wasn't the huge tester bed, or the breathtaking view of the lake, or even the gorgeous carving
on the fireplace. It was the picture that hung above it: Mr. Whistler's blue bridge, even more beautiful than when it had hung in that poor dingy corner of the Academy.
"Oh, my," she breathed, hands to her mouth. He'd remembered her admiration for this painting, and deigned to share the pleasure of owning it with her. That the same horrid creature
who'd
used his kisses to insult her could be so thoughtful was beyond her power to fathom.
Mrs. Forster was a step behind her. "Funny sort of mess," she said. "Lord Greystowe claims
it's
art, but
if you don't like it, I'll take it somewhere else."
"Oh, no," said
Florence
. "There isn't another picture I'd like to look at more."
She hadn't been fair, she thought as the housekeeper withdrew. Perhaps he had some reason for his behavior, perverse as it
was,
which she did not comprehend. Perhaps, in fact, he meant this as an apology.
And perhaps pigs will fly in Hades, her more practical self put in. But if there was even a chance he wasn't set against her, that he was only concerned she would let his brother down, she had to do her
best to win him over. And that's all I want, she promised herself: to be friends, to turn the other cheek
as her father would have wished. For the sake of her and Freddie's happiness, she knew she had to try.
* * *
Dinner, which had
been blissfully quiet apart from
Florence
's attempt to thank him for hanging that blasted painting in her room, was followed by a stroll through the back garden. Edward didn't see why
he had to go along, but when his aunt took his arm he couldn't find a mannerly way to refuse. In spite
of his annoyance,
Florence
's pleasure was a joy to see. He knew the house had shocked her. Greystowe was far too grand to welcome a simple vicar's daughter. She loved his gardens, though. Her eyes shone with it. Her cheeks flushed. When they passed the tangled grape arbor, she actually clapped her hands.
Like his father, Edward favored simple landscaping. Greystowe shunned Frenchified bedding arrangements for a more natural, parklike effect. Nothing was allowed to
ran
wild, of course; the thickets and glades were strictly planned. But in appearance, at least, the grounds might have been dropped from God's hand. Even the rose garden, his mother's special project, bore an admirably spontaneous air.
Florence
had just stepped onto its crushed oyster shell walk when a sudden belling from the hounds warned Edward that one segment of the household's population had yet to welcome them home. The pack raced across the lawn in full cry, their tails wagging madly, their keeper in hot pursuit.
"Hoy," yelled that hapless fellow. "Hoy there, lads.
Holdup!"
Edward braced himself for an embarrassing scene. He was not disappointed. In a matter of heartbeats
,
the wolfhound's paws struck his shoulders. Nor was he the last of the assault. Between barks and
whines of joy, a dozen tongues lashed his hands, and a dozen noses snuffled whatever they pleased.
