Chapter Seven
It took just over half an hour for the coachman to return with a rented cart from someone’s farm. He apologized as Meg climbed into the back, sitting on bits of hay.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” she assured him. “It’s a fine day.”
“You should have a fine carriage,” Dougal winced, settling next to her. “One without a broken wheel.”
“I like carts,” she said simply, tilting her face up the sun. He watched her fondly, as though he couldn’t help himself.
It took under an hour to reach the Thorncroft estate.
As expected, it was stunning. There was no other word for it. Nestled among hills and surrounded with orchards, every perspective made her want to draw. The driveway meandered through groves of willows, keeping pace along a wide river, and then through the shadows of several tall oaks before reaching the gardens.
The gardens, though in their autumn decline, still maintained their beauty. They were lush and wild even within the constraints of such formal old-fashioned arrangements. Yew hedges hid secret wells of larkspur and foxgloves. Hollyhocks stood in rows like pink-wigged footmen. Bright spots of wilting color added cheer to a house that that had been built to be imposing and impressive, to awe anyone coming up the drive, both when it was an abbey and afterwards. It succeeded.
The original structure was several hundred years old, with wings added on either side to create a courtyard dripping with ivy and sunshine. It was partly Tudor, partly Gothic in style, with a ruined medieval tower on one end.
“It’s a bit much,” Dougal muttered as the carriage pulled to a stop.
“It’s beautiful,” Meg said as the butler and housekeeper led the household staff out onto the gravel drive to greet them.
“It’s been neglected for all of its pomp and circumstance.”
“I am sure you can rectify that.” Though some of the stones could use repointing and the windows needed a thorough cleaning, it was hardly falling apart. The gatehouse where Meg lived had been reclaimed from a family of foxes. And the roofs of the tenant cottages were more birds’ nest than thatch. “Nothing that can’t be fixed,” she added.
A footman offered his hand to help her down. The cheerfulness of sunshine and hay faded to sunlight on gray stones and starched aprons and polite smiles. “Welcome back, Your Grace,” the butler said. He had the build of a pugilist under his plum-colored uniform. He smiled easily.
“Thank you, Mr. Canterbury,” Dougal said. “Mr. Canterbury, Mrs. Hill, this is Miss Swift.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Mrs. Hill looked sour. She had immediately noticed Dougal’s mistake in introducing the servants to a guest and not the other way around. And that Dougal had introduced Canterbury as Mr. Canterbury instead of just Canterbury. She didn’t seem the forgiving sort.
Meg met her gaze directly. “Mrs. Hill.”
“I assume Lady Blackwell is safely inside?” Dougal asked, even as Chartreuse bulleted through the open door, barking as though he owned the house.
Lady Blackwell followed at a more leisurely pace. “There you are, I was beginning to think highwaymen had got you.” She did not look remotely concerned. She probably thought they had stopped for an assignation.
“We had an adventure with a broken wheel, I’m afraid,” Meg said before she could get any more ideas, or worse, say them out loud.
“Oh, dear, are you hurt?”
“Not a bit.”
Mrs. Hill bobbed a curtsy. “I’ll have tea brought to the drawing room immediately.”
“Oh, right,” Dougal said. “Good idea. Thank you.”
She nodded, the lace cap on her head quivering with indignation. Meg took note, a burst of protectiveness kindling inside her. Perhaps Mrs. Hill needed a little more time to acclimate herself to the surprising new situation. Meg wasn’t without sympathy, especially as she’d often been required to act as her uncle’s housekeeper. But Mrs. Hill had months already to get herself accustomed. That ought to be plenty. Particularly as Meg was certain that Dougal was not an exacting employer. He could barely meet the butler’s eyes, for a start.
The rules might seem silly to him, but they would be used as a weapon against him if he didn’t learn them.
“Well, that won’t do,” Lady Blackwell said to Meg quietly. “Never mind, we’ll have the poor fellow sorted out in no time.”
Dougal turned. “Lady Blackwell,” he said. “Allow me to escort you inside.”
Lady Blackwell smiled, the silk butterflies sewn into her bodice fluttering. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She lingered over the title, while glancing at Mrs. Hill. Mrs. Hill flushed and bobbed another low curtsy. Lady Blackwell had that effect on people, despite the fact that she generally dressed like a slice of cake crossed with some kind of fruit.
They proceeded up the sweep of stone steps, Chartreuse leading the way with a happy bark, the diamonds on his collar flashing.