“Uncle Tristan!” screamed the smaller one, abandoning all propriety to race down the steps like a cannonball in pink muslin. Tristan was out of the carriage before the footman could drop the step. The cannonball hurled herself into his arms. He caught her easily, her feet dangling, her bonnet strings thwacking his cheek.
“Flora, you menace,” he said, kissing her hair.
“I am not a menace. I am a delight,” she declared into his shoulder, then twisted to stare at Christine with frank curiosity.
“I remember you,” she said seriously.
“Yes, I helped you and your sister find your Uncle Tristan when you were lost,” Christine said with a warm smile.
The older girl, Louisa, if Christine remembered correctly, descended with marginally more decorum and made a graceful curtsey that lasted precisely as long as Flora could be made to keep still.
“Mama says I must not gush,” she confided, eyes sparkling, “but I am very tempted.”
“Gush later,” said their mother, who reached Christine with an outstretched hand and a face that seemed made for welcome. “Welcome to the grimmest, darkest house in England. We will try to make it bright and cheery for you. I am always available for help with decoration.”
She winked conspiratorially. Christine found herself grinning back, disarmed by Elizabeth’s frank charm.
Ernald caught up with his wife and swept off his hat.
“Please to meet you again, Lady Christine,” he said, “you’ve taken on one hell of a task in this brooding shadow.”
“Ernald, stop, you will frighten her,” Elizabeth murmured.
“Not at all, Lady Elizabeth. I think I have the measure of my husband to be.”
She hoped the blush that lit her face was not as obvious as the heat in her face made it seem. Calling Tristan her husband-to-be had sent a heat through her as though her blood was afire. Thesewere the friends Tristan permitted into his hush. That alone recommended them.
“Elizabeth,” the lady squeezed her hand, “we are not in London. Duskwood requires simpler names and sturdier shoes.”
“God help your shoes,” Ernald put in, grinning, “the gravel walks here were laid by a man who hated ankles.”
“Which is why,” Tristan said dryly, setting Flora down and accepting a thump to the ribs for his trouble, “you always choose the lawn and ruin the lawns.”
“The lawns are for ruining,” said Flora, “Papa says so.”
“Your Papa is a libertine.”
“Is a libertine a bird?” Flora asked, delighted.
“Precisely,” Tristan said, “one that must not be fed.”
They laughed. Elizabeth’s low contralto, Ernald’s booming bark, the girls’ bright chimes. Christine felt something unclench in her chest. The house behind them was a cathedral to melancholy, but these people held candles.
“You see?” Elizabeth said softly, catching Christine’s look. “Duskwood is the sort of place that needs noise. We brought ours until you can make your own.”
The implication of those words brought the deepest flush yet, one that she was certain could not be hidden or ignored. It also brought a stab of guilt.
They talk as if the marriage is to be real. Do they know it is one of convenience only? Or do they hope that it will become something more?
They were ushered across the threshold where a great hall opened, floored in black wood that shone with varnish and bore the scars of its history. The portraits along the walls were stern, the staircases steep, the air cool and teeming with the whisper of old drafts.
Yet someone had set bowls of late roses upon the tables and tucked quilts upon window seats. A fire crackled in a hearth so large an ox might have roasted in it. Warmth and sternness negotiated their truce before Christine’s eyes.
Servants appeared and disappeared. Names pricked her memory; Rollins the butler, who nodded with the gravity of a bishop; a housekeeper called Mrs. Fogarty who had needles in her sleeve; a footman whose shoes offended Ernald’s notions of polish and therefore earned him a lecture and a wink. She saw, too, a brisk young maid whose face struck her as almost, but not quite, familiar.
She reminds me of Jane. Oh, how I wish she could be here. I know how terrible life can be at Gillray House.
“Christine. I offered your friend Jane a position. I hope she takes it. We will see when the carriages arrive with your possessions later today.”
