“But?”
“Well, I assume someday you wish to marry?”
Her question caught him off guard. Honestly, Luke had not given marriage much thought at this stage of his life, but a good baron needed an heir, so there was only one reasonable answer. “Yes.”
“Luke,” she turned to face him, “this house is not liveable.” She could tell he wanted to protest, so she held up her hand, “I could make it liveable.” That seemed to pacify him. “But it will never be ideal. There are no servant quarters, so you cannot have a full staff. There are no hosting opportunities-”
“Is that important?” Luke asked defensively.
Clara nodded emphatically. “If you were a titleless gentleman, no, it would not be necessary, but you are a baron. Your estate should be the center of life in Harleston.” Her voice raised passionately in volume. “You need a place to hold meetings and dinners with possible allies. Your wife will need a place to host their wives for tea. You will want a ballroom that can fit a proper wedding ball guest list, and Luke,” she paused dramatically, “you do not even have a nursery!”
The truth of her words settled in his mind. “So what are you suggesting?”
She looked around the room. “Do you have any emotional attachmentto this place?”
“No.”
“Then, if it were up to me, I would knock it down and build a new one. You will not be needing a home for three years anyway. It is the perfect opportunity.”
Knock it down?The thought had never even crossed his mind. Maxwell Manor had always seemed a dark, looming prison that came with being the Baron of Harleston. He had never considerednotliving there an option.Knock it down.As the suggestion sunk in, he found it appealed to him very much.
Yes, he would build a new home. A place like Rosecrest. A house full of light and warmth and happiness. He was not destined for a miserable end. Suddenly, being a lord seemed a lot less painful. For the first time, possibly ever, Luke had hope in his future.I can be happy.It seemed a simple phrase, but for Luke, it was a giant realization.
He turned to Clara, smiling. “Knock it down!”
Now that old Maxwell Manor was set for demolition, Clara had very different tasks than she originally supposed. She and Luke spent hours going through boxes and discussing opinions on each piece of furniture. Some items would be stored at Rosecrest until the new Maxwell Manor was completed. Other things were being listed for sale, and a select few pieces were going with Lady Maxwell to Spain.
“What do you think of this portrait?” Luke asked John and Clara as they emptied the walls of the sitting room.
“Who is it?” John questioned as he looked at the image of a dark, scowling man. His face was downright frightening.
“No idea,” Luke replied with a shrug, “Mother?” His mother sat in her usual chair. She glanced up at the image and shook her head. Clara pointed to the ‘sell’ pile.
Papa emerged from the staircase. “Luke,” he called, “the estate manager should be here soon. Did you want to look at our budget calculations again before he arrives?”
“Oh, right.” He gave Clara an apologetic look.
“It is time for a tea break anyway,” she reassured him. “I will have some sent up to you as well.”
“Thank you, ClaraBear,” Papa responded. “John, will you be joining us?” John nodded, and then Papa addressed Luke, “Now I noticed an error …” The men disappeared up the stairs.
A few minutes later, the estate manager arrived, and Clara ushered him to the bedroom Luke used as a makeshift study. By the time she returned, the tea had been delivered, so she prepared cups for Lady Maxwell and herself before settling into the middle chair.
The women did not speak as they sipped the beverage. At first, the silence was uncomfortable, but as time passed, it became maddening. While Clara was not unaccustomed to a lack of noise, Maxwell Manor’s quiet was undeniably different than anything she had experienced. The place seemed to swallow life right out of the air. The gray stone walls entrapped all sounds and light, making one feel as if they were being buried alive, and as each minute passed, one sank into the earth deeper, deeper, deeper…
Say something! Anything!Clara mentally begged the baroness, but the silence continued. The melancholy stillness tortured her, and she feared the only way out was to connect with something living. But the poor woman beside her looked as if the stillness had already won. There was very little life left in Lady Maxwell.
Help, it is suffocating me!But her fears could not take voice.
Eventually, Lady Maxwell set her dish down and picked up her knitting again. The clinking of the needles finally broke the silence, and at last Clara could breathe.It was all in your head,she consoled herself.It is not real.
Her comfort was short lived, because after twenty excruciatingly long minutes, boredom seemed the new killer.I should have brought a book,she bemoaned. The estate had nothing by way of entertainment.
Finally, Luke’s mother commented, “There are embroidery supplies in the desk drawer.”
Oh, thank goodness!Clara thought as she crossed the room. She opened the stiff, wooden drawer of the mahogany desk and pulled out a dark blue sewing boxwith the initialsAELembroidered flawlessly on top. She carried it back with her to the chair before opening the plush lid.
She gasped, because staring back at her was a miniature portrait of Luke as the young, scrawny boy he once was. Only, the image was not made of paper and paint, but of canvas and thread. She carefully lifted it out of the box, not knowing exactly how to handle such a fine piece of art. Below it, lay a similar piece, featuring the boy a few years younger. “Did you make these?” Clara asked in awe.
