Page 100 of A Portrait of Love

Simon swung onto the seat beside her and pointed out the window, “This is Everley at its best. Watch for it—now!” His excitement was contagious and Honey gasped when the peaked roof of the big structure grew and grew until there was the entire building.

She squeezed his arm. “It is lovely, Simon.”

He grinned and kissed her soundly, his excitement almost manic.

By the time the carriage rumbled to a stop in front of the entrance there were perhaps a dozen servants lined up and waiting.

“We’ll need to hire more,” he said, his eyes flickering rapidly over the house, the servants, everything. “The ones here are a few old retainers and those the Amberlies did not take with them. Some families have worked here for generations.” He shot her a smile. “They’ll be glad to have Fairchilds back in residence.”

He was out of the carriage and handing her down almost before it rolled to a stop. Never had she seen him so excited.

“Hume, you look no older than you did when I was a boy.” Simon grabbed the older man’s—butler?—hand, his warm greeting clearly startling the stiff, proper servant

“It is a great pleasure to have you back, my lord.”

“It is wonderful to be back, Hume. This is my wife, Lady Saybrook.”

Hume bowed low. “Welcome to Everley, my lady.” He turned back to Simon. “Mr. Peel arrived two days ago and has been unpacking your trunks from Whitcomb. We have recently received a shipment from your house in London,” he said to Honey, “but have not begun to unpack until you were here to direct the staff as to where you wished to place your painting things. We have prepared the master and mistress’s—”

“Yes, yes. Very good Hume, let us go in.” Simon took Honoria’s arm and led her through the gauntlet, pausing just long enough to let her nod but not exchange a word, with all the gawking servants.

“You are in a tearing hurry,” she muttered as he all but dragged her up the steps.

He nodded, his eyes on the open doors ahead of them. “I’ve not been here for fourteen years.”

“What?” She stopped and stared, but he pulled her on. “I thought you were great friends with the Amberlies?”

“When I was a boy. Not … after.”

“After what?”

Either he didn’t hear the question or decided to ignore it.

They entered the foyer and he released her, turning to look at the rough-timbered entry hall like a man in a trance. “Not a thing has changed,” he murmured, turning in a circle, either unaware or uncaring that several servants were staring.

He strode down the long gallery that went off to the left.

Honoria smiled at the waiting footman and let him take her cloak before hurrying after her husband, tugging off her gloves while she gazed at the pictures on the wall—all of them portraits. They were nowhere near as grand as those at Whitcomb, but there were dozens of very good pieces.

“Honoria!” Simon’s head popped around a corner. “Why are you slow-poking? Hurry up.” His head disappeared and she laughed. He was like a boy—a young, carefree boy.

The corner he’d disappeared behind led to another long hall and she recollected that he’d said the house was built like an ‘E.’

Double doors made of stained glass illuminated the hall with fantastical colors and shapes. Simon was nowhere to be seen.

“Simon?” she called, her voice echoing eerily over the hard plaster and warped and cupped ancient wood floors.

“In here.” His voice floated out of a room down near the end, to the inside of the “E.”

The door was open and she paused upon entering, entranced.

There were floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides and late afternoon sunshine streamed through the beveled glass, refracting the light to make the room feel like it blazed with a hundred candles.

“Oh, Simon, it’s lovely.”

He grinned as he came toward her. “A perfect studio, isn’t it?”

She nodded, turning in a circle, enchanted. “It is.”