Page 52 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

Growing feelings. He snorted, and Honey flicked her ear back at him and snorted back. He’d kept from thinking about his feelings for Josephine for some time. Hadn’t admitted a thing about them, especially to himself.

The night before, when the ladies had excused themselves after dinner, Simon had given him an odd look as he said, “You needn’t host a picnic for Josephine. We could have it here instead.”

“I haven’t had a guest, let alone a party of guests, to Bytham in ages.” He had tried to sound relaxed. Unbothered. Almost bored. “It would be good for the staff, too. Put them on their mettle. In fact, plan for your family—Hartwell and Lyness, too—to stay the night. We can all attend Bytham’s chapel on Sunday before you begin the return journey.”

He didn’t say more. He didn’t explain the frenzied plans in his mind, nor what it would mean for him to see Josephine in Bytham. She hadn’t visited in years. Maybe he needed to see her there, to imagine her in his world rather than he in hers, and then he would know. Then he could admit to—something more.

The road, well-tended and in fine form considering the spring rains, gave him the peace he needed to think and plan. It also gave him far too much time to recall some of his less flattering memories with Josephine. When he had nettled her, again and again, before his year-long trip to Ireland. He had left to accompany Simon while the duke’s heir learned all he could of their far-flung estate.

And when he had come home, last year, and met Josephine again for the first time since leaving for Ireland—he had known, even then, that something had changed. But he’d ignored it for nigh-on a year. Ignored every pull toward her. He’d fought and debated with as much spirit as he had in the past. He’d teased, jested, and aggrieved her. All to avoid admitting to himself that things were different. That his feelings had changed.

Andrew crested the last hill and looked down into the village. He took High Street through to Castlegate, bypassing the tall mound upon which the castle that had given the town its name had once stood, until it had burned to the ground during the war between the royal houses of York.

Sixty years before, the king had given Andrew’s family the mound and the grounds surrounding it, and it was at the farthest reaches of those grounds that another castle stood. Smaller, and a castle more by its nature of stone than any sort of grandeur. It wasn’t like Clairvoir Castle, rebuilt with a fortune and an eye for design.

He turned right down the nameless road that led to his family’s home. A baronetcy wasn’t much. And they hadn’t held the title long. The Crown had created the title to go with the castle, which was really only a small stone edifice meant by King James to be a place of refuge for his spies and favored courtiers. Kept ready by the baronets.

Andrew passed beneath the heavy canopy of trees that secreted his home away from the world. His castle didn’t stand on a hill. It was tucked away. Built of gray stone, it had a cellar, two floors, and attics. There were ten bedrooms, but none of them as large as Andrew’s guest quarters at Clairvoir.

He dismounted his horse at the door at the same moment the butler, Sutton, flung it open in welcome.

“Welcome home, Sir Andrew,” the butler, old enough to be Andrew’s father, puffed his chest out and worked hard to conceal a genuine smile. “It is good to see you, sir.”

“Thank you, Sutton. Though you may not feel that way for long.” Andrew looked up at his house, counting the widened windows his father had put in decades before to make the inside of the house brighter. “Guests are coming close at my heels. They will be here tomorrow, in fact, before noon.”

Rather than appear troubled, the butler followed Andrew inside with his usual vigor and good cheer. He helped Andrew remove his overcoat, hat, and gloves. Peter, a footman, appeared to take those things away.

“I will send for Mrs. Caswell,” Sutton said. “I am certain the staff will have no trouble making ready for your guests, sir.”

Andrew took in the smallish entry, so different from the long corridor arrayed with swords and shields, the guardroom with its giant fireplaces to welcome guests, that Clairvoir Castle boasted. His home was humble by comparison. Doors on either side of the entry led to the rooms of the house, which opened up into one another rather than having long passages to connect them.

The floors were highly polished stone on the ground level and wood above. The walls, ancient as they were, had been plastered over by one of his predecessors and hung with artwork by family members for generations. None of Vandyck’s work here. No Dutch or Italian masterpieces adorned his halls.

He swallowed. His home wasn’t opulent, and perhaps not even elegant by some standards. But it was comfortable, safe, and all he had to offer besides himself.

A joyful greeting burst from the housekeeper the moment she walked through the arched doorway that led to the rear of the house where the servants worked. “Sir Andrew, welcome home. We didn’t know to expect you, sir, or we’d have turned out to greet you properly.”

Though he didn’t deserve their fondness, given his long absences, Andrew drank in the familiarity and warmth of his servants with gratitude. Whether or not they knew it, they would have a hand in his choice of their future mistress.

As Andrew walked through his house with his two most senior servants following behind, he gave them all the information he could about their coming guests and his hopes for their brief stay and entertainment. Though the size of his castle, his larder, and even his pocketbook should have dampened his spirits, Andrew could only think that a woman of Josephine’s status would have to be quite special to accept him as a suitor.

If he could see Josephine in those rooms, walking through his modest gardens, then he would know—he felt certain of it—whether they could put down their barbed words and witty retorts long enough to fall in love.

* * *

“When did we last visit Sir Andrew’s castle?” Rosalind asked in the carriage as they bumped along the road. She and Isabelle sat on either side of their governess while Mrs. Robinson read from a book.

“Four years ago.” Josephine kept her eyes on the passing scenery. She and her grandmother had the forward-facing seat, and between them was a basket of gifts for Andrew’s home. “You were little more than an infant,” she added with a teasing smile.

“Nine years old is not an infant.” Rosalind sniffed and folded her hands in her lap, lifting her chin higher still. “You were only sixteen. Not out of the schoolroom.”

“Children.” Grandmama eyed them both with displeasure. “When you are as old as I am, you will realize that anyone under forty ought to be considered a juvenile, and under twenty an infant. You have no scope of the world just yet, for all you think yourselves so wise.”

Mrs. Robinson brought her book a little higher to hide her knowing smile, and Josephine bit her lip to keep from giggling at Rosalind’s affronted expression. Both granddaughters dutifully chorused, “Yes, Grandmama,” as they ought before Isabelle changed the subject.

“Why do so many guards come with us?” She motioned upward to the top of the carriage. Their driver was a coachman, of course, but one of their father’s specially trained men rode beside him and another on the back of the carriage. There was yet another riding on one of the horses pulling the vehicle, then a fourth on his own mount.

“Because Simon knows that is how Father would want it.” Josephine looked out the window once more. “Even if we are unlikely to be set upon by thieves or radicals, more sets of eyes and ears make us doubly safe.”