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It surprised her.
This close, she could see that the house was being repaired. There was scaffolding erected against several sections of the exterior walls, with piles of bricks and mortar and all the mess of serious work taking place. Fallen masonry and roof tiles lay about the yard. Several men had stopped what they were doing to stare at the new arrivals, particularly at Portia in her lavender ball gown.
A shaggy-coated dog came running, barking, and flung itself against Marcus. He laughed and rumpled its ears, looking very much at home.
But then, he had already said this was his home. Not the old manor house in the New Forest, not London with all its pleasures, but here, on the edge of the sea, on the edge of the world.
Suddenly, Portia felt as if she didn’t know Marcus at all.
“Are you coming inside?” He was holding out his hand to her.
She looked around. Hettie was already leading Mrs. Stroud in out of the cold wind and the threat of rain. There was no option but to go forth into that great gloomy house. Portia lifted her chin, pretending she was not afraid, her public mask in place. She gave him her fingers and, lifting her heavy, wide skirts with her other hand, allowed him to guide her over the hard cobbles in her thin satin slippers.
She would have remained silent the whole way, but it was the puddles that undid her. No matter how she tried, it was impossible to avoid them completely, and when her petticoats dragged in the mud for the fifth time, she could no longer hold her tongue.
“I don’t suppose you have a seamstress and a clothing emporium in the neighborhood?”
He looked blank, and then shrugged. “I’m sure we’ll find something. Does it matter?”
She would have said something sharp, but they were inside the hall now, and she was surprised into silence. It was not gloomy at all. There was a huge stained-glass window looming over the staircase, and the light cascaded through in a brilliance of reds, yellows, and blues.
“My uncle Roger was an artist in his ow
n way,” Marcus said at her side, pleased with her reaction. “He designed the window and oversaw its creation and its placement.”
Portia gazed up, wide-eyed, and could see angels cavorting. “What does it mean?” she asked in a reverential voice.
“This was his idea of heaven.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek, his lips temptingly close. “There was a section that was broken when I came, but I’ve had it repaired. You might find it especially interesting. I’ll show you…later.”
“My lady?”
The soft voice at her elbow startled her, and Portia looked down to see a short, plump woman with graying hair.
“This is Mercy, my housekeeper and cook,” Marcus said with a smile.
“Mercy,” Portia said, “I wish I could say I was happy to meet you.”
There was a hush and then Mercy laughed. “I said that meself, forty year ago, but I wouldn’t leave now for any money. You’ll see. This place grows on you, my lady. And the young master here has such plans. This old place had died along with Master Roger, but he’s brought it alive again, truly he has.”
Marcus wore a smug look, and Portia refused to meet his eyes, thinking that would only encourage him.
“I’ll take my lady up to her rooms now, sir,” the housekeeper said. “They’ve been readied to your instructions.”
“Thank you, Mercy.”
Portia could feel him watching her all the way up the stairs, but she didn’t turn back. She had a feeling he would consider that another victory.
Her rooms consisted of a bedchamber and a sitting room, both of which were clean but looking rather shabby. Dark paneling covered the walls and the floor was uneven from age, but still it had a great deal of charm. There were several vases of fresh flowers—the sort of flowers one usually found in hothouses and not growing on the marshes of Norfolk.
“He had those brought in specially.” Hettie was already there, warming the sheets with hot coals in a pan.
“Did he? They’re beautiful.” Tears again. She forced them back, telling herself it was because she was tired.
“The bedding is new, too. You can rest,” Hettie said. “You must be very tired, lieben.”
“He buys me expensive flowers but I have no nightgown. I have no clothing or luggage. I am a prisoner here. How can I rest?” And she would not cry, she told herself furiously. Under no circumstances would she cry.
“You can rest because you are tired,” Hettie replied comfortably.
