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Chapter8
The journey to Cumberland was not entirely foreign to me. I had spent my summers traveling to my aunt’s estate in Northumberland for her yearly house party, and the slow, tedious road to Cumberland was nearly the same. The distance certainly was comparable.
James leaned against the carriage wall opposite me, his eyes closed. His soft snoring had ceased, so I was unsure if he was still asleep or simply resting. His legs were stretched out, and his knee bumped mine with every rut and turn on the road, but after a week together in the carriage, I’d grown accustomed to sharing such a small space with him.
We were nearing the end of our journey now with no one else for company, both of us doing our best to remain polite and stay out of the other’s way. This was in no way how my parents acted around one another, and I hoped that one day the discomfort and politeness between James and me could meld into a real friendship, at the very least.
I was not foolish enough to hold out for love, but I would content myself with calling James a dear friend and companion. Our beginning felt promising and proved we had the makings for compatibility, at least.
Except, of course, for the fact that James did not enjoy reading.
Dratted odd, that.
He drew in a deep breath and shifted on the squabs across from me, and immediately I was aware of myself. The way I sat, how loudly I breathed. My affinity for fainting and dislike of social activities were unfamiliar to James, and I did not wish for him to take displeasure in anything else I did so early in our marriage—especially since he had so far proven himself to be a paragon of perfection.
His eyes blinked open and sleepily rested on me. “Good morning, Wife.”
A thrill ran up my neck. I did not think I would ever grow accustomed to the title. “I believe you mean good afternoon.”
“Indeed.” He looked to the window. “We have almost arrived.”
Excitement drained from me. I had learned that James had two brothers who both lived at Chelton more often than not—Henry, the middle child, who I met in Northumberland last summer, and Benedict, the youngest. The only other resident was their mother, Lady Edith, who was titled because her father was the late Earl of Claverley. James’s father had died at Waterloo, and since he and Lady Edith had no daughters, there were no other family members at Chelton.
Though they did have a cousin and his wife—the current Lord and Lady Claverley—who lived relatively close.
“Do you have a very formal household, James?”
His head tilted to the side. “Whatever do you mean by formal? We are not prone to dining by rank or anything of that nature. Though my mother has long insisted that I preside at the head of the table. It is tedious, but I oblige her.”
“I suppose I was only wondering how many members of your family would be present to greet us when we arrive.”
“All of them, I imagine.”
I did my best to appear pleased by this revelation. It was perhaps a blessed thing that the first time I would see Henry as a married woman would be in the presence of the rest of the family. Surely, I worried for nothing. Henry likely did not even recall who I was.
My childish infatuation was just that—young, naive, and very much in the past.
“Tell me of your brothers,” I said.
James straightened in his seat. “You will be able to make your own opinion about them soon enough.” He pointed through the glass window on the door. “We have arrived.”
I leaned forward and peered through the thick glass. The carriage rolled over a wide, stone bridge, and sheep scattered to either side of us. Chelton sat in the distance up a shallow hill, its golden stone exterior a neat square with three rows of windows above a split, curved staircase. I lost the ability to breathe from the grandeur before me.
James crossed to sit beside me on the bench, but my attention was rapt on the house we approached. “Do you like it, Felicity?”
“Good heavens,” I breathed. “I cannot like it. I am amazed by it.”
“Then you approve?”
A short laugh burst from my chest, and I turned to James, grinning. He watched me earnestly, immediately sobering my delight. This was his home, and for some unknown reason, he cared what I thought of it. As though I could find anything to criticize about such a glorious house.
His hand rested on his leg, and I reached for it, curling my fingers around his. “It is truly magnificent.”
James squeezed my hand, and I allowed the action to infuse me with strength while the carriage pulled to a stop on the brown gravel drive.
A footman opened the door and let down the step, and James exited the vehicle first. He offered me his hand, and I stepped from the safety of the carriage. Four people stood in a line at the top of the stairs, the men’s arms resting on the balustrade before them, its pale stone matching the house and lined with thick, even columns. Two women bookended the men, one regal and the other simply dressed—the latter of the two was likely the housekeeper.
“Come, meet my family,” James whispered, offering me his bent arm.
