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“Apparently he stocked the cellar with hundreds of bottles,” Ferrington continued as they walked. “We shan’t drink it up until we’re old.”
“A great deal of drink is required for large house parties,” said Cecelia at their backs.
“Ah.” The earl looked at Harriet. “We’ll have as many of those as you like.”
“I’ve never been to any,” she replied. Her youth had not included such invitations.
“Neither have I.”
He was more like her than her close school friends, Harriet realized. Even with them, she’d sometimes felt like an outsider when they chattered about their connections in society. And the gentlemen she’d met during the season often had no other topic of conversation. Their talk was filled with unfamiliar names and shared occasions, along with the expectation she would know of them and be impressed. Ferrington was the only nobleman she’d encountered who never did this. Because, like her, he could not.
In the antiquated kitchen, Cecelia’s cook had many suggestions for improvement, all of them sensible. They agreed she would note them down for future reference and moved on to the upper floors.
“I’m told this room is known as the countess’s retreat,” Ferrington said, opening a door and gesturing for her to enter.
Harriet stepped into a beautifully proportioned chamber with long windows on two sides letting the light flood in. There was a tiled fireplace on the right with a design of curling vines. The hangings and furniture were faded and worn, as was the striped wallpaper. But a rug covering the center of the floor glowed with jewel colors. With a little freshening, this could be a charming place to sit.
She went to look outside. The windows overlooked the garden, which cried out for attention. Her grandfather’s gardener would be a good person to consult. He and his helpers had created a riot of flowers at Winstead Hall. It would be a pleasure to restore these grounds. A series of patterned beds would provide a lovely view from this vantage point. For someone. She turned away.
They looked into the bedchambers used by the earl and countess with their adjoining dressing rooms on the opposite sides. Neither looked occupied at present. They had the same faded quality as the countess’s parlor. Harriet wondered which room Ferrington was occupying now.
“I set up in a smaller chamber,” he said as if reading her thoughts. “I wasn’t ready for this sort of state when I arrived.”
It must have been odd to move from the Travelers’ camp to the hall, Harriet acknowledged.
“But I am now,” he added. He seemed to think she needed this reassurance. “Mrs. Riley tells me the linen is a disgrace,” he went on. “I don’t know exactly what that means. Does it go out cavorting with the tapestries in the drawing room during the hours of darkness?”
Harriet laughed. “It’s probably just threadbare.” The problem was not unfamiliar.
“How disappointing.”
“They can be mended.” She’d darned many torn bed linens.
“You should just replace them,” said Cecelia from the doorway.
Harriet nearly jumped. She’d almost forgotten her friend’s presence.
“Worn-out sheets are good for polishing furniture,” the duchess added.
She could do that, Harriet realized. She could replace outworn linens and hangings, even furniture. There would be no need for scrimping. She could create her own sort of household, about which she discovered she had definite ideas. She wanted an informal, comfortable, bountiful home such as she never had before. Later on, perhaps it would bustle with children. Her mother would be so happy in such a place. Tears thickened Harriet’s throat at the picture.
They examined the guest bedrooms, and Ferrington expressed some enthusiasm about installing newfangled bathing facilities. They saw the servants’ quarters required extensive refurbishing before returning to the ground floor. Cecelia slipped away to “see about luncheon,” blatantly leaving them alone in the drawing room.
“We shall do whatever you want with the house,” the rogue earl said then. “I’m sure you know exactly how things should be. You should buy anything you like.”
“As long as I cleared the expenditure with you, I suppose,” Harriet replied.
“No need for that.”
“But I would have to come to you for the money,” she pointed out. He must know her grandfather’s money—his payment for a title, in his mind—would go to her husband.
“That doesn’t seem right,” Ferrington answered. “We’ll put you in charge of the funds.”
He said it as if it was only sensible and not a revolution. Was this some American attitude? No, things weren’t so very different there. It was his unique outlook.
She could simply stay silent and marry him, Harriet thought. Would that be so very bad? Everything about this visit, abouthim, urged her in that direction. But she’d forced him to propose. He hadn’t even thought of it himself, seemingly. He’d stepped forward out of obligation. He’d never said he loved her. If she married him, wasn’t she being as greedy and pragmatic as her grandfather? Hadn’t she made a deal, just as the old man had ordered?
There were those searing kisses. But men kissed easily, she’d been told. Passion flamed and died, or so she’d heard. Chaperones and novels were full of warnings about that. As the latter were rife with stories of gentlemen manipulated into marriage and the disastrous consequences thereof. She’d railed at him about withholding his identity, called him a liar more than once. Wasn’t she as bad or worse? She must speak to him clearly and honestly. And if he then drew back… Tears threatened again, and she shied away from the thought.
