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Penelope lay still, suddenly conscious of a crushing isolation. She’d lost her childhood home, her friends, her anticipated future. She had no occupation except learning the tasks of day-to-day living. Life stretched ahead of her, empty.
“Nonsense,” she said aloud, sitting up. She was far better off than last autumn, when her brother’s recklessness had brought everything down around their ears. And then in the midst of the hardest year of her life, word of this miraculous legacy had reached her. She had a small income from her mother’s estate. No one had been able to touch that despite her brother’s disgrace. It was enough to live comfortably in a house like this, and to have a few luxuries as well. She would find new friends; she would make a life. Penelope shook herself and rose to get on with it.
* * *
Foyle arrived the following afternoon with the two large carters’ wagons full of furniture. It was a relief to see the man, gnarled, laconic, and crotchety as he was. He’d been a part of the Pendleton household for as long as Penelope could remember, seeming old the whole time.
The drivers unharnessed the great draft horses, led them to a water trough by the barn, then loosed them in the grassy field behind the house. Foyle waited with a tapping foot until the drivers returned, then set about directing the unloading. The men seemed to find his growling commands funny, perhaps because Foyle was half their size. Kitty flitted around them like a butterfly among oxen, carrying small items into the house.
By the end of the day, Penelope had a proper bed in one upper chamber, with a wardrobe, dressing table, and washstand. Kitty had similar furnishings in the small room over the kitchen. One lower room held a settee and armchair before the fireplace, two small tables, and a bookshelf with the volumes Penelope had managed to bring. A larger table and chairs graced the other downstairs room, making it seem like a dining room, though she wondered whether she would ever need such a thing. There was a worktable for the kitchen, two straight chairs, and a tall cupboard for pans and dishes. The last upstairs room was nearly empty, a measure of how little she had left. But Penelope refused to think of that. She could unpack her clothes now. They could alter the draperies she’d brought to fit the new windows. It was a comfort to have familiar possessions around her, an overlay of home on this new location. She would keep her mind on that.
Foyle had discovered a room over the stalls in the barn with a small iron stove. He went off with one of the cots to install his things there, declaring he’d be snug as a bug. He would not be swayed from his determination not to live in the house, which was rather a relief considering the limited space. Penelope suspected that his decision was partly based on propriety and partly a wish for freedom. Foyle liked to roam. Tomorrow, she’d send him off to explore the neighborhood and make inquiries.
* * *
Daniel knew he shouldn’t welcome the knock on his estate office door. He’d vowed to work for at least three hours without interruption. But the columns of numbers in the yearly accounts had begun to blur. The arrival of his mysterious new neighbor had left him even more distracted than usual. He very much feared he was going to have to start at the top, again. How he hated numbers! “Come in!” he said.
His butler entered, expressionless but exuding disapproval. “A visitor has arrived,” he said.
“A caller, you mean? So late in the day?”
“I believe the gentleman has come to stay, my lord. That was the impression I gained, at least.”
“What? I didn’t invite anyone.”
“Indeed. I assumed you would have told me if you had, my lord.”
“Of course I would, Grant.” Daniel stood. “Let’s see about this.”
In the main reception room, Daniel found Lord Macklin awaiting him, as polished and impressive as he’d been in London three months ago. He greeted the older man with raised eyebrows.
“I was passing through Derbyshire,” said the earl. “And I thought I’d stop by to see how you were getting on. Your letters were so interesting.”
Hehadwritten Macklin several times after that March dinner. Why had he done so? Daniel didn’t know, exactly. Some echoes of their conversation about grief? A feeling that Macklin embodied elements long missing from his life? The impulse had eventually faded among his piles of lists. “I’m still quite busy,” he replied. Not very hospitable, but he hadn’t invited the man, after all.
His coolness had no effect. “I’m delighted at the opportunity to see Frithgerd,” said Macklin. “I’ve heard a good deal about it. Your father and I entered society in the same season, you know.”
“I didn’t.” Daniel felt a flash of resentment. Could anyone knowlessabout their parents than he did? He pushed the thought aside.
“We thought ourselves top of the trees, complete to a shade.” The tall, dark-haired guest smiled as he looked around the room. “This can’t be the oldest part of the house.”
“No, that’s the east wing.”
“Ah. Have you records of its construction? I wonder how the original building fits with your name.”
“My name?” Daniel had never heard that Lord Macklin specialized in odd conversations. On the contrary, the earl was renowned for social finesse. But this was the second strange encounter they’d had.
“‘Frith’ is an Old English word. It means something like peace or protection, I understand. Or security perhaps.”
“Old English. Like Saxon, you mean?” Daniel had known that his bloodline went back before the Conquest, but no one had mentioned this.
“Or Angle,” said the earl.
“What?”
“As in Anglo-Saxon?”
Perhaps the older man had gone quietly mad, Daniel thought, and no one had noticed yet because he was too much revered.
