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“Oh. Well.” Andrew shrugged. “Not long, in that case. It all sort of came to me. Recently.”
They were making for the Regent’s Gallery, the largest room in the house. It was one-hundred-thirty feet long, narrowing to fifteen feet across on both ends, with a semi-circle in the middle. From the outside of the castle, that middle portion looked like an enormous tower, three stories from ground to top. Inside, at the widest part of the room, from the wall to the “tower” window was thirty-five feet.
It was several rooms in one, if one were being honest. There were multiple fireplaces. Several collections of chairs and sofas arranged throughout for sitting. Tables for cards or conversing or taking tea. And a writing desk at the end nearest the door that led to the family chapel.
Simon made for that desk, barely taking in the room’s grandeur. Their family spent a lot of time in this large room. James, when he was smaller, used to ride his hobby horse from one side to the other, galloping about while the family cheered for him. This was where they held family recitals. Lounged about after dinner, when there were no guests, or entertained themselves with books or drawing. Together, but busy with individual pursuits.
It was Simon’s favorite room. The enormous windows faced south, letting in the most light possible throughout the year.
“Perhaps Miss Frost is only gathering her thoughts,” Simon said, taking his seat at the elegant writing desk. He opened the small cupboard to withdraw pens and ink, and the drawer for paper. “She may yet satisfy your mercenary daydreams.”
“Let us hope.” Andrew clapped Simon on the shoulder. “I’m off to see if Josie is risen yet, then I’ll meet you for our ride in an hour.”
As his friend walked away, lightness in his step and humming an absurd tune, Simon repressed a shudder. His sister and best friend, wed. And it was now within Andrew’s rights to stroll into Josephine’s bedchamber—
It didn’t bear thinking upon. Indeed, though happy for them, he put a lot of effort into trying to forget they were married.
Likely a juvenile response. And Andrew would have a laugh at Simon if he suspected anything about it.
Simon dashed all thoughts of his friend and sister out of his head and gave his attention to the letter. Mr. Thomas Childwick, fourth son of the Earl of Hixham, was a first cousin on his mother’s side. And a genuinely good chap.
Family gossip held that he wanted to leave London’s social whirl in favor of a quieter city. Simon’s mother had another theory. True, Thomas had always been quieter in nature than his brothers. But he also lived in their shadows. The eldest would one day be an earl, the second son held a high rank in the military, the third waited for a living to become available to be a vicar, and the youngest was abroad on his Grand Tour. That left Thomas without a place of his own.
Simon sympathized with his cousin. Despite being the eldest son, he, often as not, felt overshadowed. But not by elder siblings. By his father.
He broke the tip of his quill when he pressed too hard against the paper. Cursing quietly, he used a cloth made expressly for that purpose to clean the mess before it ruined his letter. Then he tossed the cloth down on the table and ran his hands through his hair.
Not caring that he would undo his valet’s work.
Feeling as he did wasn’t fair.
His father likely wasn’t even aware of Simon’s difficulty. It had started at the beginning of the year. Or perhaps even before that, when Simon returned from Ireland.
He trimmed a new pen and tried to focus on the words his cousin needed. Words of encouragement. Of promising that things would get better. He suggested a change of scenery. He invited his cousin to Clairvoir for Christmas, as his mother had suggested. Indeed, he said all the best things one was supposed to say to a man struggling to find direction.
He said all the things that he had been telling himself.
He dropped the pen and leaned back in his chair.
Maybe Andrew and the others were right. Maybe he did need to find a way to reclaim some of the joy in life. Yet how did one embrace frivolity of any kind knowing about the chaos constantly held at bay by the government? How could he waste a moment in mischief when a single illness or dark moment could take his father away, leaving Simon to carry a mantle far too heavy for him?
Hours later, after posting his letter and his ride with Andrew, Simon had come no closer to finding answers to the what-if’s that plagued him. At the end of the long afternoon, he climbed the stairs up to the top floor of the castle to prepare for dinner.
Barely outside the family’s corridor, a strange sight caught Simon completely off guard.
Kneeling before a chair, dressed in her own evening finery, was Miss Frost. She appeared to be studying the arms of the chair—which was a rather impressive piece of workmanship, all things considered, even if he hadn’t ever actually seen anyone sit on the furniture.
The reason people would pass by that particular seat had to do with the arms. They were six inches wide, but not smooth or padded. Not curved, either, where one might easily rest an elbow or forearm upon them.
Miss Frost looked up from her place on the ground and smiled at him. “Whose idea was it to carve massive, scaled fish and waves into the arms of a piece of furniture?”
“William I of the Netherlands.” Simon knew perfectly well how odd the declaration sounded, though watching Miss Frost’s eyes widen was worth sounding off-hand. “He sent it as a gift, along with a few other odds and ends. My father is some distant relation and supported His Majesty in creating a sovereign nation.”
“That entirely explains the chair.” She held her hand out and he took it quite naturally, helping her come to her feet. “A king wouldn’t have a practical view of furniture, would he? No one would ever wish to rest on that to take the weight off their feet.” Her eyes sparkled as she made the comment, and Simon chuckled in response.
They stood quite close, and he still had hold of her hand. “I have heard a maid complain about dusting it. The carving is quite intricate, and the gray settles deeply in the grooves.”
Why was he talking about dusting? It ought to be the farthest thing from his mind, given the delightful way Miss Frost’s eyes danced in the fading sunlight.
