Noah and I had each been so busy—him with the castle and me getting ready to move—that communication had been scant, consisting mostly of friendly texts and concern over my safety. Noah the friend was out in full force. Noah the lover had vanished. But I hoped not permanently.
The time difference hadn't helped matters. Our texts seemed to pass in the night. Responses were slow. And I learned what a night owl Noah still was. Work had neither tamed him nor turned him into someone who turned in early.
Noah had promised to meet me at baggage claim and drive me to our castle on the hill, showing me the sights along the way. If the castle was half as breathtaking in person as it was in the photos online and that Noah had sent, I'd be ecstatic and overwhelmed.
Even now I couldn't believe the castle had been in the Marston family for over nine hundred years. How could one family have created and maintained that much wealth for nearly a millennium? It was unfathomable to my American mind. I'd come from peasant and pioneer stock so far beneath the notice of the least of nobility that I was sure my ancestors would look down their nose at my new high and mighty status. Any wealth, or even pocket change, that any of my ancestors might have once had had not reached me. Or likely even the end of the month.
According to the history Mr. Thorne had given me, Hardison Castle was a motte and bailey castle on the site of an ancient buhr, originally built by Alfred the Great to defend against Viking attacks. The keep was completed in the late twelfth century. The castle was awarded to Robin Marston by Henry II, who was then the Duke of Anjou.
It was a traditional country estate of more than seven thousand acres that included a village, cottages, a hotel, a medieval deer park, several pubs, and acres and acres of agricultural land and glorious orchards. Some of it was rented out to tenants whose families had farmed it for centuries.
The castle sat in the heart of cider country, but had shuttered its cidery before the mid-nineteen hundreds. Which was where I came in. I was going to make handcrafted, artisan cider. Which is much more challenging to make than commercial cider, but much more rewarding and prestigious. Added to the castle's burgeoning tourist industry, I had confidence it would also be more profitable. We didn't need to produce huge quantities. We needed to draw connoisseurs and people who longed for luxury to the castle.
Thinking about all this, no wonder the late duke refused to be the man who lost the family estate. That kind of family history demanded continued success. After studying the castle and family, I understood Hardly a little better. At least, I thought I did. I wondered if Noah would catch the old duke's fever and fervor, too.
I came off the Jetway into the terminal and took my phone off airplane mode, feeling lighter already. The need to look over my shoulder vanished. I could breathe again. Immediately a series of texts pinged in, including one from Noah.
Sorry, Gray. I've been detained at an important business meeting in the heart of the city. Lots to learn and manage. I'll be home late tonight. I've sent a driver from the castle, Rogers, to Heathrow to collect you and take you home. Look for him at baggage claim. He'll have a sign with your name.
Enjoy the ride. It's a beautiful trip. If traffic's light, you'll be at the castle in two and a half to three hours.
Capture your first impression of it for me and hold it in your memory. I'll want to know if your jaw drops like mine did the first time I saw it for myself.
I was unaccountably let down. My new groom should have moved heaven and earth, and important meetings, to meet me after such an absence. We'd never had a honeymoon, after all. Just a wedding night. And I was his best friend, and great benefits partner, if nothing else. The castle and the trip to it were supposed to mark the next phase of our adventure together.
I texted Noah as I walked, telling him I was eager to see him and hoped to have my jaw back up off the floor by the time he got home.
The driver was waiting for me when I got to the baggage carousel. And he was, indeed, holding up a sign with my name, Duchess of Hardison.
This had to be Noah's idea of a joke. I was going to have to kill him when I saw him later. If there was anything more pretentious than this, I couldn't imagine it.
I rarely blushed anymore, but my cheeks were warm as I walked up to the driver and held out my hand. "I'm Grace. You're expecting me."
"I am, your grace. I'm Rogers."
"Just Grace, Rogers," I said. "Or duchess if you insist."
"Yes, ma'am," he said. "How many bags are you travelling with? Will we need a trolley?"
"Yes to the baggage cart."
He was already prepared with one next to him. "If you'll be so good as to point the bags out when they come around?"
The trip was drizzly, awash with road mist, and a bit dreary. I supposed it would have been a beautiful trip if we'd been blessed with sunshine. Rogers wasn't the chatty type. He concentrated on the road. I passed the time listening to an audiobook while gazing at the sights out the window.
"We're almost home, duchess," Rogers said sometime later, startling me out of my book and thoughts.
Almost was a relative term. Even after turning onto the estate, we drove through acres and acres of forest and deer park. Past farmland. I was most interested in the orchards. I asked Rogers about them.
"They're on the other side of the estate, duchess," he said. "We would've seen them if we'd come in the other way, but that would have meant adding a fair amount to your trip. I assumed you'd be tired and eager to settle in after your long day." He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "I can drive past the castle and show you the orchards, then circle back if you like?"
"That's kind of you," I said. "Another day. When it's not so rainy. I have plenty of time."
"You might be waiting a while, duchess. It tends to rain here a fair bit."
"That's okay," I said. "I'm from Seattle. I don't melt. Rain doesn't bother me. But there isn't much of a view in the mist."
Rogers laughed.
When the castle finally came into view, the clouds had begun to break. Bits of blue sky and peach, yellows, and orange broke through with shafts of sunlight. The broken clouds, dark and gray, contrasted with the warm, sunny highlighting, the perfect dichotomy, just like my new relationship with Noah.
Hardison Castle rose high on the motte, Gothic and great. Forbidding, but frighteningly beautiful. Eerie. Gray under the shade of cloud. Pinkish in hue where the light hit the stone. Turreted and yet square. Windows lit with reflection. A study in light and emotion.
Terraced gardens spread in front of it, filled with spring bulbs emerging and beginning to bloom. And in front of the terraces, acres of spring-green lawn coming to life.
Despite my resolve, my jaw dropped, just like Noah had predicted. I was mistress of all this? A Grade One historic site? It was so big and bold and expansive that it felt like a government or a trust should own and run it, not an individual. Certainly not Noah and me.
"What a beautiful lawn and gardens," I murmured almost to myself.
"Oh, yes," Rogers said. "They were the late duke's pride and joy. He died sitting in his garden up there on the top terrace. Near the fountain. Reading a novel, he was. He looked very peaceful. He died with a smile on his face. The garden was his personal version of heaven. The lawn is one of the favorite wedding sites on the estate. There, and in the courtyard by the castle. Wedding season will be starting soon. We'll be gearing up for it."
Rogers pulled through the gates into the castle courtyard. Close up, the castle was even more impressive and forbidding.
"Why do I feel like I need to buy an entrance ticket?" I said as Rogers pulled the car to a stop.
He chuckled. "You'll soon get used to it, duchess."
I doubt it, I wanted to say. How did one get used to something like this?
Rogers hopped out of what still seemed like the passenger side to me and opened my door. He handed me out of the car.
I stood in the courtyard, shielding my eyes from the shaft of sunlight. I was completely
stumped as to what to do now. I had expected to arrive with Noah. Did I knock? Was the castle locked? Was I supposed to have a key around my waist, like a medieval chatelaine?
Fortunately, Rogers knew what to do. He grabbed my large rolling suitcase, piled another on top of it, slung a bag over his shoulder, and motioned to me. "This way, duchess. Olive is expecting us. She'll be in the office."
I followed him around to the side of the castle to what was probably a former service entrance. No grand entrance and welcome to her castle for the new duchess.
Rogers pushed through an unlocked door into a well-lit and comfortable contemporary space. It was a bit bland and utilitarian, but serviceable. A plump woman in her fifties sat behind a desk, hard at work on a desktop computer.
She looked up. "Rogers! You made good time from London." She got up and came around her desk to greet me. "You must be our new duchess. Olive Hyde. People just call me Olive here."
Noah had told me about Olive and described her perfectly. She was the castle's general manager. In the old days, she would have been head housekeeper. In today's world, she had more of the business aspect of the castle under her control. She was short, buxom, and had a love of long, looping necklaces. Her nails were long and polished in a deep burgundy. Her hair was light gray, which could look almost blond in a certain light. She was friendly enough, but cautious, and professional in a formidable, no-nonsense way.
"Pleased to meet you." I wondered just how welcome the new American duke was here, let alone his American duchess. All our fortunes, including theirs, hung on how well Noah and I managed the estate. And from the little studying I'd been able to do these past weeks, we had a huge learning curve to come up to speed. The estate was a many-faceted, and fairly complex, business.
"I hope you had a pleasant trip across the pond. It makes a long day coming from the States," she said.
"Yes," I said. "Especially coming from the West Coast. The airline did a good job of the timing. Leave Seattle in the evening, arrive in London midday." And here at the castle in the evening.
"You must be tired and ready to freshen up, all the same," she said. "I'm sorry not to have the castle lit up and ready for you to tour. I'm nearly off the clock for the day myself. I'll give you the grand tour tomorrow. Or the duke can. Though I fancy I know the spiel and history a mite better than he does."
"I expect you do."
Her answering smile was harried. She was clearly a busy woman. "Well, the duke asked me to give you a key to the private quarters and show you in. Most of the castle is only open for events and the public hours these days. We're just finishing our off-season, our private season when the castle is closed to the public. We'll be opening for the season soon. The late duke was particular about not wasting money on unnecessary heating bills and the like." She went back around her desk and pulled a key from her desk drawer.
Rogers was clearly hanging around to deliver my bags to their final destination.
"This way." Olive motioned for us to follow her. She led us through the office and along a plain corridor. "This used to be one of the servants' hallways," she said as if reading my thoughts. "The late duke had private quarters made in the west wing in the late nineties. I think you'll find them comfortable, if somewhat in need of a renovation themselves. Time does pass quickly, and styles even more so."
She led us up a staircase. I felt sorry for Rogers, who now had to carry the bags up the stairs.
Olive stopped in front of a locked door. "This is the back entrance to the living quarters. There's another entrance around on the other side. And it has a private entrance to the outside as well as a private garden space. Believe me, in the summer you'll be glad of a private space free of tourists." She flipped a light on.
Rogers and I followed her into a large, fairly modern space. I looked around. It was elegant enough, and fairly classic. But Olive was right in that it could use updating.
"You can put the duchess's bags in her room upstairs," Olive said to Rogers. She turned to me. "Let me give you the tour."
Olive showed me around my new home. The space had a large, modern-era kitchen with a dining nook. A basket of crackers and snacks sat on the table. Noah and his baskets. I held down a smile.
"There's no cook for the family during the off-season, especially, which we're just coming off. The new duke, erm, the duke, hard to break myself of the habit." Olive smiled. "The duke has mostly been in London since his arrival. I put a cold meal in the fridge for you, as the duke requested. And for the duke, if he makes it home tonight."
What does she mean, if he makes it home tonight? And further, what did she mean by taking that particular tone? Both bland and full of innuendo and implication. There was something suggestive and snide in it. Something warning.
"Heating instructions are on the package," she said. "There are biscuits to snack on in the basket on the table. I believe you'll find plenty around for breakfast. If not, it's a pleasant walk to the hotel. Or call Rogers. He'll have someone drive you. They serve breakfast every day until eleven, including a top-notch full English. And they deliver to the castle."
Olive continued the tour—a living room with a wonderful view of the private patio and garden, a small TV room, a guest suite with a private bath, a quarter bath for general use, and a large dining room.
Olive pointed to a closed door. "That's the duke's private living quarters office. He has another in the castle proper. We'll get you settled in your own office soon. The duke wanted your opinion on where you'd like it. You'll have to excuse the delay. It's been decades since we've had a duchess at the castle."
"Yes, of course," I said automatically. My mind was still trying to decipher whether she'd been trying to tell me something earlier. "It's thoughtful of Noah."
"This way." Olive motioned to me again. She led me up an elegant staircase that was rather too grand for the apartment. It must have been original to the castle. "Upstairs there's a sitting room, two more double guest bedrooms, and the duke and duchess's tower bedchambers." She stifled a laugh. "The late duke was quite the character. You'll see what I mean when I show you your rooms."
Rogers met us in the hall, now bag-free and on his way out. "If there's nothing else, I'll just be heading out then. Duchess, a pleasure. Olive, I'll see you tomorrow."
"Bright and early," Olive said.
"Thank you," I said to him, wondering what else he did around the castle.
Rogers nodded and headed for the stairs. I followed Olive.
"The late duke was positively disconsolate that he had to share his house with the public. But it was either turn it into a business or lose it. Lesser of two evils, to him, really. When he was a boy, the house was simply a family home. Taxes and the like changed everything.
"He reluctantly had part of the castle converted to these private quarters, leaving the rest to be open to the public part of the year. But he absolutely insisted that the original duke and duchess's bedrooms were included in the quarters and left relatively untouched." She pushed open an ornate pair of heavy wooden double doors shaped to fit the Gothic archway they occupied, and it was like stepping back hundreds of years. I almost felt like I should be wearing bell sleeves and a pointy hat with a ribbon trailing off it.
The plasterboard walls disappeared. The walls were now pale stone, as was the floor, which was clad with white octagonal stone pavers with small black diamond inserts. Heavy sconces and arched leaded windows at the far end of the hall lit the space. Faded tapestries with scenes of chivalrous knights and hunts and war adorned the walls from ceiling to baseboards. The ceiling was high, pitched, and dark open beam. Heavy, sturdy work that had stood the test of time.
Ahead of us was a sitting room with a window at the end. On either side of the corridor were pairs of matching archways and double doors with heavy ring door pulls. A suit of shining silver and gold battle armor stood guard by one door. The sitting area was appointed with upholstered furniture that was clearly antique and worth more than I could
fathom. And probably belonged behind the ropes at a museum.
I tried not to gape at the splendor and cold, masculine formality of the room. Everything here was oversized and meant for a man of power. There was no trace of femininity. Nothing of a woman's touch. This was the duke's domain and proud of it. One could imagine liege lords coming to here to beg an audience with their ruler.
"We're in the master's private turret now." Olive pointed to her right. "That's the duke's bedchamber and adjoining dressing room and en suite bath. The turret was finished in the twelfth century, but it has been modernized over the centuries. The latest major renovation, back in the eighteen hundreds, included adding the bath and running water.
"To the left are your rooms, the duchess's rooms. They also include a bedchamber, a small sitting room, a dressing room, which I think you'll find very plush and suitable, a private bath, as well as a small room that the last duchess used as a nursery when her babies were young." Olive opened the doors and swung them both wide open. "When both the duke and duchess's doors are open, it makes for a lovely united suite," she said neutrally as she stepped aside to let me in.
Did she doubt that Noah and I would ever open the doors?
At my first glimpse of the room, my breath caught. We'd stepped several centuries ahead in time, to perhaps the French Sun King's era. An ornate four-poster bed with expensive, embroidered curtains dominated the room. It was the kind of bed you might see on one of those shows where a historian talks about the importance of beds to the aristocracy and how they were a sign of status and wealth. How one bed could bankrupt a family. If this was the mere duchess's bed, what was the duke's like?
One wall of the room was dominated by an ornate stone fireplace with a carved façade and a modern gas insert. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was no good at starting fires. The room was done in pinks, peaches, and yellows and was feminine and floral. I wasn't sure it was to my tastes, exactly, but it was beautiful and luxurious. But why did I feel like I'd have to wear archival gloves in my own bedroom?
Castled: Duke Society Series Page 7