“I hope so,” she told him, mentally filing the interesting tidbit that Tris’s valet thought he’d been in poor spirits of late. “Thank you.”
Vincent smiled, displaying a mouth full of large, white teeth. He was impeccably groomed and well mannered, and she liked him very much. But although it wasn’t uncommon for servants to call their employers master and mistress, his use of the term, coupled with his lack of a surname, made her wonder if he was a slave.
She looked at Tris, unable to picture him as a person who would own another. With a cryptic smile, he took her arm to cross her over to the women’s side.
Her questions would have to wait for later.
“My indispensable housekeeper,” he said. “Mrs. Oliver.”
A short, slight older woman with pink cheeks and sparkling chocolate eyes, Mrs. Oliver bobbed Alexandra a curtsy. “If you don’t mind me saying so, my lady, we’re so pleased that Lord Hawkridge has wed.”
“He was lonely,” Alexandra said softly.
Mrs. Oliver darted Tris a glance. “Yes.”
“Thank you for taking such good care of him.”
She beamed. “I expect you’ll do that now.”
“I’m going to try my best.” Alexandra handed Mrs. Oliver a biscuit and moved on.
Although the housemaids had all been called Mary, only one bore that actual name. There were so many that Alexandra despaired of remembering them all as she worked her way down the line, smiling and exchanging pleasantries.
A middle-aged maid named Peggy bobbed a curtsy as she accepted a biscuit. “Will you be needing a lady’s maid, my lady?”
She looked friendly, with pale green eyes and a mop of slightly graying brown curls beneath her starched cap. Alexandra returned her smile. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact. I shared my maid with my two sisters.” She looked to Mrs. Oliver for approval, and when the older woman nodded, turned back to Peggy. “Would you like the position?”
“I should be honored, my lady. I served the last Lady Hawkridge. I’m very good with hair.”
“I’m pleased to hear that,” Alexandra assured her and moved on to meet everyone else.
When the introductions were finally complete, she handed her basket to the cook, a plump woman in her forties with a button of a nose and pale blond hair pulled back in a severe bun. “Will you all share the rest, Mrs. Pawley? And I hope you won’t mind me invading your kitchen now and again. I do adore making sweets.”
Mrs. Pawley’s merry blue eyes looked surprised, but she quickly hid that with a smile. “I do adore eating sweets, my lady.”
“Then we should get along famously,” Alexandra said.
Tris took her by the hand. “Shall I show you the house?”
She’d forgotten to replace her gloves, and her fingers tingled in his, reminding her of what was to come tonight. The servants hurried past them, returning to their tasks as she stepped into her new home for the first time.
The entry led straight into the great hall, a beautiful rectangular room with a floor of black and white marble squares. Above Alexandra’s head, a large octagonal opening in the ceiling was railed all around, so those standing above could see down to where she stood. It lent an impressive height and grandeur to the room.
Before she could say as much, though, a huge dog came bounding down the stairs. It slid across the marble floor, jarring their hands apart as it rammed straight into Tris.
“Oof!” he said with a laugh. “This is Rex. Rex, your new mistress. Shake.”
Fawn colored with a black mask and ears, Rex obediently raised the most enormous paw Alexandra had ever seen. She shook it, wondering if it were her imagination or if the canine looked mistrustful. “He must be twice my weight! You never said you had a dog.”
“He’s not my dog. He came with the house.”
Rex was trotting happy circles around him. “He seems to have adopted you. Did your uncle name him, then?”
“Yes. But it’s not as though he had a choice. According to family lore, there has always been a mastiff named Rex at Hawkridge Hall.”
“And why is that?”
“I asked the same question, but Uncle Harold didn’t know. That didn’t stop him from naming this one Rex, though. The Nesbitts are big on tradition.”
Looking around the room, she could see what he meant by that as well as his earlier comment that the house was seventeenth century down to the furniture. Indeed, although the various tables and chairs were lovingly cared for—beautifully carved, polished to a high sheen, and reupholstered in rich fabrics—they were heavy pieces compared to modern furniture. And the gorgeous paneling on the walls, though recently refinished, obviously dated from earlier times as well. “Goodness. Is everything just the same as when the house was built?”
“Tradition,” he repeated with a smile. “But if you look carefully, you’ll see some recent improvements.”
Alexandra’s gaze followed his gesture to a lamp attached to the wall, containing a yellowish open flame protected from drafts by a glass chimney. Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Gas lighting? Indoors?” Although gas was increasingly being used to illuminate London’s streets, she’d never seen it in a house.
“Yes,” Tris said proudly. “Installed it myself. With help from two of the Johns.” He shook his head. “Make that one John and Ted.”
She smiled, appreciating his willingness to adapt—not just his attitude toward the servants, but to the latest advancements. She supposed she shouldn’t find it surprising that a young man who employed progressive farming techniques, who built things like pumps, would also implement gas lighting. “Did you design the lamps yourself, too?”
“No, but I believe I’ve improved on the original design some.” He showed her the key mechanism by which she could turn the gas on and off or adjust the height of the flame, and he watched her practice until he was satisfied she understood. “You catch on quickly.”
“It’s not difficult. Where does the gas come from?”
“I’m burning coal in a closed iron vessel outdoors, a safe distance from the house. The resulting gas is piped inside.”
“How very clever.”
He shrugged. “This is a small system, conceived as an experiment. Now that it’s proved successful, I’m currently building a large gasworks that will be used to supply the entire village. When it’s finished, all the streets and businesses—and homes, should people like—will be lit by gas. And once that’s complete, I hope to form a group to pursue an enterprise wherein we approach larger towns and cities to build gasworks and supply them via gas mains.”
He was so different from the other young men she knew. “A gentleman doesn’t aspire to enterprise,” she teased. “Such an undertaking would limit his time for amusements.”
Too late she realized he wouldn’t be welcome in any gentlemen’s clubs or the other places young men frequented to amuse themselves. But he seemed as determined as she was to avoid thinking of such unpleasantness, because he just shrugged again in a genial manner. “I’m afraid I’m tainted by my common roots.”
Though she loved his dry humor, her smile was mostly one of relief. “You seem to like having the very best and newest, though.”
“Tradition is fine, but progress can also be good. And progress will march on regardless, so we may as well make ourselves part of it.” He took her hand again. “Let me show you the rest of the house.”
While Rex followed at their heels, Tris led her through the ground-floor rooms, tickling her palm with his thumb all the while so she could hardly pay any attention. She gleaned little more than general impressions, and even those were muddled. The main parlor looked pretty and comfortable, the dining room had a beautiful two-toned parquet floor, and the study—which, oddly enough, was accessed through the dining room—had a heavy, ancient-looking desk. There were also some lovely guest rooms and Tris’s uncle’s rooms—which Tris seemed reluctant to go into.
“I can see them later,” she told him. “Where am I
going to sleep?”
For truly, beautiful as the house was, now that they were inside she could think of little else besides the room she would share with Tristan tonight. She hoped familiarizing herself with the setting ahead of time might help calm her nerves, as learning what to expect from Griffin had done.
Finally he led her up the massive oak staircase, a feature clearly built to make a statement. Rex bounded up ahead, his huge body taking the wooden steps with amazing ease. Alexandra skimmed her free hand along the polished wood handrail, the panels beneath composed of boldly carved cannons, muskets, lances, and other trophies of war, all highlighted by sparkling gold leaf.
“Goodness,” she asked Tris, “were your ancestors very savage?”
“Not that I’m aware,” he said with a laugh as they reached the landing. He rubbed the dog’s giant head. “Although I understand this house was used as a base of operations to plot against Cromwell in the Civil War.”
The next room looked to be a gallery of sorts. “The round gallery,” Tris clarified.
It wasn’t really round, but a long oval. It was a room mainly used to access others, sort of a very wide corridor with a hole in the middle of the floor—the large, railed octagonal opening where one could see down to the great hall below. But she didn’t take time to look, as she was gaping at the paintings on the walls.
“Corinna is going to die when she sees these,” she said.
He brushed a loose strand of hair off her cheek. “Hmm?”
“You know she paints. I cannot believe what you have here.” She gestured to the many gilt-framed canvases. “Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Rubens—”
“That one was painted by one of Rubens’s students.”
“Regardless. She’ll sit here and study these for hours. She’ll forget to eat.”
“Like you at our wedding breakfast?” he asked with a tender smile. “What were you studying, sweetheart?”
You. But she wouldn’t say that, even though he’d just made her melt by calling her sweetheart. “I simply have a ladylike appetite,” she informed a staid Dutch woman in one of the paintings.
Laughing, he took her elbow to guide her into a corridor, Rex following close behind.
Peggy was in the next room, already unpacking Alexandra’s things. “Enjoying your tour, my lady?”
“Very much.” Alexandra blinked at the sumptuous furnishings. Behind a balustrade in the French style, an enormous state bed sat on a raised parquet dais. Hangings of rich turquoise were heavily embroidered with gold thread, and great poufs of matching ostrich feathers crowned the bed’s four corner posts. The ceiling was elaborate painted plasterwork, the walls hung with heavy, old tapestries.
“It looks fit for a queen,” she breathed.
“Queen Catharine of Braganza, Charles II’s wife,” Tris confirmed. “It was decorated for her visit.”
That was easy to believe. The streaked marble fireplace was adorned with gold crowns. “Is this to be my room?”
“Not a chance,” Tris said.
Peggy didn’t even hesitate, let alone cease unpacking. “My lord, Mrs. Oliver wanted your new lady to have the best Hawkridge has to offer. The last Lady Hawkridge enjoyed this room very much.”
Alexandra was taken aback by her audacity, although she supposed that if Peggy were a shy one, she wouldn’t have so boldly asked for the position of lady’s maid. But while the chamber was gorgeous, she couldn’t imagine being comfortable among such opulence. Goodness, what if she spilled something on Queen Catharine’s antique counterpane? “It’s lovely,” she said tactfully, “but—”
“Lady Hawkridge will be sharing my rooms,” Tris interrupted. “While we dine, please move her things.”
Peggy blinked. “But—”
“You may ask two footmen to assist you with the trunks. While you’re downstairs, please inform Mrs. Pawley that we’d like a light supper in half an hour.” He took Alexandra’s hand to draw her from the room.
“That was a bit harsh,” she said once they were out of earshot. “I know she defied you, but—”
“I’ve never liked that one.”
“Why have you kept her on, then?”
“She’s been here since she was a girl. What kind of person would I be if I turned her out?” He drew her down the corridor, Rex trotting by his other side. “Are you certain you want her for your maid?”
“Since I’ve already given her the position, I’ll wait and see how we get along. As long as you don’t mind.”
“Whatever makes you happy,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Stay, Rex.” As they entered another chamber, he closed the door behind them. “My rooms,” he announced. “And yours, too, as soon as Peggy moves you in here.”
A huge bed dominated the space—an old-style four-poster hung with dark blue velvet bordered in yellow silk. The walls were hung with blue velvet panels on a yellow background, and, set before the fireplace, two cushioned armchairs were upholstered in blue-and-yellow striped fabric. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “And much cozier than the Queen’s Bedchamber.”
“I didn’t want you in a separate room,” he said low, making her eyes dart to the bed as butterflies fluttered in her middle. Then he grinned. “Although I was half tempted to leave you there as revenge for putting me in your Gold Chamber.”
“Thank you for resisting.” She heard the heavy thumps of Rex padding away down the corridor. “If you don’t allow him in here, where does he sleep?”
“Given his size, I’d say anywhere he wants. But a man is entitled to a bit of privacy, don’t you think?” He pulled her closer. “Besides, he snores something terrible.”
She began to laugh, but he cut her off with a kiss.
And what a kiss it was.
Both times they’d kissed since becoming husband and wife—during the wedding and in the carriage afterward—had been perfunctory. Before that, they’d had only stolen kisses, ones tainted by feelings of shame and remorse.
This time there was no one watching. This time there was no guilt, no heartache. This time there was only the two of them, together, without a single obstacle keeping them apart. She sank into his arms, into his kiss, into the impossible truth that he was finally hers.
A brisk knock sounded, and the door swung open. She and Tris jerked apart.
“In here,” Peggy directed.
Her head swimming, Alexandra endeavored to steady herself while four footmen marched in carrying two large trunks.
“Through the sitting room to the dressing room,” Peggy added briskly.
Alexandra had been so focused on Tris, she hadn’t even realized there was a sitting room or a dressing room. She watched him now, breathless.
Her new husband—husband!—looked just as dazed and frustrated by the interruption. He sighed and took her arm. “Shall we have supper while she puts away your things?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Light supper at Hawkridge turned out to be a three-course meal. But for the second time today, Alexandra found herself unable to eat much of anything. Though she’d been pleased by her lovely new bedroom, seeing their marital bed had done nothing to set her at ease—although, paradoxically, spending time alone with Tris had served to increase her anticipation. Tension jangled about in her stomach, leaving but little space for food.
Sipping sparingly from a glass of the estate’s fine wine, she did manage a few spoonfuls of the delicious shellfish soup. But she surreptitiously fed Rex bites of her cornish hen and carrots, reaching under the dining room’s long cedarwood table and praying his huge jaws wouldn’t snap off her fingers along with the food.
While she picked at her potato pudding—which, unfortunately, she had no way to feed to the dog—she and Tris discussed the staff. She learned Peggy wasn’t the only servant long in residence at Hawkridge Hall. To the contrary, many of the staff had been born here. The butler, Hastings, had inherited the post from his father; Mrs. Oliver’s mother had held the housekeeper’s keys before her; and the groundskeeper�
��s great-great-grandfather had first laid out the gardens. Likewise, many of the lower servants’ families had served Hawkridge for years.
“Tradition,” Alexandra said with a smile.
“Mrs. Pawley is Hawkridge’s first female cook, however.” Tris, of course, was eating like the proverbial horse. Nothing—not even the upheaval of a hasty marriage—affected a young man’s appetite. “Her father was the cook, and his father before him. When Pawley failed to sire any sons, he taught his daughter the culinary skills instead. Uncle Harold was a mite uneasy about that.”
So Mrs. Pawley wasn’t married, Alexandra reflected as a footman removed her plate and replaced it with the sweet course. The cook still bore her father’s name, the Mrs. only a courtesy often extended to upper servants. “Your uncle eventually accepted her, though?”
“During the Peace of Amiens in 1802, when it became clear her father’s retirement was imminent, Uncle Harold sent her to Paris to study under a master.” Tris dug into his strawberry trifle. “Male, of course. Apparently, being French-trained made up for being the wrong gender.”
“Her food is delicious.”
“I’m sure Rex thinks so,” he teased with a grin.
The mastiff was snoring contentedly in a corner of the dining room. Alexandra pushed her trifle around on her plate, trying to make it look smaller so as not to offend the cook.
“I shall have to tell Mrs. Pawley you cannot eat strawberries,” Tris said.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry, in any case.” He was nearly finished, and she still hadn’t brought up the servant she found most curious. “Tell me about Vincent.”
He sipped his wine, raising a brow at her over the glass’s rim. “Do I strike you as someone who would own a slave?”
Her cheeks heated, but she lifted her chin. “You cannot blame me for wondering.” Though trade in new slaves had been outlawed since 1808 in all British territories, there was nothing in the law to liberate those already in captivity. Many in England still owned slaves, particularly those who had plantations in the West Indies and brought their slaves with them when they came home.
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