Chapter 24
In the forty-eight hours since their kiss in the opera box, Edward had not been able to stop thinking about Calliope.
He had attended to a bit of business with his bank in London the morning after, securing a three-month extension for the payment of his father’s debt on the basis that he would be married to an heiress by then and would have the sufficient funds to repay the loan.
There was no need for them to know that he didn’t have an actual fiancée at the moment, but three months was certainly enough time to find one, regardless of how things turned out with Calliope (of course, he was hoping they turned out rather well).
Afterward he had sat in on another meeting within the House of Lords.
He did not feel he had entrenched himself quite enough in the topics at hand to lend his opinion, but he took copious notes and intended on keeping up with proposed legislation whilst away in the country so that he could pick up where he left off upon his return.
Calliope’s remark about what the late Earl of Hayward would have wanted had spurred something inside of Edward, a desire to not only take up his father’s political mantle, but to leave a legacy of wise decision-making in his wake—decisions that would be to the benefit of all who called England home, regardless of class.
Just as he hoped to make such decisions for Whitefawn’s future and all those who relied on its success.
He caught a late train that evening and returned to Whitefawn well past the dinner hour.
Knowing he would be unable to sleep with all of the thoughts rummaging around in his head, he took a tray in his study and tried to concentrate on the tasks set before him: namely, balancing the expense of a much-needed second irrigation system—to keep the pastures green for the sheep and the fields fertile in this unusual drought—with the necessity of fixing a hole in the roof through which a family of squirrels and even a bat had found their way into the servants’ corridors.
There was also the dwindling supply of feed for the horses to consider and the unexpected retirement of their land agent.
But even with all of these matters and more occupying him, his thoughts drifted to Calliope at the most inopportune times.
He finally crawled into bed at half past three and still found he couldn’t sleep for thinking of her.
Her smile and her bright eyes and her laughter came to mind completely unbidden.
Her absence made him ache for her, a physical pain so great he was certain it could only be mended by seeing her again.
When she arrived, he found he had been both correct and foolish in this assumption.
Correct because he did find that her nearness repaired the longing he’d felt at her absence.
Foolish because having her so near when she was not yet his caused a different ache within him, this one even harder to quell, and again he wondered: Was this love?
And if it was, and if at the end of this week Calliope did in fact agree to marry him, did that mean he would find himself in the incredibly unfortunate position of loving a wife who did not love him in return?
Would it ease the pain to be married to her under such circumstances? Or would the ache grow into a chasm that threatened to swallow him whole?
He continued to wonder this as he led her toward the Hall of History, a gallery in the west wing filled with portraits and tapestries and artifacts dating back to the twelfth century that told the story of the Chase family, as well as the land on which Whitefawn stood.
Calliope and her mother had arrived too late in the day for a proper tour of the grounds, but Edward felt this was a better place to start anyway.
He wanted Calliope to understand the importance of this land to his family, as well as to the village of Hayward, for which his estate had provided steady employment for centuries.
Not to mention milk from their cows, wool from their sheep, game from their forests, fish from their rivers, and bread from their wheat and barley fields.
They walked in silence down the marbled hall, taking a right off the main corridor.
The floor changed to thick, wide planks of hardwood covered in long Oriental rugs, and the few electric lights they had installed in the main rooms switched to gas lamps.
He watched with keen interest as Calliope took it all in: the forest-green wallpaper; the dark oak baseboards that matched the floor; the window that had been cracked a month ago but Edward could not pay to have fixed.
He cleared his throat. “Now it appears I am the one who must apologize for my mother.”
Calliope turned her attention to him. “Her Ladyship was perfectly delightful.”
Edward gave her a pointed look.
Calliope laughed. “If anyone understands the bickering that can occur between a child and their mother, it’s me. You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I wouldn’t say that just yet,” he said. “You haven’t met Aesop and Bethilda.”
“Are they really that bad?”
“I think ‘eccentric’ would best describe them.”
“And your cousin Tilly?”
“Painfully shy,” he told her. “She’d be around thirteen now, I believe.
She attends a boarding school in Edinburgh and stays with Aesop and Bethilda in the summer while her father travels the continent for business.
” Edward stopped outside a pair of doors that opened onto a side gallery overlooking the west lawn and, farther out, the stables. “Here we are.”
Calliope stepped into the gallery, past William, the footman, who stood silent and still as a portrait himself in the corner.
Edward nodded at him and then began his tour, starting with the tapestries which depicted his ancestor’s role in the War of the Roses and the tract of land they had been given for their loyalty to the House of Lancaster as a result.
Beneath the tapestries were artifacts dating back to the castle that used to stand near the creek and the first manor house, which had been built in the Tudor style.
Inside glass cases were hilts and shattered blades from old broadswords, as well as pottery fragments and a broach that had been tarnished over time.
“All of the portraits have been here since the house was rebuilt in the eighteenth century,” Edward explained as Calliope peered into one of the cases.
“But the artifacts and the tapestries are here courtesy of my mother. They used to be kept in the attic, along with the rest of the family detritus. Mother started going through it all when she first married my father as a sort of hobby. She’s been working at it off and on in her spare time for thirty-some years, and she still hasn’t made it through everything. ”
Calliope’s gloved fingers trailed over glass as she stared in wonder at a medieval necklace delicately draped beneath a pair of matching earrings.
“I cannot imagine the excitement of going through artifacts such as these, never knowing what you might find. Our home was built only ten years ago. Everything in it was either custom-made or comes from other people’s histories.
Needless to say, I’ve never felt much of a connection to it. ”
Edward wanted to tell her she could feel a connection here—that his family’s legacy could become her own—but he didn’t want to push her. He had gotten her here, that was true, but he still did not know what she was thinking when she looked around this place.
Did she see something worth saving, worth protecting? Did she feel the people who had once lived here, the stories that breathed just under the surface of the walls, as she had done at the Tower?
“The first Earl of Hayward,” Edward said as they moved down the hall to the first portrait. “Stephen Edward Chase, for whom I’m named, although I’m told he was a rather bad-tempered, rude old curmudgeon, so I’m not certain I appreciate the connection.”
She gave him a half-smile. “You mean you don’t see the resemblance?”
He laughed. “Touché.”
They continued down the line of portraits, passing old suits of armor and shields emblazoned with the family crest, embroidered medieval handkerchiefs and journals under glass.
Calliope stopped when she reached the last portrait.
“This is your father,” she noted.
Edward swallowed as he glanced into the eyes of the late earl; eyes he would give anything to see looking at him again with that mixture of pride and love that only a father could give.
How often had he longed for his father’s guidance these past two years?
How often had he wondered if his father would approve of the decisions he was making?
“Yes,” he finally managed, his voice thick with barely concealed grief. “This is my father.”
“You look just like him.” She tilted her head, her gaze darting back and forth between Edward and the portrait. “Same hair, same jaw, same eyes. The only thing that’s different is the nose.”
“Thank God,” Edward said, injecting a brevity into his tone he did not entirely feel. “Look at that thing. It’s like a hawk’s beak.”
“You must miss him terribly.”
He did, but it wasn’t just the man he missed, the father who taught him how to hunt and respect his mother and care for those less fortunate than himself. He also missed the opportunities he would never have, the ones in which he and his father could have found a way to save Whitefawn.
Together.
Gritting his teeth against the ache in his chest, Edward took a step back. “We should retire. It’s getting late.”
Calliope watched him with her crystalline eyes, that little dimple appearing between her brows as it always did when she was trying to make her mind up about something.
He was surprised he had already picked up on such a small habit of hers after knowing her for only a few short weeks.
He was even more surprised by the sudden desire to run his fingers through her hair and smooth his thumb across that dimple.
“All right,” she said after a beat had passed.
She turned on her heel, but it must have caught on the edge of the rug beneath her, or maybe the underskirts of her gown had gotten twisted up, for a second later she let out a yelp and tumbled.
Edward caught her in his arms. She looked up at him, surprise widening her eyes. Her chest rose and fell as she took deep, steadying breaths.
Every muscle in his body tightened. He wanted to kiss her again, badly, but would she accept such a kiss?
He’d had a hard time reading her since she’d arrived.
He felt as though he’d angered her somehow.
Had he misread her that night at the opera, when he thought she’d desired their kiss as much as he had?
Was he misreading her now?
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I . . . I think so.”
He knew he should have let her go then, should have set her back on her feet, but it felt so good, so right, for her to be in his arms like this, her intoxicating scent of springtime enveloping his senses and her soft gaze searching his face, a gleam of hope sparking within their depths.
He swallowed. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight, Miss Hart?”
“No, my lord.” She swallowed. “You haven’t.”
“Because you do. Look beautiful, that is.”
A beat passed. And then, miracle of miracles, her fingertips brushed a lock of hair from his eyes and trailed, slowly, down the side of his face.
“Edward?”
He exhaled a shaky breath. “Calliope, I—”
The footman coughed subtly, reminding Edward they were not alone. Edward swore and instantly set her back on her feet.
“Uh, you should be careful in here,” he muttered, trying to make it appear as though that was what he’d intended to say all along. “This rug has never sat right.”
A quick smirk from the footman made it clear the ruse was a poor attempt on Edward’s part.
Edward cleared his throat. “We should rejoin our mothers. They must be wondering what’s taking so long.”
Calliope nodded. “Yes, I imagine so.”
They arrived in the drawing room moments later to find it empty, a fire burning low in the grate, and he and Calliope even more alone than they’d been before.