Chapter 28
Calliope could not remember the last time she’d had so much fun.
First, Aesop and Bethilda complained about their room in the east wing being too noisy (Bethilda) and too dark (Aesop).
The dowager countess explained the light in the room was much brighter in the morning, as it faced east, and that the noise was simply due to the ducks quacking in the lake, a sound that was completely obscured if one just closed the windows.
But Bethilda reminded Edward’s mother that the windows were open in order to let in the cross breeze that was currently keeping the room relatively cool in this wretched summer heat and asked if it was her intention that they turn their room into an oven and bake themselves to death.
The west wing, however, became even warmer once the afternoon sun began streaming through the leaded panes. It was not any quieter than the east wing either, as Calliope’s mother had servants constantly traversing the hall, fetching her tea and biscuits and whatever else came to mind.
And so, back to the east wing they went.
Tilly, meanwhile, said nothing as she shuffled after her guardians from wing to wing, waiting for them to make up their minds. Calliope caught her eye once and smiled, but the girl only blushed and cast her gaze to the floor.
Now the seven of them were seated around the dining table for an early dinner, as Aesop could not eat too late without greatly upsetting his stomach and Bethilda liked to retire before eight o’clock.
Calliope found she was not very hungry this early in the evening.
It seemed she was not alone in this, judging by the way everyone else, aside from the Scottish contingent, merely picked at their food.
“And what has been planted in the north field?” Aesop asked Edward, one hand clasped around his ear horn, the other stabbing at his rack of lamb.
“Wheat in the north,” Edward answered. “Barley in the south.”
“And do you still employ enough farmers to tend to them, or has that budget taken a hit, as well?”
“The cutbacks have thus far been relegated to the house and ornamental gardens, as I feel it too important to the estate, as well as to the village, to keep up our agricultural endeavors as long as we are able.”
Aesop raised a brow. “And how much longer can the estate support itself in its current straits?”
Edward flicked his gaze to Calliope and back to Aesop so quickly she almost missed it. “That remains to be seen.”
Calliope did not know why, but the reminder of why she was really here—the only reason Edward had ever paid her any attention in the first place—made her feel as though an anvil had just been dropped into the very pit of her stomach.
Unfortunately, for all of his hearing troubles, Aesop’s eyesight remained excellent, and he did not miss the momentary object of Edward’s attention. He swiveled toward Calliope while Bethilda tried to get the attention of a curtain she’d mistaken for a footman.
“So,” Aesop barked, “when’s the wedding?”
Calliope choked on her wine. “Pardon?”
Aesop narrowed his gaze, and she felt rather as if she were back in school, being scolded by a teacher. “When are you and my grandnephew getting married?”
“We . . . that is to say, the earl and I are not, um, currently engaged.”
His brow arched. “Not currently, but you will be.”
Edward cleared his throat. “That has yet to be decided, Uncle.”
“I don’t understand.”
Bethilda leaned toward her husband. “He said, ‘That has yet—’”
“I know what he said, Bethy. I’m using my blasted trumpet, aren’t I? What I don’t understand”—he shifted his attention to Calliope—“is that you are here to find an English husband, are you not?”
Calliope sputtered. “Well, in a sense, but—”
He snapped his gaze to Edward. “And you are in need of funds, are you not?”
“Yes, but Uncle—”
“Then the matter’s settled. We can get a license and have the two of you married by the first week of August.”
“Oh, August is a dreadful time of year to get married,” Bethilda piped in. “Much too hot.”
“It isn’t as if July is any better, Bethy dear,” Aesop replied through gritted teeth.
“September, then?” she asked.
“No, no, no. September will be much too late. They will be married this summer—”
“If you two are quite finished,” Edward interrupted, “I believe the date of the wedding will be decided by myself and the lady in question, assuming there is an engagement.”
Aesop grumbled at this, clearly unimpressed, while Bethilda grabbed for the crystal candlestick holder, mistaking it for her wineglass.
The table runner was saved from going up in flames by an agile footman, who quickly caught the falling candlestick in hand, blowing out the flame and hiding it behind his back in one smooth motion.
The dowager dropped her head into her hands, while Mrs. Hart happily chewed her meat.
“What is this sauce?” Calliope’s mother asked. “It’s delicious!”
The dowager sighed. “Cranberry.”
“Marvelous,” Mrs. Hart replied, clearly enjoying the turn in conversation.
Calliope caught Edward’s eye across the table. He shrugged the most adorable, boyish shrug she’d ever seen, complete with a lopsided grin she couldn’t help but return.
“Calliope,” Edward called, stopping her in the hall after dinner. “May I have a word?”
She glanced at the others. The ladies were making their way to the drawing room for tea, while it seemed Uncle Aesop had already disappeared into the study in search of brandy.
Her mother looked back and, upon noticing that she and Edward were alone, ushered the rest of the party into the drawing room with a quickened pace.
“Yes,” Calliope answered, turning back to him. “Of course.”
“I was wondering if you might like to go on an excursion with me tomorrow morning, to take a look at our fields and perhaps visit the village? I’d like for you to see exactly what you’d be saving, if you choose to accept my proposal.”
She restrained herself from telling him that she would not be accepting his proposal at the end of the week, partly due to the fact that she did not want to see the light go out from his eyes when he looked at her, and partly because she was beginning to doubt her refusal of him.
“I would love to,” she said. “But . . .”
“Yes?”
“Do you think we could ride? I haven’t been riding in ages, and I noticed the most beautiful black gelding in the pasture this morning.”
“Ah, yes. Morning Star.” Edward hesitated. “He can be quite a handful when he wants to be.”
“I don’t mind,” Calliope replied. “I like a challenge.”
Edward inclined his head. “Then I shall have the groom saddle him in the morning. I was thinking we should leave early, before it gets too hot.”
“Six?” Calliope teased.
Edward smirked. “Better make it eight.”
“Eight it is.”
He gestured for Calliope to start ahead of him toward the drawing room. He walked slightly behind her, his hands behind his back.
“Truth be told,” he said, “I’m thankful for the opportunity to ride. I don’t know how much longer the estate can afford to care for the horses or pay the groomsmen proper wages to keep them on.”
“Are all of the great houses in England going under?” she asked. “The society pages make it all sound so ominous.”
“Not all of the houses,” Edward replied, “but enough of them. Our way of life is dying out.”
“Then does it make sense to save it?” Calliope asked, genuinely curious. “Or would it be more reasonable to give in to progress and allow the land to be used for something else?”
Edward paused, although whether his silence was from genuinely mulling over her question or shock that she spoke as if she were really considering his proposal, she couldn’t be sure.
“Call me old-fashioned,” he finally answered, “but even beyond the practical reasons for why Whitefawn’s success is critical to the people who call the land home and our family employer, I think there is some importance to retaining pieces of the past, even as the world around us charges into the future.
Otherwise, I fear people will forget the value of tradition and beauty in the face of progress and convenience.
Whitefawn needs to change, certainly—it needs to be a sustainable industry in its own right if it is to thrive—but give it up?
All of the history here? All of the stories?
” He stopped and glanced around the hall, at the various portraits and tapestries and coats of arms that detailed his family’s legacy.
“What would it have all been for, if Whitefawn no longer stands?”
Calliope thought of what it would be like if other markers of history no longer stood, such as the Tower of London or Independence Hall.
How long would it be before the world forgot they ever existed?
There were history books of course, and illustrations of such sights—many were even being photographed now—but would those stand the test of time?
Would future generations lose ancient wisdom if the physical locations that had fostered those lessons could no longer teach them with the same energy and vibrancy Calliope had experienced that day at the Tower?
Wasn’t that why she had begun writing her articles in the first place, to remind people of the importance behind the buildings they were so quick to tear down in their haste for technological advancement?
But unlike the places Calliope wrote about, Whitefawn was more than just a monument to days long past. It was an integral part of people’s lives.
How would this area change if a place like Whitefawn went under?
How long would it be before factories went up, changing the landscape, ruining the soil, and driving animals from their habitats?
Much like President Roosevelt’s initiative to safeguard national forests from those who would decimate them in the name of progress, saving estates such as Whitefawn and their surrounding acreage could mean the difference between conservation and desolation.
Mulling all of this over, she replied, “I find I am in agreement with you.”
“You are?”
“Yes. In fact, I am beginning to think allowing a great house like Whitefawn to fall would be like knocking over a domino and watching a million others tumble because of it.”
His eyes widened. “Precisely.”
She met his gaze. A breathless moment passed in which he stared down at her as if she were a dream breathed into life, something he’d always hoped for and could barely believe was standing in front of him.
It was the same way he’d stared at her in the Hall of History, and in the opera box, just before his lips had crushed upon her own.
It was raw, unmitigated desire, and it reflected the longing stirring in her own heart—namely, the need to be closer to him.
To be enveloped in his arms. To never again know a world that he was not in.
But was it real? That was what she couldn’t decide.
If only she could be certain of his feelings—and of her own—then maybe she could make a better decision regarding her role in the future preservation of Whitefawn, but as it stood, she still did not feel as though she could accept his proposal.
For no matter how logical it sounded to use her sizable inheritance and family connections to save Whitefawn and make that her legacy, she still could not convince herself that it was a good enough reason to marry someone.
Especially when marrying that person would mean giving up everything she held dear.
“Edward, I—”
He took an eager step forward. “Yes?”
She opened her mouth to ask him the question that had been burning on the tip of her tongue—Have you grown to care for me as more than just someone who can save your estate?
—but Aesop chose that moment to stick his head out of the study and bark, “Edward, get in here, man! What are you trying to do, woo the girl in the entryway?”
“You’ve caught me, Uncle,” Edward replied, giving Calliope a wink as he started forward. He stopped at the door to glance back at her. “I’m sorry, what was your question?”
She forced a smile. “Never mind. We can discuss it in the morning.”
“I look forward to it,” he replied, slipping into the study without a second thought.
But for Calliope, it was all she could think about, and the simple fact that she truly hadn’t been able to get the Earl of Hayward out of her mind from the moment she met him troubled her greatly, given everything that was at stake.