Chapter 9
“The most dangerous woman is not she who is armed with daggers, but she who is armed with purpose.”
Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner
Two carriages were carefully inspected before setting off in the early morning, soon leaving London behind to traverse the country roads.
Green hedgerows and trees bedecked with the last leaves of the season lined the way, their density offering only fleeting glimpses of the countryside beyond, but the baron settled back into the luxurious squabs with a happy sigh.
“I think you were right, Molly. A day to Hertfordshire is just what the doctor ordered.”
Molly smiled, aware, perhaps too keenly, that Marco sat opposite her, his fingers laced over his flat midriff as he watched the passing scenery. He wore a thick woolen coat as a defense against the cold, yet appeared quite at ease despite the season’s bite.
“It is both green and pleasant,” he commented, leaning forward with interest as the thick hedges finally broke to reveal the rolling hills of Hertfordshire.
The woods in the distance were mostly bare, though lingering reds, browns, and ochres clung to the branches, while the yews stood striking in their deep green, framing the gold of open fields and creating a tapestry of color that stirred the senses.
A view was so beautiful it invited a quiet reverence.
The butler, MacNaby, and a small contingent of servants had departed the afternoon before to open the manor for the baron’s party, and Molly was looking forward to showing Marco the grounds of the generous estate. They had elected to forgo breakfast and eat upon reaching Elmstead.
A low growl of a hungry stomach broke the silence, and Molly glanced sideways to find her chaperon glaring out the window.
Miss Dubois was quite put out to have to wait for her breakfast, her mouth drawn into sour lines and her shawl pulled close against the chill.
Molly suspected that her companion was little interested in the countryside, much like her former mistress, who had preferred to remain in Town year-round.
“It ees a long drive for somezing we could do at ’ome, non?” she complained. As a lady’s maid, she would have eaten upon rising in the kitchen with the other servants, but as a companion, she was obliged to wait and dine with Molly, yet another small grievance in a growing list.
“Ah, but then we would not enjoy the fresh air.”
Molly turned back to find Marco quietly amused by her reply, and she offered him a brief, conspiratorial smile.
Miss Dubois was not an agreeable fellow passenger, but Molly had learned that a cheerful rejoinder often curtailed her complaints, consigning her instead to a dignified, if bristling, silence for a quarter hour or more.
The truth was that the other woman was ill suited to the role of paid companion, being far better adapted to the duties of a lady’s maid.
Allowing herself a moment’s observation, Molly glanced toward Marco, and an unwelcome thought intruded.
If I were to marry, I would no longer require a companion.
She very nearly sighed aloud. It was one thing to enjoy his company, another entirely to allow her thoughts to wander so far ahead.
She knew he liked her well enough, but she would not permit herself to believe it meant more.
Hope was a dangerous indulgence, and she had learned caution through long practice.
Yet despite her resolve, her fondness had begun to grow with quiet persistence, and she did not know how to curb the imaginings of a woman long accustomed to her own solitude.
What the blazes has become of patience, Molly Carter?
She leaned back to attend to the steady rhythm of the carriage wheels upon the hard-packed road, mingled with the whisper of a breeze stirring fallen leaves, and fixed her gaze upon the passing view.
The baron, seated beside Marco, soon drifted into a light doze, and Molly deemed this a mercy, for she was anxious that John not exert himself more than necessary.
Eventually they passed the outskirts of a village, a grouping of charming stone cottages with thatched roofs that briefly relieved the sameness of the journey, and Molly realized Elmstead was close.
She gathered her shawl closer and fumbled for her basket.
The view soon gave way to manicured hedges and stone walls marking the boundary of the baron’s estate, and within minutes, the carriage slowed, turning into a private lane.
An archway of towering elms lined the drive, opening up to reveal a small Palladian manor house, its symmetry offering a pleasing contrast to the formal front gardens, and the baron shifted in his seat, waking with a bleary expression as he rubbed his face.
“I present to you Elmstead, Marco. One of your future holdings, dear boy. It is to be hoped there will be no brushes with death today.”
Molly glanced toward Miss Dubois with instinctive concern at the indiscreet remark, but the servant was not listening, peering out the window with interest. “Do you sink ze breakfast ees ready?”
The carriages drew to a halt before the tall portico, and MacNaby stepped forward as the footman opened the door.
Molly and Miss Dubois alighted, standing upon the drive while they waited for the baron and Marco.
When the baron appeared, MacNaby called out with hearty approval, “Ah, your lordship! The tide’s in your favor today.
You’ve arrived just in time for a fine breakfast from Cook. ”
Molly blinked, a flicker of recognition giving her pause. “Were you in the Navy, Mr. MacNaby?”
The butler bowed in acknowledgment. “Aye, Miss Carter. In my distant youth, I served aboard HMS Bellerophon, but I left when my contract was complete. That was how I came to join Lord Campbell’s household in Edinburgh.”
She smiled warmly. “My father was a captain in the Navy. He used to speak of the tide’s favor often. It was unexpected, but pleasant, to hear the phrase again after so long.”
“Captain Carter? I served aboard his ship briefly, nearly forty years ago, before the Bellerophon was launched. HMS Thunderbolt, sailing out of Plymouth?”
“Yes, I believe that was one of his commands. How remarkable that we never made the connection.”
“It was a lifetime ago. I do not often speak of that period, Miss Carter, but I can say your father was well regarded by his crew.”
“Thank you, Mr. MacNaby. That is a comfort to hear.” She smiled, a trace of quiet melancholy mingling with gratitude, for the memory of her dear departed papa, gone more than a decade now, had been stirred in a way that was both tender and unexpected.
Nicholas, Angelo, Lord Sebastian, and Mr. di Bianchi disembarked from the other carriage to join them, Nicholas grousing openly that he required food without delay.
At that moment, Marco approached and offered Molly his arm with courteous formality, and together, as a collected party, they made their way inside in search of the breakfast room.
The weather was cool but mild, and the farms surrounding the pleasing Elmstead reminded Marco of Tuscany, prompting him to consider what it might mean to be master of such lands.
Simon’s notes lingered in his thoughts, and looking to the east, he realized he was gazing upon the tenant farm of Mr. Wright and his wife, Mary.
He found himself wondering what the future might hold for them, given that they had two young daughters.
Would they seek to expand their family? Did Mr. Wright concern himself with the fate of the farm should there be no son to take up the labor in years to come, or would his daughters one day marry, their husbands assuming the work when age made it impossible for him to continue?
This title carried consequence for a great many people, and the weight of such responsibility pressed upon him with unfamiliar force.
Marco loved his present occupation as bear leader to the wealthy sons of the aristocracy, for it allowed him to spend his days immersed in art and architecture.
Florence was, in his estimation, the greatest city in the world, and he had once imagined walking its elegant streets until the end of his days.
But now, Simon’s notebook had opened a new world, one in which a conscientious lord might improve the lives of many through careful governance.
The notion was unsettling, yet quietly intriguing.
If undertaken with diligence, he could see how such stewardship might prove deeply satisfying, a life devoted to purpose rather than pleasure.
As the future Lord Blackwood, he might safeguard the welfare of hundreds of servants and tenants, and the broader well-being of those who lived within his influence.
This visit to Elmstead placed him at a crossroads, contemplating two possible futures. In this respect, his uncle Simon had succeeded in offering a clarity Marco had not anticipated regarding the role now set before him.
Turning from the window, Marco lifted his gaze to the large oil paintings lining the picture gallery.
Generations of Scotts looked back at him, and he was struck by the realization that his own father had once walked these halls.
The thought created a gentle tether to the past, as he imagined his father as a boy, running through the corridors, perhaps scolded for excessive high spirits by stern tutors.
“It is very different from the London house,” he observed.
Sebastian was studying a pastoral landscape with keen interest. “This is a Turner. The signature is difficult to discern, but the manner is unmistakable. What do you think, Lorenzo?”
Lorenzo stepped forward, considering the tranquil river flowing beneath a stone bridge, framed by trees. His expression hardened, and he gestured with flagrant disdain.