Chapter 20
GIDEON
The countryside flew by, still not quite familiar to him.
He had only been to his country estate twice before — once immediately after inheriting it, and a second time when he had stayed longer to satisfy himself that everything ran as it should.
The countryside surrounding the estate was beautiful.
At this time of year the fields were gold with ripening wheat, stretching out flat and peaceful in every direction, utterly unlike London in every possible respect.
Across from him, Helena slept, leaning against the side of the carriage with Lavinia lying along the bench, her head in her mother’s lap.
He looked at them with a smile. They were his family now. Truly his, in every way that mattered.
He closed his eyes, and his lips tingled at once — because he immediately thought of the kiss after the wedding dance, which had been two days ago and which he had been thinking about at inconvenient intervals ever since.
He knew it had worked. Everyone in that room had been fully persuaded by their performance.
He knew this because he had seen that morning’s headlines — Suddenly A Duke, Suddenly A Husband — the Fairytale of the Duke of Blackthorne and His Beautiful Bride — which had been only one of several.
He had brought all the papers with him and read through most of them in the first hour of the journey.
It had worked. There ought to be no more rumours now. At least, he hoped so.
Now came the next — perhaps more difficult — part of the journey. The journey toward actually being husband and wife.
He watched her sleep. She looked almost angelic.
They had spent the previous night at a posting inn, in separate rooms, and since they were to be in the carriage most of the day she had not troubled to put her hair up.
Her auburn hair fell around her shoulders in a way that he had not seen before and that he found it rather difficult not to stare at.
Her gown, a soft off-white, completed the effect considerably.
He took a careful breath and looked out of the window.
It was true that he thought of her more often than he ought, but given the amount of time they’d spent together, surely that was natural, was it not? It meant nothing. Did it? Was he being a fool to entertain such thoughts? Certainly.
The carriage made a sharp turn that jolted him sideways.
The sound of the wheels changed — from the soft grinding of a country lane to the harder clatter of a stone drive.
He leaned to look out of the window, and Blackthorne Manor rose in the distance.
It was a grand, beautiful house, far more so than he had remembered.
He reached across and touched her arm gently.
She blinked at him, her eyes growing wide as she came back to herself.
“We are home,” he said. It felt strange to call it that — he had never considered it home before. But it was. For both of them, now. Or one of their homes, at any rate.
She sat up so as not to disturb Lavinia, who slept on, and looked out of the window. Her lips formed a small O. “That is a very grand estate. I had no idea how large Blackthorne was.”
“That is nothing,” he said. “Behind the house there is a lake — large enough for boats. My cousin who held the estate before me used to let the local families sail there. I intend to continue the arrangement. I have no wish to make myself unpopular before I have even had a chance to become acquainted with anybody.”
“That is a very wise decision,” she said. “What else is there?”
“A sculpture garden of some sort. Greek gods, I believe, though I confess I have not examined them very closely. And there was a maze, though it was quite overgrown the last time I visited. I had them cut it back before we arrived so that nobody should find themselves lost in it.”
“I appreciate that considerably,” she said, and he felt a small, private warmth at having done something right.
“There is a stable, of course. And several curricles. I have absolutely no intention of driving any of them at speed.”
“Good,” she said. “I would not wish to lose my second husband to some bizarre accident. I would also appreciate it if you were to refrain from crawling about on rooftops.”
“I shall do my utmost to curb any urges I may have in that direction,” he said gravely.
They looked at one another and laughed. The sound filled the carriage and woke Lavinia, who sat up and looked around with the alert, slightly accusatory expression of a small person who suspects she has missed something.
“Home?” she asked. She had been producing more recognizable words of late, which Helena said was a very good sign and which Gideon found both impressive and slightly alarming.
“Yes, little one,” he said. “We are home.”
He watched Helena’s eyes travel across the approaching house, taking it in with a thoroughness he had come to recognize as characteristic of her.
“There are other families in the area,” he said.
“Some titled, some not. Many of them have children, and more will. Lavinia will have plenty of friends here. And when we are in London, she will have the children of our friends. She will be well protected in every direction.”
Helena’s eyes shimmered. “Thank you,” she said. “For giving her this.”
“It is not only for her,” he said. “Do not forget that.” He wanted to say considerably more, but he knew this was not the moment. Besides, he was not certain what he would have said even if it were.
Before he could give the matter any further thought the carriage came to a halt. He stepped down and handed her out. She reached back for Lavinia and settled her on her hip, and together they turned toward the house.
“Oh no,” Helena said.
“What is—” He saw it. The entire household had turned out — the full retinue ranged in two neat lines before the front door.
“I told him not to do this,” Gideon said, under his breath. “Heathcliff, the butler, is a stickler for the proprieties. There is no moving him on such matters.”
“Did he do this when you first arrived?”
“No,” he said. “I was cleverer then. I did not warn them I was coming — simply presented myself one morning without notice. Heathcliff was most put out, but it was considerably more comfortable for everyone. I would suggest we do the same again next time.”
She straightened her shoulders. “Very well. We shall get through it.”
Together they approached the house. Mrs. Strom the housekeeper and Mr. Heathcliff stepped forward, bowed and curtsied as was proper, and addressed them by their titles.
He was still not accustomed to being called Your Grace, and it had to be stranger still for Helena.
He watched her face as it was said to her for the first time here, and wondered whether he had burdened her with more than she could comfortably carry.
* * *
Your Grace.
It rang in her ear like something not quite real.
Almost like a confession she had not intended to make.
Your Grace. She had barely grown accustomed to being called my lady, and here she was — referred to as Duchess.
It was ludicrous. Absolutely ludicrous. And yet this was her life now. Whether she liked it or not.
The housekeeper drew herself up to her full height — which was not considerable, but her bearing made considerably more of it than nature had provided — and gave them each a warm smile.
“It is so wonderful to have a family at Blackthorne again,” Mrs. Strom said. “The previous Duke had not yet married when he passed away. I must say, Your Grace—” she looked at Lavinia with evident pleasure “—it is a wonderful place for a small child.”
Lavinia, for her part, studied Mrs. Strom with wide eyes, then extended both arms in the direction of Gideon.
“Pap! Pap!”
“You are already up,” Gideon said, with great seriousness. “There is no need to request to be lifted when you are already lifted.”
“She may be a little young to appreciate that distinction, Your Grace,” Mrs. Strom said, with admirable composure.
“Of course,” Gideon said, and Helena watched the color creep onto his cheeks. “I am aware of that. I am simply in the habit of speaking to her as though she understands, on the grounds that she deserves to be treated with respect.”
Helena kept her expression neutral. The housekeeper, she noticed, was exercising similar restraint.
“Shall I introduce you to the staff, Your Grace?” Mrs. Strom said, turning to Helena. “And then I can show you to your chambers.”
“Please,” Helena said.
She was introduced to every member of the household in turn, which took some time but which she had expected.
She had done this before and she could do it again.
She paid attention to names and faces with the care she had always brought to such things, and by the time it was over she had most of them fixed in her memory.
Mrs. Strom walked her up the stairs — she was a formidable woman of perhaps five feet if she extended herself, with iron grey hair and the kind of quiet authority that made it clear who ran Blackthorne Manor and had done for some considerable time.
She lacked the forbidding chill Helena had associated with the housekeeper at the Vale estate, but was in every other respect exactly the sort of person one hoped to find in charge of a large house.
“The footmen will bring your trunks up directly,” Mrs. Strom said. “And I have assigned two maids to assist with the unpacking.”
“I have a lady’s maid,” Helena hastened to say.
“We are aware. Mary has already been given quarters suitable to her position and I believe she is upstairs preparing for your arrival. She also,” Mrs. Strom added, with the particular neutral tone of a woman choosing her words with care, “insisted on overseeing the preparation of the nursery herself. She is very clear about her preferences.”
“Yes,” Helena said. “I sent her ahead for precisely that reason. She knows how I like things done.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Strom said. “To tell the truth, Your Grace, I am glad that you have brought your own lady’s maid. The late Duke was unmarried, and we are not accustomed to families here. There are one or two gaps in our domestic arrangements that Mary’s presence will help address.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Helena paused. “And — if I may say — it must be a comfort to you as well, to have a family in the house again.”
“It is,” Mrs. Strom said, with warmth that seemed genuine. “His Grace is an amenable man. Though I confess I do not think he is at ease with small children as yet.”
“No,” Helena agreed. “He tries his best. I do not think he has had much occasion to be around them before.”
“I gathered that, Your Grace, when he attempted to explain to the child the distinction between requesting to be lifted and already being lifted.”
“Yes,” Helena said. “He means well. And he will improve. He simply needs time.”
“As I am sure we all do,” Mrs. Strom said.
She paused on the landing, glancing back toward the staircase as though satisfying herself that they were not overheard, and then turned to Helena with something that was almost a conspirator’s expression.
“If I may ask, Your Grace — your father was a Captain in the militia, I believe? It is how he came to know his Grace?”
Helena went briefly still. “It is,” she said.
“My son served briefly in his regiment,” Mrs. Strom said, entirely untroubled. “He thought very highly of your father. A good man and a fair one, he always said. Your son had the honour of being aboard on a particular — what shall we call it — sea voyage, that your father commanded.”
Helena relaxed by degrees. “He has mentioned it to me once or twice,” she said.
“My son’s account of it,” Mrs. Strom said, “was that they were very nearly lost. A tremendous storm, he said. A truly perilous crossing.”
“Did he,” Helena said. “I must tell you that when my father described the same voyage to me, the most dramatic thing he mentioned was the number of soldiers who could not keep their breakfast.”
Mrs. Strom stopped walking. Then she let out a laugh — a genuine, full, rolling laugh that echoed off the tall ceilings of the upper corridor and showed no signs of stopping for some time.
“Goodness, Your Grace,” she said, when she had recovered herself.
“You are a woman after my own heart.” She resumed walking, shaking her head with the lingering satisfaction of someone who has been thoroughly amused.
“I dare say we shall get along splendidly.”
Helena smiled, and found that she meant it.
As they made their way along the upper corridor toward her chambers, with the late afternoon light falling long and golden across the floorboards and the sounds of the estate settling quietly around them, she had to admit to herself — cautiously, and without making too much of it — that she had just made an ally.
And that Blackthorne, for all its grandness and its stone drive and its Greek gods in the garden, was beginning to feel, in the smallest possible way, like somewhere she might one day be glad to call home.