Chapter Three
By half past seven the next morning, the pavement outside Ashbourne House had become a theatre of trunks, servants, horses, and restrained disapproval.
Petalia arrived with one small bag in her hand, and her cloak buttoned to the throat.
She paused at the edge of the activity, uncertain whether to present herself at the front door or to the nearest person who seemed capable of giving orders.
Bellamy solved the question by appearing beside the carriage with the serene inevitability of a man who had arranged the morning, the weather, and possibly the direction of the wind.
“Good morning, Miss Winthrop,” he said, bowing. “Are you ready for the journey?”
“As ready as one may be for three days on the road.”
“A prudent answer. May I take your bag?”
Petalia tightened her fingers around the handle before she could stop herself. Bellamy noticed, of course. He was far too practised not to notice, but he was also far too well-trained to make a subject of it.
“It contains everything I own,” she said.
“Then I shall treat it with the gravity due to a household inventory,” Bellamy replied, and took it from her with both hands.
The answer steadied her more than sympathy would have done.
Petalia watched him place the bag inside the travelling carriage, where it looked smaller than ever against the dark upholstery and folded wool blankets.
Lady Maria Fenwick was already settled within, a foot warmer at her feet, a fur-trimmed mantle around her shoulders, and an expression that suggested travel was tolerable only because it supplied fresh opportunities for interference.
“Come in, Miss Winthrop,” Lady Maria called through the open carriage door. “The morning is cold enough to make humility of us all, and I refuse to be humble before breakfast.”
Petalia curtsied. “Good morning, my lady.”
“It is not good. It is merely morning. We shall improve it if the first inn has decent coffee.”
Before Petalia could climb in, a horse shifted near the mounting block and drew her attention towards the street.
The Duke of Ashbourne sat already mounted, dressed for riding, his scarf pulled high against the damp air. He looked no more inclined to greet the day than the day looked inclined to welcome him. A valet on a second horse waited a little behind him, expression blank beneath his hat.
Ashbourne’s gaze moved to Petalia. It stayed there for a single measured moment and then slid away to his aunt.
“The western road will be heavy past Hounslow,” he said.
Lady Maria leant out of the carriage. “That is not news, Edmund. It rained yesterday, and the road has never been accused of delicacy.”
“We will change horses at Reading if the first team labours.”
“We will change horses when the coachman says so, unless you have taken to driving by remote authority.”
His mouth tightened. “I shall ride ahead.”
“Yes, dear, I had assumed you would. A closed carriage for three days with two women would require more heroism than you presently possess.”
Petalia lowered her eyes, though not quickly enough to hide that she had heard.
Ashbourne’s horse moved under him. He settled it with a slight pressure of the reins, every line of him controlled. “Miss Winthrop.”
“Your Grace.”
It was not precisely a greeting. It was the acknowledgement one might give to weather, furniture, or a legal inconvenience. Then he turned his horse and rode ahead, the valet following at a respectful distance.
Lady Maria watched him go. “There. You have now received the full warmth of my nephew’s welcome. You must not expect the same lavish display every day, or you will become spoiled.”
Petalia climbed into the carriage and took the seat opposite her. “I shall attempt to manage my expectations.”
“A useful habit in this family.” Lady Maria tapped the foot warmer with the toe of her boot. “Do put your feet near the bricks. Edmund had them reheated twice this morning.”
Petalia looked down. Two wrapped hot bricks rested near her side of the carriage, and a thick blanket lay folded beside them. A covered basket had been tucked into the corner, from which came the homely smell of bread and cheese.
“His Grace ordered these?”
“He will deny it with a face of stone if asked. I recommend asking only if you wish to see a duke cornered by his own kindness. It is a rare spectacle, but not one to overuse.”
Petalia arranged her skirts and placed her damp boots near the warmth. “I would rather not begin my employment by cornering him.”
“A wise beginning. I was much slower to learn the value of restraint.”
The carriage lurched forward. Petalia looked through the window as Ashbourne House began to fall behind them.
For a moment, she thought of her room in Bloomsbury, the narrow bed, the chill in the floorboards, Mrs Pemberley’s careful accounts.
The advance of one week’s wages had settled the rent.
Her debt was paid, her bag was packed, and yet the clean severance frightened her more than debt had done.
Lady Maria allowed the silence to stretch until Petalia looked back.
“You are wondering,” the older woman said, “whether you have stepped into employment or a family tragedy wearing a respectable coat.”
“I was wondering how the children will receive me.”
“With suspicion, I expect. Possibly outrage, if Mary is in good form.”
Petalia looked towards the window. “That is encouraging.”
“It is honest. Gratitude would be more alarming.”
“Children rarely greet adult arrangements with gratitude.”
“Quite right. They prefer to test the arrangement for loose boards and then jump upon them.”
Petalia folded her hands in her lap. “They are always at Wrenfield, then?”
“Almost always. Edmund keeps them there as if the whole of London were contagious. To be fair, much of it is.”
“And His Grace was in town only temporarily?”
“He came because I summoned him and then refused to be put off by letters. His children require a governess. His house requires order. He requires contradiction at regular intervals. I provided all three as efficiently as possible.”
“I had not considered myself a form of contradiction.”
Lady Maria’s smile was small and approving. “You will learn.”
The road shook them into a brief silence.
Petalia accepted a piece of bread from the basket when Lady Maria offered it, and for some miles they spoke only of practical matters, the length of the journey, the likelihood of rain, the first night’s lodging, the servants waiting at Wrenfield.
Lady Maria did not rush towards confidences.
She circled them, approaching the family as one might approach a nervous horse, from the side and with a hand kept visible.
“Their mother was Eleanor O’Rourke before she became Duchess of Ashbourne,” Lady Maria said at last, as the carriage passed beyond the denser press of London.
“Half Irish, entirely determined, and capable of entering a room by laugh alone. Edmund never knew what to do with such brightness, which I suspect was half the attraction.”
Petalia kept her voice gentle. “And the children?”
“Declan remembers her. Mary does not, except through other people’s grief, which is a poor nurserymaid.” Lady Maria adjusted the blanket over her knees. “The boy has grown careful. The girl has grown sharp. Neither condition has been improved by adults whispering in corridors.”
“Does Lord Declan speak little because he is shy, or because he has learnt silence serves him?”
Lady Maria’s gaze sharpened. “That is the first question most people forget to ask.”
“And the answer?”
“Both, perhaps. He has a reserve natural to him, but grief made a fortress of it. He reads a great deal. He observes more than is comfortable. He remembers promises perfectly and forgives broken ones less readily.”
“What does he read?”
“Maps, when he can get them. Voyages. Accounts of ships and islands, real or otherwise. At present, he is devoted to Robinson Crusoe, though I am told he is more interested in the lists of tools and provisions than in Crusoe’s spiritual improvement.”
Petalia looked up quickly. “That is often the most honest part of the book.”
Lady Maria’s brows rose. “You know it?”
“I read it with the Halverston boys. They cared for the shipwreck, the goats, the fortifications, and very little else. Their sister maintained that Friday deserved a better author.”
Lady Maria settled back with distinct satisfaction. “Miss Winthrop, you may yet survive Lord Declan.”
“I would prefer that Lord Declan survive me.”
“You see? That is why I brought you. Most people begin by worrying whether the children will be agreeable. You begin by wondering whether you will be able to reach them.”
Petalia accepted the compliment only by lowering her gaze to the bread in her hand. “I have not yet met them.”
“No. Keep that humility. You will need it by supper.”
The journey settled into its rhythm after that, wheels over ruts, harness creak, changing light through the carriage window, Lady Maria’s stories arriving in pieces.
She spoke of Wrenfield as a house once full of noise and now full of rooms that listened too hard.
She spoke of Eleanor’s rose beds, which had been planted in no sensible order but with enormous conviction.
She spoke of Edmund after his wife’s death, not in one continuous account, but in fragments that Petalia had to assemble.
Within a year of mourning, he had taken a horse over a hedge no reasonable rider would have attempted after rain.
The horse survived with a strained tendon.
Edmund struck the stone fence on the other side and came home with his face broken open, his jaw scarred, and his temper altered in ways even those who loved him did not always recognise.
Since then, he had worn a beard, tied scarves higher than necessary, dismissed governesses on pretexts so thin Lady Maria refused to dignify them, and retreated farther into Wrenfield with every season.