The Mistress of Wyndham Hall (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #3)
Chapter 1
Chapter One
If I were to compose a list of things I most desired, it would not include the incessant creaking of a post chaise, nor the constant jostling over pitted country roads.
And yet, here I was—alone but for a sleepy driver, my maid, Mary, and my single battered trunk—clinging to the window frame and praying we might arrive with bones intact.
The clouds had been threatening rain since Wells, and as we at last crested the ridge above the valley, a sullen mist descended, blurring the outline of trees and turning the world to gray. Perfect weather for a widow just out of mourning. I leaned closer, squinting through the smeared glass.
“There,” I murmured, though, with Mary asleep, no one could hear me, “that must be Wyndham Hall.”
Beyond the hedgerows and swelling fields, a stately house emerged, its stone facade softened by climbing ivy and time.
It did not rise imposingly like the London terraces I had once called home.
Rather, it waited—quiet and self-assured, half-hidden by a copse of linden trees, somewhat defined by the curling smoke of its chimneys.
Wyndham Hall. My aunt’s house. Now mine.
I could not decide whether the thought comforted or discomfited me. Perhaps both. There was something final in its truth. I had been Eliza Tynsdale, wife, for all of fifteen months. Now I was Eliza Tynsdale, widow just out of mourning and mistress of a Somerset estate I had not seen since girlhood.
I’d received nothing to speak of as yet from my late husband. His brothers and the barristers and a dainty yet vocal mother-in-law would sort through all of that I was certain.
The carriage rumbled to a halt before a set of double doors, low lying fog and mist still swirling about us in an unearthly show. I gathered my skirts, my breath, and what little courage I could muster. I found it difficult to believe I might have what it took to be mistress of such a fine place.
The driver—a stooped man with ruddy cheeks and a somewhat watery eye—clambered down and pulled the door open with a grunt.
I descended, blinking in the damp air, only to find no footman, no butler, no welcoming housekeeper in sight.
Did the place hire servants? My aunt was eccentric to be sure, but certainly she’d maintained a staff.
Strange.
The door stood ajar.
“Halloo?” I called, stepping beneath the portico. “Is anyone within?”
My voice echoed slightly, then faded into the hush of dripping leaves. I turned, half-minded to wait inside the carriage, when the sound of booted steps on stone arrested me.
A man emerged from the stable path—broad-shouldered, jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, a tousled curl falling over one brow. He did not appear surprised to see me. Nor, it must be said, particularly deferential.
“I wondered when you’d arrive,” he said.
I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
He inclined his head—not quite a bow. “You are Mrs. Tynsdale, I presume.”
“I am.” I looked him over more thoroughly then. He wore no livery, and his coat was of fine cut, his boots well-polished, and his bearing... assured. Too assured for a groom or steward. And too muddy to be a guest.
“You’ve the advantage of me, sir.”
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth, though his eyes—gray as the sky above—were unreadable.
“Julian Brooks. I’m helping your aunt manage the estate. Or rather, I have, since her passing.” He paused. “You weren’t expected for a few days yet.”
That stung more than I cared to admit. “The roads were fairer than I feared, and the tedium of Bath intolerable. I left at first light.”
“Ah.” He stepped aside, gesturing toward the door. “Well, come in, Mrs. Tynsdale. I fear the hall is not quite ready for its mistress, but I daresay we’ll remedy that soon enough.”
There was no mockery in his tone, but neither was there the deference I had grown used to throughout mourning—cloying sympathies and hollow compliments whispered at arm’s length, which I could well do without. Mr. Brooks regarded me as if I were whole… and I must admit, I rather liked it.
Inside, Wyndham Hall smelled of lavender and wood smoke. A cheerful fire crackled in the drawing room hearth, and someone—blessed soul—had set a tray of bread and cheese beside a pot of tea.
“I instructed Mrs. Chipping (one of very few servants about the place at the moment) to expect you tomorrow, but she’s likely laid the fire in your chambers regardless.” He moved past me with an ease I found both comforting and disconcerting. “I’ll have your trunk brought up.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself,” I said. “Neither of us is a footman, and I could manage alone.”
He turned, one brow raised. “That may be, madam, but Wyndham Hall has standards to uphold, and I am not inclined to let a lady haul luggage up the stairs when there are perfectly good arms about to do it for her.”
I felt my mouth twitch, almost against my will. “A man of strong opinions, I see.”
“I happily acknowledge such to be true.” He eyed me a moment. “Perhaps you come from somewhere with less formal expectations?”
I gave him a look I hoped was imperious. “You may be surprised, Mr. Brooks. I grew up not twenty miles from here.”
“Then Somerset welcomes you home.”
I relaxed a bit more. His voice, low and warm, seemed to settle into the very walls of the house, and for the first time in many months, I felt not quite so adrift.
Though I didn’t know yet quite what role Mr. Brooks would have at Wyndham Hall or in my life moving forward but for now, I needed him.
And I trusted my aunt at least to acquire the best sort of men to manage her estate.
I allowed him to manage my arrival as well.
“Might I indulge in the bit of refreshment I saw set out?”
“Certainly. Please do, I’ll see to everything in no time.”
“Thank you. I admit, I am rather tired and famished as well.”
“Welcome to Wyndham Hall.”