Chapter 6
Chapter Six
The sound of hooves reached me first. Not the steady, reliable clatter of the post chaise, nor the measured arrival of a well-paced curricle.
No. This was a thunderous parade, a symphony of arriving elegance and overwrought planning, complete with shouted instructions, barking dogs, and the squeal of overpacked trunks being manhandled onto the gravel.
I stood at the top of the front steps, the wind curling my shawl around my elbows, and tried to steel myself.
"That," I murmured to Lucy, who stood one step behind me, "is the unmistakable sound of my sisters."
The door had barely opened when Georgiana descended from the carriage as though she were stepping onto the stage at Covent Garden. Her gown was perfectly creased, her bonnet too elaborate for travel, and her expression one of instant disapproval.
"Eliza! You look... rural."
"I am rural, Georgiana. That is the point."
Behind her, Lady Allen (formerly Victoria Fenwood, before marrying a man with more land than charm) emerged with a flourish of fur and frustration.
"This drive," she announced to no one in particular, "was an affront to reason. Why Somerset insists on having roads instead of proper stone lanes, I shall never understand."
I smiled politely. "Welcome to Wyndham Hall."
Their footman was already dragging a gilt-edged case from the boot.
"Where is your butler?"
"I haven’t one." For my own amusement, I resisted explaining that the staff would be arriving that very day.
"No butler?"
"There is a very capable steward."
"A steward!" Georgiana looked horrified, as though I had announced I kept wild boars in the drawing room. "Eliza, do say you’ve not let him answer the door."
"Not today. Though he may have been rearranging my rosemary plants this morning."
"Good heavens."
They swept inside like a gust of perfume and opinions. Within moments, Georgiana was critiquing the arrangement of the sitting room cushions (“too limp”), while Lady Allen demanded to know why the wallpaper in the morning room had not yet been changed.
"Because I only just arrived," I reminded them.
"But it’s so blue," Victoria insisted, as though the color had personally insulted her.
Lucy, to her credit, simply trailed behind us, occasionally casting me glances of amused pity. She’d known this would happen. She’d prepared extra tea.
After a brief and fruitless attempt to get them to admire the view from the library, I escaped to the drawing room under the pretense of adjusting the fire. It was there that Mr. Brooks appeared, entirely too quiet and entirely too composed, carrying a small stack of ledgers.
He paused at the threshold. "I see we have company."
"Like a weather event," I replied, crouching by the hearth. "They cannot be stopped, only endured."
"Should I return later?"
"Certainly not. You’ll need to be introduced. But do brace yourself."
He inclined his head, utterly unbothered, and stepped inside.
"Lady Allen, Miss Georgiana," I said, rising, "may I present Mr. Brooks, the steward of Wyndham Hall. Mr. Brooks, my sisters."
Georgiana looked him up and down as though determining whether he might be passed over for a better specimen. Lady Allen, of course, offered her hand as though expecting it to be kissed.
He bowed instead. "A pleasure, ladies."
"You seem very young for a steward," Georgiana said, narrowing her eyes.
"I assure you, I’m ancient in spirit."
That earned a faint sound from Lucy that might have been a laugh disguised as a cough.
"Eliza says you tend the garden," Lady Allen said.
"I tend what needs tending, my lady."
Georgiana crossed her arms. "And do you also fetch the firewood and sing lullabies to the chickens?"
"Only when they behave."
He did not smile, but I saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes. And, to my surprise, so did Georgiana.
"He’s too clever by half," she muttered.
"That’s why he’s still employed," I replied sweetly, daring a glance in his direction. I was rewarded by the slight rise of a single brow.
After he departed (with a stack of untouched ledgers still in hand), the conversation turned to the real purpose of their visit.
"We came," Victoria announced, sipping her tea with theatrical calm, "to fetch you back to London."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You cannot mean to remain here," Georgiana added. "In this... provincial mausoleum."
"I do mean to remain."
"But why?"
I opened my mouth to reply and realized I didn’t have an answer that would satisfy either of them.
"Because I wish to," I said at last.
"That’s not a reason, Eliza," Victoria said gently. "That’s an evasion."
"It’s my home."
Georgiana looked unconvinced. Victoria reached for another biscuit. "Well, we shall simply have to improve it, then."
"Do what you must," I said, standing. "But leave my rosemary alone."
They did not leave it alone, of course. Nor did they leave the drawing room, or the linen closets, or the guest list for the nonexistent house party they had already begun planning.
And yet, as exhausting as they were, as overbearing and maddening and exquisitely difficult—they were mine. And as I walked out into the fading light and caught sight of Mr. Brooks again in the far garden, I realized that he sort of…fit with them.