Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
Benedict had known his parents too long to mistake their elaborate unconcern for innocence.
His mother greeted Harriet with unusual solicitude, while his father stood beside the mantel studying a folded paper he had almost certainly read a dozen times already.
Neither offered an explanation. On his wedding day, with his bride already unsettled by the refusal to unpack her trunks, Benedict had little patience for mysteries.
Harriet placed her hand upon his arm when he offered it.
The contact was light, but Benedict felt the uncertainty she would never willingly display before his parents.
She wore dark green silk with her mother's pearls at her throat.
He remembered them from her portrait, though not upon Harriet herself.
They lent her an air of sober elegance that did not conceal the question in her eyes.
“What have you done?” he asked his father.
Lord Denham raised his brows. “That is an ungracious beginning to what I had hoped would be a pleasant family dinner. I have done nothing which ought not to have been done some years ago, though your obstinate refusal to marry deprived me of the proper occasion.”
“You have never required an occasion to interfere in my affairs. I cannot imagine why matrimony should have inspired such restraint now.” Benedict drew out Harriet's chair and waited until she was seated before taking his own place beside her.
She did not look at him, but one corner of her mouth moved.
Irritation sat more comfortably upon her than anxiety, and he was not above provoking one to banish the other.
His mother regarded him with the patience she generally reserved for small children and unreasonable tradesmen.
“You will permit your father to explain after we have dined. Harriet has borne quite enough haste and confusion for one day without being obliged to eat cold soup because the two of you cannot refrain from arguing.”
The presence of the servants prevented him from pressing the matter.
Dinner proceeded with exasperating civility while Lady Denham spoke of the neighbors who would call and the invitations that must be answered.
Harriet responded sensibly, but her hand remained near the stem of her wineglass without lifting it.
Twice Benedict saw her glance at the folded paper his father had placed upon a side table. The second time, her gaze met his.
He gave the smallest shake of his head. Whatever news awaited them, he had no part in it. Some of the tension left her shoulders. Trust had never flourished between them, and that she should grant him even so little of it seemed a thing of more consequence than it ought.
When the second course had been removed, his father dismissed the servants and waited until the doors closed behind them.
“Everton House has stood empty since my mother's death. Pritchard has opened it periodically for inspection and necessary maintenance, but no one has properly occupied it in nearly twenty years.”
Benedict leaned back in his chair. He had expected some alteration to the settlements, perhaps an announcement concerning Alderley. Everton House had not occurred to him at all. “I am acquainted with the history of my grandmother's residence. What has it to do with Harriet's trunks?”
“They have not been unpacked because there is little sense in making Harriet settle at Denham only to uproot her again. Everton House is to be your home.” Lord Denham spoke with deceptive simplicity, as if he had offered them the loan of a carriage rather than an establishment of their own.
“The land remains part of Denham, naturally, but the house and its immediate grounds will be placed at your disposal, together with an income sufficient to maintain them.”
For once Benedict could summon no ready reply. Neither parent appeared to appreciate the enormity of what they had done without consulting him. “You arranged this before the wedding.”
“We began arranging it all years ago while we waited for you to choose a bride,” his mother corrected. “There was no certainty that Harriet would accept you. Indeed, after witnessing the manner in which you have courted her over the years, I considered refusal more likely than consent.”
Harriet nearly laughed. Benedict glanced toward her and found surprise overtaking her wariness. His parents had offered her a home of her own—not a place beneath Lady Denham's authority, but a household in which she might exercise the independence she valued so fiercely.
It was a thoughtful gift. Benedict resented exceedingly that he had not thought of it himself.
“And what condition is attached to this generosity?” he asked.
His father's expression hardened. “None. I will not have Harriet treated as a guest in a house that must one day be hers, nor will I expect your mother to yield her place while she remains mistress of Denham. Everton provides a sensible alternative. It is near enough for you to oversee matters here and for Harriet to continue her work at Alderley. If you find some hidden disadvantage in the arrangement, you may enlighten us.”
Benedict found none. Everton lay less than three miles from Alderley and possessed its own gardens, stables and offices.
More importantly, it would remove Harriet from the observation of his parents and a large household.
Their marriage was no one's concern but their own. At Everton, it might remain so.
He turned to her. “What do you think?”
Harriet took her time before answering, and Benedict watched each thought pass through her expression: relief, suspicion and the instinctive resistance that arose whenever anyone presumed to know what was best for her.
“I think I should like to see the house before declaring it perfect. But I am grateful for the consideration behind the offer. I had wondered what my role at Denham was to be when it already possesses a very capable mistress.”
“You will be mistress here one day, my dear,” Lady Denham replied.
“Not yet. You should have time to enjoy being a young bride before you have the responsibility of a monstrosity such as this house. You and Benedict require a place in which you may learn to be husband and wife without the entire Denham household observing every move you make. Everton will afford you that privacy and will be a space wholly your own.”
Benedict looked sharply at his mother. Her face remained serene. If she guessed that privacy held a meaning beyond freedom from parental interference, she gave no indication of it.
Lord Denham passed the document across the table.
“Pritchard sent men over this morning to inspect the roof, the chimneys and every grate. Your mother dispatched Mrs. Grieves with several maids to air the rooms, turn the mattresses and examine the linens. The kitchen range will be inspected tomorrow. Cook will go with you tomorrow to ensure it is all in working order… but you’re not keeping her.
I’ll not be sacrificing her roast duck for anyone, not even my son. ”
Benedict unfolded the paper. It was not a deed, as he had first supposed, but a list in Pritchard's precise hand. Rooms, repairs and names of servants filled both sides. “You have accomplished a remarkable amount in the hours since we left for the church.”
“Your father gave the orders three days ago,” Lady Denham said. “Only the more visible work was delayed until Harriet had agreed. We did not wish half the village to know of the marriage before she did.”
Harriet's eyes widened. “Three days ago?”
“My wife has been confident of the outcome from the beginning,” Lord Denham said. “I considered her optimism ill-advised given your often contentious exchanges, but I ceded to her excellent judgment as always. It appears I was wise to do so.”
“Your mother has been confident of this outcome since you were both in the nursery,” the earl added to Benedict. “I have merely endured the prophecy.”
Lady Denham ignored him. “The house is ready for you to take up residence as early as tomorrow, if you choose. It will be rustic but I daresay that until you are in residence you will not know what it requires. You may choose the remainder of the servants yourselves, though Pritchard will send a few from here who will see to your comfort and do so with discretion and utmost loyalty.”
Benedict heard the care beneath that last provision.
His parents did not know the terms upon which he and Harriet had married, but they knew them well enough to anticipate difficulty.
The smaller household would protect Harriet from speculation as much as it granted them independence.
He could not object to their interference when it had been conducted with such unerring good sense.
“There is an estate room adjoining the library,” his mother continued, addressing Harriet. “It is small, but the windows overlook the eastern fields. I thought you might prefer it to the larger room at the front of the house.”
Harriet's face softened. She thanked Lady Denham and asked about the ledgers, then the tenants attached to the few acres surrounding the house.
Benedict listened as the reserve left her voice.
She no longer looked like a woman awaiting the next unwelcome alteration to her life. She looked interested. Almost eager.
That change mattered to him more than the house itself.
He had entered the dining room prepared to oppose his parents' scheme.
Instead, he imagined Harriet at the desk near Everton's eastern windows, Alderley visible across the fields, with no one to tell her how her day should be spent.
He imagined returning from Denham and finding her there.
The ease with which the picture formed disturbed him.
It was one thing to marry Harriet in order to protect her family. It was another to discover that he had already begun constructing a life around her.