Chapter 10
The carriage had barely stopped before James began talking.
“The east wing has been prepared for your use,” he said, handing her down. “Mrs. Holt has arranged the rooms. And the blue sitting room connects directly to the bedroom—suitable for reading. There is adequate light in the mornings on that side of the house.”
“Ah, I see. That sounds fine,” Isadora murmured.
“The dressing room is smaller than ideal, but Mrs. Holt believes the wardrobe situation can be managed with some reorganization. She will speak to you about it this afternoon if that is convenient.”
“Of course.”
She stood in the entrance hall and looked around.
She had stood here before. Several times over the past two weeks, she had crossed this floor and climbed these stairs and moved through these rooms with the freedom of a guest, which was the freedom of someone who could leave.
The house had felt large then, and grand, and slightly overwhelming in the way of places that had absorbed centuries of consequence and wore it without apology.
It felt different now.
She could not say precisely how. The floor was the same stone. The staircase was the same dark wood. The portraits on the wall were of the same slightly intimidating ancestors, regarding her with the collective composure of people who had nothing to prove.
But she was not leaving. That was the difference. She was not leaving, and the house seemed to know it.
She was not entirely sure how she felt about that yet.
“The nursery schedule runs at six, ten, two, and six,” James was saying.
He had produced a paper from somewhere. She was not sure when.
“The nurse—Mrs. Plum, you’ve met her—she manages the morning shift.
I thought you might prefer the afternoon shift, since Violet settles more easily with you present.
Then, but if you would rather a different arrangement—”
He wrote a list. He is standing in our entrance hall on our wedding day, holding a list.
“The afternoon shift is fine.”
“Good.” He tapped the page. “The household accounts will come to you on Fridays. Henderson has prepared a summary of the estate’s current position, which I’ll have sent to your sitting room. It is not urgent reading, but I thought you should have the full picture—”
He was moving now, leading her toward the east corridor with the focused energy of a man with considerable ground to cover.
“James.”
“—as soon as possible. The cook’s name is Mrs. Farrow.
She has worked here for twelve years, and she will tell you things about the menu that I have stopped contesting because the food is excellent and the alternative is an argument I do not have time for.
If you wish to change anything, she will require—”
“Yes,” she said.
She looked at the side of his face, the list held slightly aloft—the momentum of a man who was conducting a very important briefing and who had not once looked at her in the past ten minutes to see how it was landing.
She thought about saying something.
She couldn’t help thinking about the ride over, the quiet of it, or the way he had edged away from her when she had foolishly thought he would kiss her.
“—some careful handling. Not difficult, simply careful.” He flipped the page. “Tenant meetings take place on the first Thursday of the month. I do not expect you to attend, but Henderson suggested you might want to be informed of—”
“Mm.”
“—the general situation before winter, which is when most of the pressing matters tend to—” He stopped and looked up. “Are you listening?”
“Completely,” she said. “Mrs. Plum, Mrs. Holt, Mrs. Farrow. Fridays, the first Thursday of the month. Tenant meetings, account books, and the wardrobe situation.” She looked at him pleasantly. “Shall I recite it back?”
He studied her for a moment. “You think I’m being excessive.”
“I think you have prepared a list,” she said, “which tells me this conversation has been planned in advance, which tells me you have been thinking about this for at least two days, which tells me—” She paused.
“That you are managing me the way you manage the estate, and that I should probably let you finish before I say anything about it.”
Silence ensued.
“That was very diplomatic,” he remarked.
“I have my moments.”
He looked at the list. Looked at her. Looked at the list again.
“Uhm… the library,” he said.
“Yes?”
“It is not finished.”
She blinked. “I did not expect it to be finished.”
“The west wall is finished. The shelves on the south side are—” He stopped. “I wanted you to know that it is being built. That it is not an empty promise.”
They were now in the corridor outside the east wing, which James had been describing in considerable detail for the past five minutes.
“The back door gives access to the gardens, which you already know. The gate to the kitchen garden is kept locked in winter, but Mrs. Holt has the key and—”
“James.”
“—she will show you where it’s kept. The path to the lake is better in the mornings, and the light is—”
“James.”
“—more reliable. In the afternoons, there tends to be a wind off the north field that makes the far end of the path—”
“James,” she snapped, then winced at the sharpness of her voice.
He stopped.
She looked at him. He looked back at her with arched eyebrows.
She closed her eyes briefly. “I have not come to Ashbourne as a governess.”
A pause.
“I’m aware of—”
“Or an employee,” she continued firmly. “Or a very well-informed house guest who requires a thorough orientation before she can be trusted to locate the back door on her own.” She held his gaze. “I am your wife.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. He stood very still.
“You were organizing me,” she said. “The way you organize everything—efficiently and thoroughly and without any particular interest in what I might actually want or my input.”
“You’re right,” he sighed. “I was providing—I wanted you to be well informed. To know the house.”
“I know where the back door is, James. I have been here before.”
“Yes.” He looked at the list, then back at her. “There is a second page.”
She stared at him in disbelief.
“I was going to cover the staff hierarchy,” he added quickly. “After the garden.”
“The staff hierarchy.”
“Henderson helped me prepare it. He thought a comprehensive overview in the first week would—”
“Henderson,” she said through gritted teeth, “is not married to me.”
“No,” James agreed. “Obviously.”
“You are.”
“Yes, I am aware of that.”
“Are you?” she scoffed. “Because you have been speaking to me for thirty minutes as though you are conducting an induction and I am a very promising candidate for the position of housekeeper. I want to be extremely clear that I did not agree to this marriage in order to be managed. You have not once asked me a single question.”
Something moved through his expression. Not embarrassment—James Harcliffe did not get embarrassed easily.
“I was not treating you like a housekeeper,” he assured her.
“Then what were you doing?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
Do not say you were being thorough.
“I was being thorough. I was providing information.”
Of course you were.
“Right,” she said flatly.
She turned and walked away down the corridor.
He stood where he was. “Isadora—”
“I am going to find Violet,” she said, without turning back. “You may add that to the schedule.”
“That is not—” He broke off. “You are being—”
She turned at the foot of the stairs and looked back at him. He was standing in the corridor with the list in his hand and a shuttered expression.
“I am being what?” she asked.
He looked at her for a long moment.
“I do not know,” he said finally. “I was going to say something that would have made it worse.”
Well, at least he knows.
She turned and went up the stairs without another word.
The house was very quiet behind her, and she did not look back to see whether he was still standing in the corridor.
She looked at the ring on her finger instead.