"In that case, my lord," she said, her heart full and brilliantly light, "the letters can wait until tomorrow."
The winter of 1816 descended upon Wiltshire not with the bitter, isolating cold that Adrian had once dreaded, but with a crisp, bracing clarity. Dunmere Court, for the first time in two decades, was entirely alive. Fires blazed in every hearth, the scent of pine and roasting apples drifted through the corridors, and the heavy velvet curtains that had once entombed the east wing were tied back to let in the sharp, silver sunlight.Clara, Viscountess Dunmere, found that marriage to a former cavalry officer required a surprising amount of stamina. Adrian had abandoned his nocturnal pacing. Instead, he channeled his restless energy into the estate. They rode out together in the freezing mornings, Clara wrapped in a heavy pelisse of dark green wool, Adrian beside her on a massive grey gelding. He taught her the boundaries of the land, the names of the tenant farmers, and the intricacies of crop rotation. In return, she taught him how to read a ledger without losing his temper.The great black desk in the study remained her domain. The county of Wiltshire had been somewhat scandalized to learn that the new Viscountess intended to continue acting as her husband’s secretary, but Adrian had merely smiled his slow, devastating smile at the gossips and remarked that his wife was the only person in England who could decipher his handwriting.It was a quiet, fiercely happy existence, insulated by the snows of December. But the outside world, Clara knew, could not be kept at bay forever.The intrusion arrived on a Tuesday, in the form of a black lacquered carriage bearing the crest of the Rokesby family.Lady Agatha Rokesby was the late Viscount’s cousin, a woman who communicated entirely in thinly veiled insults and dramatic sighs. She was tall, impossibly rigid, and possessed a nose that seemed permanently wrinkled, as if the rest of humanity emitted a faint, disagreeable odor. She had invited herself to Dunmere Court for the Christmas holidays under the guise of familial duty, though her true purpose was glaringly obvious: she had come to inspect the postmaster's daughter who had usurped the family title, and to pass judgment on the scandalous resurrection of Adrian’s mother, Eleanor."One does try to be broad-minded, my dear," Lady Agatha said on her second evening, holding a teacup suspended halfway to her lips in the drawing room. She directed her gaze at Clara, who was quietly working on a piece of embroidery near the fire. "But it is highly irregular. A woman vanishing for nineteen years, living under an assumed name in a seaside town, and then simply... reappearing. The ton is buzzing with it. There are those who say it is a miracle, of course. And there are those who say it is something far less savory."Adrian, who was standing by the mantelpiece pouring a glass of port, went entirely still. Clara recognized that stillness. It was the count of three before the door slammed.Before he could speak, however, Eleanor, who was sitting beside the Dowager on the sofa sorting a tangle of wool, looked up. Her long, gentle face was perfectly serene."People will always talk, Agatha," Eleanor said mildly. "It is the only exercise some of them ever get. I find it is much like the wind in Lyme Regis—noisy, occasionally biting, but ultimately incapable of knocking over a well-built house."The Dowager gave a soft, dry cackle of amusement, her blind eyes crinkling.She Found a Letter Addressed to Him Among the Others — Until He Whispered, "This Is Impossible"
She Found a Letter Addressed to Him Among the Others — Until He Whispered, "This Is Impossible"
Chapter 28
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