Ravishing the Heiress (13 page)

But she always cut those reveries short, whenever she
discovered herself in the middle of one. Perhaps there was nothing she could do about hope springing eternal, but she would not water or tend it. She would prune it harshly, ruthlessly, the way she would a weed in the garden.

After dinner, she sat in the drawing room, studying. She’d decided to take her mother’s advice and create a beautiful garden. But the pleasure garden would have to wait until she had first restored the more utilitarian kitchen garden. The estate had one such, but with the departure of the head gardener nearly a decade ago, it had grown wild.

She pored over an old diagram for the walled garden, consulting her handbook on horticulture. Salsify she’d eaten. Celeriac she hadn’t, but had at least heard of. But what in the world was a scorzonera? Or a skirret? Or a cardoon, for that matter?

She was searching for
couve tronchuda
in an encyclopedia when her husband surprised her by striding into the drawing room—she’d thought he’d remain out until long after she was abed.

“Good evening,” she said.

Perhaps it was the light, but he looked…strapping. Her heart stuttered.

“Evening,” he answered, standing with his hands behind his back. “I was at the village pub tonight. We’ll have twenty able-bodied men here tomorrow to dismantle the north wing—or at least to begin the work.”

“So soon!”

Her father took forever on his decisions. Even when he agreed to a change in principle, he’d still dither for years over the specifics of its implementation. She had not remotely anticipated that Lord Fitzhugh would set about the overhaul of Henley Park this quickly.

He looked about the drawing room. She’d had makeshift new curtains and carpets brought in, but it was still a dismal place—there was no point in replacing the curling, water- and soot-stained toile wallpaper until they had a new roof and better chimneys. “Not soon enough,” he said. “At least fifty years too late.”

When they’d first arrived in the country, she’d worried that he might re-embrace whisky. But it was sobriety that he clasped tight and did not let go. During the day he, like she, threw himself into his duties. At night, instead of turning to the bottle, he turned to the outdoors. Sometimes she, waiting beside her window in the dark, would see him return, hunched over before the manor, his hands on his knees, breathing hard with exertion.

All because of this cursed house, half of which someone should have demolished fifty years ago.

But his voice was calm. What had been done had been done. There was no use pointing fingers at the dead or at forces beyond his control that had sent agricultural prices stumbling in their lifetime.

“And this is for you.” He handed her a brown-paper package that he’d hid behind his person. “I stopped by the general merchandiser’s. But the selection was paltry. I chose the least terrible of the lot.”

She was astonished. “You didn’t need to.”

Inside the package was a rather plain music box that must have sat on the shop’s shelves for the better half of a decade. Even with the obvious signs of recent cleaning, its corners and creases were still encrusted with dust. When she opened it, it played a few tinny, scratchy bars from “Für Elise.”

“As I said, it’s not much good.”

“No, it’s fine. Thank you.” It took a great effort for her to not hug the music box to her chest. “I will keep it well.”

“I’ll do better next year.” He smiled. “Good night.”

“Good night,” she answered.

Some hopes were weeds, easy to eradicate with a yank and a pull. Some, however, were vines, fast growing, tenacious, and impossible to clear. As she played the music box again, alone in the drawing room, she began to realize that hers were of the latter kind.

She would never stop hoping.

T
he last thing Millie expected to see was her husband on the roof of the house, stripping the slate tiles alongside the men he’d hired. He was in old tweeds and a woolen cap. She’d nearly mistaken him for a village lad until someone addressed him as “milord.”

“What are you doing, Lord Fitzhugh?”

“I’m supervising the men.”

“You seem to be working with the men, if my eyes don’t deceive me.”

He tossed a tile at an older man, who passed it to another, who in turn slid it down a long chute set at forty-five degrees. The tile was caught on the bottom by one of two waiting men and, after passing through a few more hands, carefully placed in stacks.

“Your eyes do deceive you!”

“So they must,” she shouted back and left him to it.

It was quite ungentlemanly of him to be performing manual labor. But come to think of it, his days at Eton had been heavily driven by sports—association football in the Michaelmas Half, field game during the Easter
Half, and come the Summer Half, cricket. The sedentary nature of married life must contribute to the ennui of it. And the demolition of the north wing, besides the satisfaction of literally destroying the house that had derailed his life, provided an outlet for a young man’s pent-up energy.

It also gave them something to talk about at dinner, the only time of the day they spent in each other’s company and not much time at that, as he had no use for protracted dinners—in fact he still ate like a student, with a speed she found difficult to match.

So it was during the taking down of the north wing that she learned about the nest of bats in the attic, the mold that had been growing inside the plaster, the fact that the oldest man in the demolition party had fought in the Crimean War in his youth. She told him of her plans to build an electrical plant on-site, wire the house with electricity, and modernize the plumbing.

“You would not believe the flush commodes that the man in London tried to sell me. They had the queen’s face painted in the bowl.”

Lord Fitzhugh choked on his lamb. “You are making this up.”

“I am not. I was aghast, while the man tried to reassure me that it was all perfectly proper.”

“I hope you did not buy any. I don’t think I can—” They stared at each other for a moment and both burst out laughing.

“No, neither can I—ever!” she declared emphatically, still laughing. “No, our new commodes will be blue enamel, with white daisies.”

He choked again. “Daisies?”

“Believe me, I tried to find a more masculine commode—something with maybe a hunt scene or a dragon painted inside—but such a thing apparently does not exist.”

“Daisies,” he still sounded dazed. “My friends will never stop laughing.”

It was the first time he ever alluded to the possible presence of his friends at his home. For a moment her imagination ran away and she saw a crowded drawing room, full of laughter and high spirits. And she saw the two of them at the center of all that cheerful goodwill, Lord and Lady Fitzhugh. And someone raising his glass, crying, “To our delightful hosts.”

“Good thing I’m not inviting anyone here,” said the real-life Lord Fitzhugh.

She bent her face to her plate, so he would not see her disappointment.

She accepted this marriage for the alliance of convenience it was. But when they worked toward a common purpose, when they conspired to keep the secret of the house’s “repairs” from the rest of the world, and when he sat across from the table from her and laughed, it was nearly impossible to believe that they were not building something together.

They were: a better house.

And nothing else.

L
ord Fitzhugh left Henley Park frequently. Most of the time he left in the morning and returned at night—he’d stop by Oxford to see both Helena and Lord
Hastings, and then call on Venetia, whose house was not too far from the university. But occasionally, he stayed away for longer.

When he told Millie he’d be gone a week, she issued an invitation to her mother to come stay with her—her father would be indignant about the north wing, but Mrs. Graves would understand their choice to not burden themselves and their heirs with a house that could never be adequately maintained.

Mrs. Graves, when she came, was more than a little shocked at the architectural skeleton of what had once been the north wing. “Whose decision was this?” she asked, her jaw slack.

“It was a joint decision,” answered Millie. She could not help the note of pride seeping into her voice. “Our thoughts are exactly aligned on this matter.”

Mrs. Graves considered the remnants of the north wing for another minute. Then, she smiled and gave Millie’s hand a squeeze. “Very good, my love. Keep on making these joint decisions. They will give you a foundation upon which to build a life.”

It was late November, the days cold and damp. Millie and Mrs. Graves spent most of their time inside, drinking hot cocoa and discussing the manor’s many pressing needs. But on the day of Mrs. Graves’s departure, the sky cleared to a glorious blue and they took a walk on the grounds of Henley Park.

Millie showed Mrs. Graves the walled kitchen garden. She’d been busy hiring more staff for the estate. They were still shorthanded, but work had begun on clearing the kitchen garden.

She gestured at a row of apple, pear, and quince trees
espaliered to the southern wall of the garden. “Mr. Johnson, our new head gardener, believes that these fruit trees may yet be saved. He and his apprentices pruned back years of overgrowth just last week. Mrs. Gibson is waiting for them to bear fruit to make jams and preserves.”

“Will the fruit trees be the only ones bearing fruit in Henley Park next year?” asked Mrs. Graves. “Your father is eager to know.”

“We’ll also be putting in beds of strawberries—they will bear fruits. But if Father is referring to a grandchild, then I’m afraid he’ll have to wait quite a while longer.”

“Does Lord Fitzhugh not visit your chamber?”

Embarrassment singed Millie’s cheeks but she kept her voice detached. “That is another one of our joint decisions. I know Father would prefer a grandson as soon as possible, but neither Lord Fitzhugh nor I want children now and our wishes should count in this matter. More than Father’s.”

Mrs. Graves was silent. They walked past beds of dormant weeds that had yet to be cleared and an old wooden beehive, the residents of which had long ago left for better blossoms elsewhere.

“Your own garden, my dear, have you given any thoughts to it?”

Millie exhaled in relief—and gratitude—at her mother’s acceptance. “Yes, I’ve thought about it. But I’ve yet to set anything into motion.”

Mrs. Graves twined her arm with Millie’s. “Don’t forget it come spring.”

Millie looked toward her empty house. “Will it make me happy?”

“That I cannot answer, my love. But it will give you something to do and something to look forward to—as
well as a place of your own.” Mrs. Graves set her gloved hand briefly against Millie’s cheek. “It may not equal happiness, but it is not a bad place to start.”

F
itz returned on a Sunday afternoon.

The servants had the day off; the house was silent. He went through the correspondence that had accumulated for him. A letter from Colonel Clements caught his attention: The Clementses planned to visit him after Christmas.

He immediately went in search of his wife.

She was not in the house. He looked in the gardens, the stables, and near the badly choked trout stream—no sign of her. Finally, as he approached the house from the north side, he heard the sounds of demolition.

But it was Sunday. The village men were at their pub; no one worked.

He rounded a wall. His wife, hatless, in a sack of a dress and a brown cloak, stood in a room that had now become detached from the rest of the house, wielding one of the smaller sledgehammers, going after a fireplace. She’d broken through the facade of the mantel and now swung the sledgehammer at the bricks underneath.

The door was already gone. He knocked on the window frame.

She spun around. “Oh, you came back.”

“What are you doing?”

“Well, when you did it, you seemed to enjoy yourself. So I thought I’d have a go at it.”

Sometimes he forgot that he was not the only unhappy
spouse in this marriage. That she too wanted to smash things.

“You are going to give yourself blisters.”

“Not yet.”

She swung the sledgehammer again and dislodged several bricks. She also managed to dislodge a lock of hair from her chignon, which was too old a style on a seventeen-year-old girl, even if she was a married ladyship.

He took off his overcoat and picked up a bigger sledgehammer. “Need some help?”

She glanced at him, surprised. “Why not?”

They settled into a steady rhythm. For a girl who’d never done anything more strenuous than lifting a teacup, she was quite handy with her sledgehammer—and strong. They each swung in turn at the fireplace, and she kept up with him strike for strike.

When all that remained of the fireplace was a pile of bricks, they were both panting. She placed her hand over her heart, her cheeks brightly flushed. “Well, that was good.”

He tossed aside his sledgehammer. “Is there anything to eat?”

“We’ve a sponge cake and a beef pie in the larder.”

They made their way together to the kitchen, where several stock pots sat simmering. He filled a pot with water, stoked the fire, and set it to boil. She, meanwhile, found some plates and silverware, and located the sponge cake and the beef pie.

“Missing your fellow?” he asked after he’d finished his portion of the beef pie.

She raised an eyebrow in question.

“That was why you were wrecking the fireplace, wasn’t it?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

He felt a pang of sympathy for her. He could always find someone willing to give him a few hours of oblivion. How did
she
cope?

“How was London?” she asked. “Did you enjoy it?”

He caught an undertone in her words. Goodness, she knew precisely what he’d been up to in London. The girl was not as prim as he’d made her out to be. “It was all right.”

“Good,” she said. “I’m glad.”

He caught something else to her tone. “Are you?”