“Liam, you are not seriously suggesting you go to the pub!” Xanthe spoke in a stage whisper as they stood at the foot of the stairs in the tearooms. The last of the customers were just finishing their cinnamon cakes and custard pastries. The smell of the delicious treats reminded Xanthe it was a long time since she had had anything to eat.
“It makes sense. The local inn is where all the gossip is. I can buy a few pints of ale, loosen a few tongues.… I bet I’ll find out more about Fairfax and the Wilcoxes than you could any other way.”
“I’m going to meet Petronella at Pinkerton’s tomorrow.”
“And that’s great, but she’s not going to tell you sensitive stuff in your first conversation, is she? We need to find out exactly where Fairfax is living, how many staff he has, how well guarded the place is. And what sort of thing he’s made his money from, or at least, what he’s telling everyone he’s made it from. If he’s got rich through his time travels he’s still going to have a legit cover for his wealth, isn’t he? And what’s his plan once he’s married into the Wilcox family?”
“The man is obsessively ambitious. Always has been. Which is why he wants the Spinners book.”
“Exactly. So the more we know, the better. Don’t worry, I’ll watch my words. And anyway, drinkers don’t notice details like that so much, not after a few pints. And if they do think I’m odd they won’t remember that tomorrow morning, will they?”
“I’m still not convinced it’s a good idea.…”
“Xanthe, you brought me here to help. Let me do this. Besides, I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go,” he pointed out, smoothing down the front of his newly acquired chocolate brown jacket.
His outfit was a huge improvement on the fancy dress it replaced, and there was no denying it suited him. The long jacket fitted perfectly, showing off his lean, strong build, cut away to accentuate his narrow hips. He wore a starched white cravat and black waistcoat with horn buttons. Even the dark brown breeches and long leather boots looked good on him. Although his hair was at last touching his collar it was still unfashionably short hair for the time, but even this did not undo the effect of the whole outfit; he looked convincingly Regency. Xanthe noticed that his new garb seemed to make him stand a little straighter and walk just a little prouder. He had also had a professional shave so that he both looked and smelled like a fine, well-groomed gentleman.
“OK,” she said at last. “Just be careful.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he said, turning to leave, placing his neat new hat firmly on his head. It was completely of the moment, its simple shape replacing the tricorn of a decade before, its crisp narrow brim quite flattering, particularly when worn at a slight angle.
“Liam…”
“Yes?” He turned back to her, blue eyes sparkling beneath the brim of the hat.
“You look … good,” she said, reaching out to touch his newly smooth cheek. “Suits you.”
“Thanks,” he grinned, briefly putting his hand over hers.
She watched him walk confidently through the tearooms, pausing to touch the brim of his hat and make a small bow to those ladies who acknowledged him as he passed. She needed to trust him. He was personable and resourceful. He would be fine.
Xanthe’s appointment at Pinkerton’s the following afternoon passed in a flurry of activity. Mr. Pinkerton himself oversaw the fitting, though it was the seamstress, Betty, who was tasked with the job of pinning and measuring and making minute adjustments to the dress that was to be altered that very day. Betty was a woman in her middle years, whose knees creaked as she knelt to pin a hem or when she rose again to check a cuff. Her spectacles were so thick Xanthe wondered she could see through them at all, and were evidence of many years spent stitching in low light. The working life of a seamstress, however illustrious her clientele, would have been limited by the quality of her vision. Betty’s time at Pinkerton’s was likely nearing its end. Once again, Xanthe was reminded of the harshness of existence in the past. For all its romance and glamour to those gazing back at it, the truth of living its reality was quite different for most people. While the lives of the upper classes were indeed often luxurious and decadent, nobody would wish to endure the existence of someone at the bottom of the social heap.
“Oh yes, indeed.” Mr. Pinkerton was pleased with the results of the alterations and nodded approvingly at the way the skirts of the dress now swept to the floor from the tight gathers below the bust line. “An elegant silhouette, Miss Westlake, and the color suits you well, if I may venture to say so.”
Xanthe turned slightly this way and that, enjoying the way the light muslin flowed to follow the movement. The fabric was the palest mint green, with darker green at the bodice and the capped sleeves, where a little deep pink embroidered braid had been sewn in for definition and contrast. It was a small detail but gave the dress more structure and interest. It was a far more girly dress than she would have worn in her own time. Or at least, she might have given it a bit more grit by adding chunky boots or an oversized man’s jacket. But in 1815, delicacy, femininity, softness, these were all desirable attributes in a woman. No hint of the masculine would have been allowed, with the exception of, perhaps, a short jacket, beautifully fitted, with military style trimmings as a tribute the country’s brave soldiers.
“It’s lovely,” Xanthe said. “Betty, you have worked wonders in such a short time. I am so grateful.”
The seamstress smiled back. “Just a little more taken in at the back, miss, and an inch let down at the hem. This design looks very fine on a tall young lady such as yourself.”
The proprietor clapped his hands. “Come, come, Betty. Time races from us and we have yet to fit the redingote. This spell of warm weather may not continue. Miss Westlake will need a long coat should the chill return.” As Betty hurried to help Xanthe down from the stool on which she stood and lead her toward the screen at the rear of the fitting room the doorbell in the shop could be heard ringing. For a moment, Xanthe experienced a flashback to her own shop, with its clunky brass doorbell. She wondered how Flora would be coping without her. At least this time she had the comfort of knowing that her mother knew everything now, and that Harley would be watching over her.
Mr. Pinkerton glided out to the shop, where his assistant could be heard greeting the new customers. Betty gasped.
“Dear me, there’s Miss Wilcox arrived and us not yet finished. Mr. Pinkerton will be in a fret! We cannot keep her waiting.”
“Don’t worry, I have plenty of time. Why don’t I change into my own clothes and go and wait in the shop while you attend to Miss Wilcox?”
“What? And interrupt your own appointment?”
“I would be happy to browse through the ribbons and shawls. There are so many to choose from and I have new outfits to match. It will be no hardship for me,” Xanthe assured her, turning so that Betty could help her out of the dress.
Mr. Pinkerton appeared in the doorway. “Betty, make haste!”
“Miss Westlake wishes to step into the shop a while and select ribbons…” Betty was too flustered to explain further, dashing away to hang up the dress.
Xanthe spoke over the top of the screen. “I am happy to take a break. Standing for fittings can be a little tiring. Miss Wilcox is welcome to have her fitting now. I shall resume mine when she has finished.”
The proprietor needed no second bidding to take up the idea and was soon ushering his important client into the changing room, just as Xanthe stepped out from behind the screen. The sight of the bride-to-be gave her a jolt of memory so vivid that for a few seconds she forgot what she was supposed to be saying or doing. Here was, as she had expected, the beautiful young woman she had seen in the walled garden of Corsham Hall in her vision. She was every bit as stunning now that she met her, face-to-face. She was slender, with pale, clear skin and wide blue eyes. Her fair hair was elaborately curled and pinned beneath the bonnet she was now removing. On seeing Xanthe she broke into a natural smile that would melt the stoniest of hearts. Xanthe wondered anew what was compelling this lovely creature to marry a man like Benedict Fairfax. Only on looking closer did she register the significant difference between the girl she had seen the first time and the one who stood before her now: There was a deep sadness emanating from her now. The smile, however lovely, masked a sorrow that was palpable. Gone was the girlish laughter that had been so spontaneous and so charming. It was clear to Xanthe, even in that short moment, that Petronella Wilcox was a painfully unhappy girl. The fact that she still managed to be thoughtful and kind was testament to her character.
“But you must have your appointment,” she insisted after Xanthe had been introduced and the situation explained. “I cannot be the cause of your having to wait.”
“I am here only for everyday things. How much more important is a wedding gown? I should so very much like to see it.”
For a second, Petronella’s expression faltered, allowing a glimpse of her true feelings. She quickly mustered another polite smile, however. “Then you shall, for it is the very least I can do.”
Betty reentered the room, the gown draped over her outstretched arms. Xanthe had to resist putting her hands to her ears, the singing of the lace was so strong. She fought panic at the idea that she would have to flee the room if its call got any louder, but, as if sensing that it now had her attention, the high notes softened to a manageable hum.
She reached out tentatively and touched the pristine fabric. “Oh, it is gorgeous. May I see how it looks on you? I know it will suit you so very well. I would dearly love to see.”
“Of course, come, Betty. Miss Westlake, you will need patience aplenty, for there are so many buttons!”
Xanthe sat on a small pink cushioned chair while Petronella went behind the screen. She knew she only had a short time to strike up the sort of connection that would lead to a friendship. She had to hit on something that would cut through the polite small talk that could otherwise swallow up all conversation.
“Will the wedding be held here in Bradford-on-Avon?” she asked.
“Oh no, all the Wilcoxes wed at the chapel at Corsham Hall. Papa has such fond memories of his own wedding there, and with Mama having been lost to us so many years ago, I would not deny him that small pleasure,” she said.
“I am sorry to hear your mother is no longer with us. I imagine you will miss her keenly on such an occasion.”
“I am accustomed to her absence, and I have fond memories to sustain me. It is harder for my little sister, I believe, for of course Evangeline never knew her mother. And it will be arduous for Papa because he has never stopped loving her. Anyone who has known true love knows it cannot be replaced,” she said quietly.
Xanthe bit her bottom lip, thinking hard, hoping to steer the chat onto more cheerful ground. Happily, Petronella did so herself.
“But there,” she went on, “we have reason to be cheerful, for it is high summer, and Papa has agreed to my request to hold the wedding breakfast outside. Imagine! He told me, ‘Nell, my dearest, how can I refuse my little flower the chance to celebrate her special day among her beloved blooms?’ for he knows I am nowhere as happy as I am in my garden.”
“I have heard,” Xanthe said brightly, “that the gardens at Corsham are delightful. Of course, many large houses have beautiful parks, but I believe your own garden has something a little different…?”
“You have heard of my roses? Ha! Evangeline teases me for spending so much time in the rose garden. I have tried to explain to her how I find their scent and their delicate beauty both soothing and uplifting, but perhaps she is too young to understand.”
“As we live in town we have only a small garden,” Xanthe said, imagining the little walled space in Marlborough but allowing Petronella to assume she was speaking of a London residence. “No grand parks or topiary for us. My mother and I have planted one or two roses, however, and we do enjoy them.”
“Oh, what varieties have you there?”
Knowing very little about gardening Xanthe decided there was no point in attempting to be some sort of expert. “Alas, I know only there is a cheerful yellow one with full and fragrant blooms and another with tiny double pink flowers that scrambles all over the wall.”
“How charming! My favorite is an old white rose that was among the first in my garden. The head gardener at Corsham planted it when Papa was a boy and of course he took no interest so the name is lost in time. But what do names matter? It is the joy these flowers bring that makes them memorable.”
“I could not agree more.” Xanthe took a breath and then plunged in with, “I wonder … I don’t suppose it would be possible … no, I cannot ask.”
“What is it? Please tell me.”
“I only thought, well, my brother, Liam, and myself, we are here for a few weeks only, visiting our aunt, but even now I miss our little garden. How I would love to spend just a short time among your wonderful roses. Might it be possible, do you think?”
“But it is a splendid idea!”
“You are not too busy? Your schedule too filled, with the wedding to prepare for…?”
“The wedding will happen whether I am ready for it or not. The preparations are mostly left to others, in point of fact. I should be delighted to share my garden with someone who loves flowers as I do. You and your brother both must come. We shall have tea in the garden, so as not to waste a moment. Oh, I feel quite cheered by the thought!” And she looked, just briefly, as if the shadow of sadness had been lifted from her.
Betty emerged from behind the screen. “There you are, Miss Wilcox. All buttoned up. If you would step out and onto the stool I will see to the hem once more, for I fear it does not yet fall as it should. Do you have your silk slippers with you?”
She offered her hand and helped Petronella the few steps across the fitting room floor and onto the stool.
The young woman held out her arms and looked at Xanthe.
“Tell me,” she said, the sorrowful note returned to her voice, “will I be a bride to make my father proud?”
“You will be the most beautiful bride in all of Wiltshire,” Xanthe assured her, and it was not a difficult promise to make. The gown, even in its unfinished, tacked and pinned state, was every bit as lovely as the bride, and together they were breathtaking. The lace of the bodice was so much brighter than the centuries-old version of it that Xanthe had found. Its every detail stood out crisply. The neckline was modest, quite high, and sweetheart shaped. The long sleeves of the altered Edwardian version were not there. Instead Petronella’s pale arms were bare, save for the lace and voile caps. The lengths of the skirt were of softest silk, so fine that it showed off the bride’s slim curves underneath it. Xanthe wished that the girl could look happier in it, for no amount of beautiful fabric and exquisite dressmaking could make a bride radiant if she was unhappy. She needed to be certain the visit was fixed, so she turned the conversation back to the garden. “You will have your homegrown flowers for the wedding; how lovely that will be,” she said.
“Oh, it will be such a solace to me!” Petronella exclaimed. It was a strange choice of word, given the occasion, but the girl seemed not to care. Did everyone know she was an unwilling bride, Xanthe wondered? “I am to have lilies of the valley for their fragrance, with sprays of gypsophila for its delicacy and of course some of my beloved roses.”
“I am so looking forward to seeing your garden for myself.”
“Then come tomorrow. Oh, say you will! It is looking particularly fine just now, though too much more of this heat and some of the more tender plants may begin to wilt. Would two o’clock suit?”
And so it was decided. Xanthe stayed on at Pinkerton’s after Petronella had left, so that by the end of the day she had one complete new outfit, all the small clothes she would need, a matching shawl, various ribbons, a workaday bonnet, a pair of shoes, and a short spencer jacket. The redingote and second-day dress would be ready for her by the end of the week, as would the lovely evening gown and two pairs of gloves.
The following afternoon the Wilcox landau carriage and four arrived at the tearooms to collect Petronella’s guests. She had insisted on sending it, knowing that their aunt had none of her own to lend them. Liam let out a low whistle at the sight of it.
“Impressive,” he muttered, as the immaculately liveried footman jumped down from his seat on the back of the vehicle and opened the glazed door for them. Liam helped Xanthe to step up and into the carriage. She had yet to master the art of elegantly getting about in her new dress. While the stays were not madly tight, the narrowness of the skirt and their full length forced her to take small strides and frequently lift the hem. Despite these handicaps, she was delighted with the printed cotton dress Betty and Mr. Pinkerton had chosen and made for her in such a short time. The tiny forget-me-not flowers printed onto a moss green background gave the dress a freshness and prettiness that she loved. She had even forgone her beloved boots for a pair of kitten-heeled shoes, which looked perfectly the part.
The interior of the carriage had plush red padded seats, set facing one another across a spacious footwell. As the door was closed Liam tapped the roof with his cane. “A soft top. I didn’t know they had convertibles way back.”
Xanthe signaled to him to keep his voice down but the driver had already cracked his whip, sending the horses forward at a smart trot, so that the noise of their ironclad hooves on the street and the rumbling of the wheels meant any conversation inside the landau could not be heard outside.
“It is a beautiful thing,” Xanthe said, running her hand over the velvet cushions, peering out through the window that afforded a neatly framed view of the little town as the driver adeptly navigated the cobbled streets. “The Wilcoxes can’t be short of money to keep something like this.”
“This does feel a bit more special than your average family vehicle,” Liam agreed. “Fantastic suspension, can you feel it? I’d have thought anything like this would have been a bone shaker, but it’s a pretty smooth ride. Amazing. And it shifts too!” He beamed as they left Bradford and picked up speed along the open road heading west. “Only four horsepower and it’s got better acceleration than my MG.”
“It’s a bit more comfortable than the stagecoach I traveled in when I was here in 1605.”
Liam shook his head slowly. “The stuff that comes out of your mouth.”
“I know, it all takes a bit of getting used to. But it’s real.”
“Yup,” he said, pushing his hat a little farther back on his head, “and that is what makes me feel more than a little bit crazy.”
“It gets easier,” she assured him. “Which is when you have to be even more careful. Don’t let your guard down. Remember…”
“I know, quiet and moody, no chatter, no jokes…”
“How did you get on at the inn last night? I heard you come home late.”
“They don’t seem to have a chucking-out time. Luckily the beer is pretty weak, otherwise I’d have been snoring under a table in there still. Quite the drinkers, the locals round here, and, well, I had to match them.”
“Of course.”
“But it was worth it. The barman was either busy or cagey; didn’t get much out of him. There were a few snooty types who sat at tables and didn’t go near the bar, just waited to be waited on and kept themselves to themselves.”
“It was like that even a couple of centuries ago. Spies and traitors everywhere, was what people thought. Everyone suspected everyone of either being treasonous or being about to denounce them as treasonous. The chocolate house was one of the few places people felt they could talk freely. Things should be calmer now, though. The wars are over. From what I know, the Prince Regent might be unpopular but he is accepted as ruler.”
“He’s your party animal, by all accounts. Throws money around, endless balls and fun and more clothes than he can ever wear, and mad vanity building projects. Not popular is right, but I get the feeling people are more interested in just getting their lives and their businesses back on track.”
“Wars always hit the poorest hardest.”
“Looks like. But, gossip is free, and every pub has its resident talker. In fact, the Rose and Crown Inn has two, and they compete with each other to tell the most scandalous tales.”
“Excellent!”
“It was. Though a lot of it wasn’t anything to do with what we’re here for. I had to sift through a fair amount of tabloid stuff. Remind me to tell you about the lonely farmer and the white donkey when we have a moment.”
“Can’t wait.”
“So, what I learned about Fairfax and the Wilcoxes. First up, despite this awesome, high-spec set of wheels, Mr. Wilcox is practically broke.”
“Things are that bad? But they are such an old family, and the estate is huge…”
“It’s also falling to bits. Partly due to lack of workers, with so many of the men lost to fighting Napoleon, but mainly due to bad investments. Seems Wilcox loves to entertain, hunting parties, shooting, having loads of people to stay … and this was all funded by the family wealth, which took a severe hit when the treasury changed taxes and stuff to fund the war. Looks like he was badly advised, put money in the wrong places to try and increase his income, and practically lost the lot.”
“So they need a wealthy husband for Petronella, and Fairfax was just waiting right there. How handy. Makes you wonder if he played a part in those ill-fated investments. I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“It gets worse. Not content, so Bob Darrington told me after his third pint, with marrying into high society and then waiting for his new bride to give him an heir to inherit the family pile, Fairfax gets Corsham Hall as part of Petronella’s dowry. Once they are married Mr. Wilcox will hand it over to him. And, just to keep an eye on his soon-to-be new home, I guess, he’s currently living in the dower house on the estate.”
“That is good news! Now we know where the astrolabe is. And the closer to the Wilcoxes the better, for us, if I can manage to build on this friendship with Petronella. Well done, Liam!”
“Might not be as helpful as you think. Apparently, Fairfax never invites anyone to his home, is fiercely protective of his privacy when he’s there, and keeps three burly footmen who look like they were chosen for their size and their handiness with their fists.”
“Damn.”
“Fairfax does have a bit of a reputation as an oddball around here. He’s from off, and no one has ever heard of his family. All they know is he has a lot of money.”
“Which will buy you status, if you know who’s selling.”
“Like Mr. Wilcox.”
“Like Mr. Wilcox.”
“Comes to something, when you have to sell your daughter.”
“It wasn’t uncommon. Making a good marriage was sometimes all a young woman could hope to do to restore the family fortune. She couldn’t inherit anything herself. She couldn’t earn any money. With no brothers to inherit the estate, it would have gone to some distant relative anyway once her father died.”
“Well, I don’t believe any half-decent father would marry his daughter off to a man like Fairfax if he knew what he was really like. At least we can tell him, warn them.”
“It’s not that simple,” Xanthe explained. “If they were to call off the wedding, what would they do? The money’s got to come from somewhere. She has to marry someone.”
As the reality of the poor girl’s situation hit home, they continued their journey in silence for a while. Xanthe held on to a tiny hope that somehow she would be able to find a way to help Petronella beyond ridding her of Fairfax.
“Wow,” said Liam a moment later, leaning close to the window to lower it and get a better view. “That is some house.”
Corsham Hall, revealing itself in glimpses as they sped along the avenue of lime trees, did indeed look impressive under the warm summer sunshine. The grand Georgian facade, with its handsome classical proportions, clean lines, and generous windows, looked very much to Xanthe as it had when she had attended the sale there. The trees along the driveway were smaller with no gaps in their number, having not yet weathered so many storms. There were, of course, no electricity wires or cables to interest the view, and no cars. Instead the parkland was dotted with sheep, the gravel approach bordered with low box hedge and some splendid topiary, and the sweep leading on toward the east side of the house where the stables were. The driver pulled the puffing horses to a halt outside the front entrance and the footman jumped down from his perch to open the carriage door. Xanthe and Liam had barely stepped down when a maid in spotless apron and mob cap scurried out from the front of the house and nimbly descended the broad steps. She bobbed a curtsey to the guests.
“If you please, miss, sir—Miss Wilcox asked that you be brought to the garden directly.” With that she turned for the side of the house. They followed, Liam twisting this way and that to try to take in the house and grounds as the maid led them quickly through the formal parterre and across to the iron gate that opened into the huge walled garden. Xanthe felt a pang at the memory of bringing Flora to this very place, and of watching the wonder on her face as she had taken it all in. Although she still worried about what Fairfax might do in her own time, she felt so much better now that her mother knew where she was and why. As the maid let them through the gate they were spotted by Petronella, who at once put down her trug and hurried to greet them.
“Miss Westlake! How happy I am you are here. Come, Evangeline!” she called to the slender girl who at that moment was enjoying the swing seat beneath an arbor of white roses. Her sister looked to be about twelve years old, with delicate features, lighter hair than her sibling, and abundant energy.
Xanthe bobbed a slow curtsey and Liam managed a good bow, remembering to remove his hat. “Thank you for inviting us,” she said. “This is my brother, Liam.”
“Miss Wilcox.” He succeeded in looking quite somber until Evangeline leapt off the swing with a giggle and came running over. Her glee was infectious and Xanthe watched as he smiled broadly, took her hand, and kissed it lightly, executing another impressive bow as he did so. “Miss Evangeline, I believe. Delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said carefully.
Petronella reached out and straightened the sash on her sister’s dress, the bow of which had become crooked. “Evangeline shares my passion for the garden,” she said, “though less for love of flowers, and more for the opportunity to run wild.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Westlake, Miss Westlake, and I am not such an unrefined creature as my sister would have you believe,” she insisted, performing a wobbly curtsey with a determinedly straight face, which she only maintained long enough to make Petronella smile, before falling into giggles again.
“Fortunately,” Petronella said, “we do not stand on ceremony here at Corsham. Without the civilizing influence of a mother all these years we are shockingly casual in our habits, and Father has always encouraged us in activities that take us outside the house. He was disappointed not to have boys, d’you see?”
Liam shook his head. “I do not believe any father could possibly be disappointed with two such delightful daughters,” he said.
If Xanthe could have nudged him without being noticed she would have done so, hoping to remind him to keep quiet whenever possible, rather than venturing into the risky business of paying compliments. It was already becoming clear that their plan for him to be the moody, mysterious type was never going to work. His efforts were well received, however. Evangeline looked at him closely.
“What uncommon hair you have,” she said.
“Evangeline!” Petronella hissed at her.
Liam lifted his hat again and gave a shrug. “I confess I am not much bothered about my hair,” he said, adding, “there are so many better things to be doing, don’t you agree?”
“Oh yes!” Evangeline nodded. “I swear I would sooner cut all my hair off, it is such a nuisance with rags to be tied in at night and pins to tame it by day. How much easier it would be to climb a tree or scramble down a riverbank free from the fuss of ringlets and coils.”
“Do you often climb trees?” Xanthe asked.
“Only when Petronella is not looking,” she replied.
Her sister corrected her, “Rather, when you think me distracted. I always know what you are about, Evie, you cannot have it otherwise.”
Evangeline frowned a little. “Then you will know I have set up the pall-mall on the far side of the delphinium beds. Let us play before tea!”
“Our guests have just this minute arrived.…”
“And will be stiff from sitting in the carriage and in need of activity if they are to enjoy their cake and sandwiches. Mr. Westlake, you will have a game, won’t you?”
Liam opened his mouth and closed it again, uncertain as to what was being asked of him. He shot Xanthe a look, brows raised.
Xanthe scanned the garden for clues and was thankful to glimpse two croquet mallets propped up against a far wall.
“My brother would be happy to play. He thinks himself quite the expert,” she leaned closer to Evangeline and whispered, “only he has a shameless disregard for the rules, so see he does not cheat!”
“Indeed he will not!” Evangeline laughed, taking him by the hand and leading him at the run toward the flat piece of grass beyond the flower bed.
Liam looked back at Xanthe with an expression of mild panic but she was reasonably confident he would do a good job of keeping Evangeline occupied while she talked to Petronella.
“There,” Petronella took Xanthe’s arm, “my sister is happy and I have you to myself. Come, I have so looked forward to showing you the roses. Now, you must not mind that some are not at their best. July is a hard month for them, with the spring and early summer varieties over and the August blooms not yet come. But here, my favorites are lovely still, see?”
“Oh, yes, these are beautiful.” She touched the nearest flower, a blowsy white rose with the most delicious scent. “You will have plenty to choose from for your wedding,” she said, watching closely for the girl’s reaction to mention of her upcoming nuptials.
Petronella gave little away. “They must not be picked a moment sooner than is necessary or they will wilt terribly in this heat,” was all she said.
Xanthe tried again. “Such an exciting day. Your father must be very proud; I hear your fiancé has a fair fortune,” she said, fighting against the modern British reserve that made her uncomfortable even mentioning money, particularly when linked to the choice of a husband. She told herself these were different times. To be marrying to secure the future of the family was a thing to be applauded, an achievement, not a reason for sadness or embarrassment.
Petronella turned away from the roses for a moment to watch her sister, her face showing a mixture of love and sadness. “We do what we can for those who rely upon us. It is a simple matter, when the way forward is so clear,” she said.
Xanthe asked as gently as she could, “Forgive me, but you are a young woman, do you not yearn for love?”
Petronella turned back to her roses. Even in profile, Xanthe was able now to detect the sorrow in her expression. “Believe me when I tell you I have known great love, Miss Westlake. I was engaged, you see, to Edward Steerwell. He was an officer in the King’s Lancers, which is a noble and wonderful thing to be. Alas, in time of war, it is also a perilous occupation, and one he did not survive.”
“I’m … so very sorry.”
“Do not pity me. I have known love, which is more than many can say, it is not?” She looked at Xanthe then, the composed, stoic smile back in place.
Xanthe was thrown by this admission of heartbreak and at a loss for a reply. She was still trying to find the right words when the sound of fast-moving horses interrupted the moment. The others heard it too. Evangeline broke off her game and ran to the second gate in the far wall, Liam following on. Petronella muttered a small sound of disappointment under her breath but then recovered herself.
“Here is Father and his party home from their ride, and sooner than expected. He will be pleased to meet you both. Though, I confess I am disappointed not to have more time with you, Miss Westlake. I should so like to know you better.”
“Please, call me Xanthe.”
“I shall!” she said, taking her hand. “And you must call me Nell, for it is my family name, and I feel we will be firm friends, you and I. Come, let us meet the men before they take it into their hot heads to bring the horses into my garden!”
As they stepped through the gate and onto the expanse of lawn they had a clear view of the park as it flowed away from the house, and three riders approaching at speed. The horses’ flanks were foam flecked and their necks glistened with sweat from fast riding on a warm day. The front rider of the trio was an older man whom Xanthe took to be Mr. Wilcox. He carried a little more weight than was healthy and his complexion betrayed a love of port wine and good food, but he looked vigorous and strong. The second man rode a showy black horse which still fought for its head even after a long ride. The man appeared completely untroubled by his mount’s antics, looking as at ease in the saddle as if he had been born there. The third member of the party was not such a natural horseman yet exuded an air of confidence and seriousness, and even at a hundred paces his demeanor and his eye patch meant Xanthe was able to recognize him at once.