Winterbourne Hall was much larger than Francesca had imagined. She’d known from rumor and Ethan’s own description that it would be grander and vaster than Tanglewilde, but the drive alone was turning out to be quite lengthy. When she saw the large lake to her right, complete with ducks and a pretty little gazebo Ethan said his mother had enjoyed during the summer months, she knew they were finally nearing the house. A moment later, on her left, she stared at what appeared to be the ruins of a castle.
“Is that the castle?” she breathed. She pointed to the jumble of falling stones, though enough of the building was left standing so she could fill in the outlines of a medieval structure.
“Just the keep,” Ethan answered.
“Did you remember the name of the baron who built it yet?” His information about the castle had been vague, amounting to: “Some baron built it after returning home from the Crusades.” Needless to say, that had not satisfied her.
“Ask Mrs. Carbury. She’s a walking textbook of Winterbourne Hall.”
“That’s the housekeeper, correct?” She confirmed it, though she knew already. She craned her neck to catch a last glimpse of the romantic ruins as they drove past. The coach finally rounded a bend in the road, and when she looked forward again, her jaw dropped in true admiration. At the summit of the drive, shimmering white in the noon sun, was Winterbourne Hall.
“The north façade,” Ethan told her. She barely nodded, still taking it in. Were there people who actually lived in such places? It was like a palace or a monument. The north façade, as Ethan had called it, was regal—Palladian in design and so long and rectangular that, as they drove up the front walk, she could not even see the far end of the building.
The house itself was cream in color, the rows and rows of windows outlined in red. Like a regal white tiger, it reclined at the top of an impossibly green, grassy hill, and when Francesca turned her head to see the view, she almost gasped aloud. It seemed she could see the whole of Yorkshire, and all of it was lush and emerald and dotted with trees.
“Do you like it?” Ethan asked.
“Oh, yes,” she breathed, enchanted.
She saw him smile and could have sworn a look of relief flickered across his face.
The coach slowed, and Francesca turned frantically to Ethan. “Quickly! I’ve forgotten the name of your steward. Remind me!”
“Francesca.” He didn’t even try to disguise the note of irritation.
“Oh, Mr. Brown!” She nodded vigorously to herself.
Brown was the steward and the housekeeper was Mrs. Carbury. Pocket was Ethan’s valet, of course, and the butler was—oh Lord!—now she couldn’t remember the name of the butler.
She clutched Ethan’s hand. “I’ve forgotten the name of your butler. Help me!”
His warm fingers closed around hers and, with mounting panic, she felt the coach pull to a stop. He leaned forward trapping her against the back of her seat.
“Take a deep breath.”
She nodded and gulped air, a fish thrust from the sanctuary of the water and plunged onto the treacherous shore.
“Everything will be fine.” His eyes stayed focused on hers, his expression calm and confident.
She nodded again, her lungs expanding like gills. The wave of dizziness began to pass, and Ethan sat back. She took another deep breath, just beginning to feel that she might not drown after all, then made the mistake of glancing from the coach’s windows.
What appeared to be the entire staff was lined up on the front steps of the house, and the sheer size of their numbers rivaled that of the house itself.
She was doomed. She would never, never remember all of their names.
But she did, floating through the introductions in a haze of wonder and apprehension. After each member of the staff had been presented to her, the butler, Grendell—in the end she had no trouble recalling his name because he looked as fearsome as she imagined the beast from the old Anglo-Saxon legend had—opened the door of the house for them. Francesca was immediately swept away on a tour led by the indomitable housekeeper Mrs. Carbury.
As Ethan had promised, the woman was a walking textbook. With only the smallest encouragement, Mrs. Carbury proceeded to point out the various rooms of the house as they passed them and to give Francesca the history of those she had missed. She learned all she wanted and more about the dining room, library, billiard room, China room, music room, watercolor room—even with Ethan’s tutoring, Francesca could not keep them all straight.
After the first half-dozen rooms, Francesca didn’t need to. They were all the same—cold and formal, beautiful but almost completely devoid of all warmth. She
dutifully followed Mrs. Carbury from room to room, and in each she was reminded how different this place was from her own home at Tanglewilde.
As far back as she could remember, Tanglewilde had been filled with the sound of her father’s bellow and her mother’s prattling. John and Lucia were forever scampering from room to room, laughing and teasing one another. She couldn’t imagine anyone scampering or teasing at Winterbourne Hall. Lord, she was almost afraid to breathe.
She knew Ethan hadn’t grown up here. He’d been raised in London after his mother had married the late Earl of Selbourne. From all accounts, that marriage had been a disaster, and Francesca wondered if the lack of warmth in Ethan’s home stemmed at all from the coldness of the union between his mother and stepfather.
But the house was beautiful, Francesca thought, as Mrs. Carbury showed her the delicately carved pianoforte in the music room. It was not without potential. This was to be her house now, as well as Ethan’s. Together they would bring warmth and light to its barren halls. They’d infuse it with life and love. And they’d be happy here.
