Someday My Duke Will Come Page 15

  This time Peter’s snort was much more pronounced, and not at all excused as other than what it was. Lady Tesh glared daggers at him, of which he seemed unaware. All save for the slight quirk of his lips.

  “I recall Lord Harris’s name on the deed,” Quincy mused. “And it’s sat empty all this time.”

  “No, not entirely.”

  Quincy paused, his hand suspended as he reached for a strawberry. “Not entirely what?”

  “Not entirely empty.”

  “But who could possibly have been living there?”

  “There was a young woman who took up residence after the property changed hands,” Lady Tesh said, her focus on her biscuit, which she was feeding crumb by crumb to Freya. “She kept to herself—an easy thing, Swallowhill being quite secluded from most of the Isle. Though as I recall, Clara and Phoebe’s mother befriended her. Unfortunately, the woman died quite young.” She frowned, a bit of biscuit suspended in the air, which Freya was trying valiantly to reach. “What was that girl’s name? Wanda? Wisteria?”

  “Willa,” Clara whispered.

  Her face heated as all eyes turned her way. She hadn’t meant to say a thing, hoping the subject would eventually drop. But her great-aunt’s attempts to remember the woman’s name had dislodged the memory, and it had escaped unbidden from her lips.

  “What was that?” Aunt Olivia demanded.

  Clara cleared her throat. “Willa. Miss Willa Brandon.”

  Her great-aunt blinked. “Why yes, I do believe you’re right. But how in the world did you know that?”

  “My mother used to bring me along with her on her visits.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Quincy said. “If my father owned the property, what was a Miss Brandon doing there?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Aunt Olivia answered primly.

  “Oh, I’m sure you have a theory,” Peter drawled.

  She gave both Clara and Phoebe pointed looks before glaring at her nephew. “Regardless, it’s not for mixed company.”

  Which meant it was scandalous. Which meant she believed Miss Willa Brandon had been the duke’s mistress.

  No, that didn’t seem right at all. Clara remembered the young woman’s stark black wardrobe and constant air of muted grief. She had looked more like a widow than anything else.

  “I see,” Quincy said, his voice flat.

  Without thinking, Clara slipped her hand in his and squeezed. It seemed to snap him out of whatever dark thoughts had taken hold of him. He looked at her with a bright smile.

  “But regardless of its history, I’m glad to have it now.” He turned to Peter. “I assume you know of a good house agent?” At Peter’s scoff he grinned. “Of course you do. Whatever was I thinking?”

  “Shall I take you there tomorrow?”

  “That would be brilliant. The sooner I can unload the place the sooner I can save the dukedom with the proceeds. Though perhaps I’d best take a look at the property first.”

  Clara bit her lip as he laughed. There was something too bright in it. She knew that he had the greatest regard for his father. No doubt the idea of the man possibly having a mistress pained him. She knew if she ever learned the same thing of her own beloved father, it would destroy her.

  “Clara, will you join us?”

  Quincy’s voice in her ear startled her. “Join you?”

  He gave her a small, amused smile, making her wonder how long he’d been trying to get her attention. “On our trip to Swallowhill tomorrow. It’s been decided that we’ll leave immediately after breakfast.”

  She nearly recoiled. Plastering a smile on her face, she gently extricated her fingers from his and reached for her teacup, praying her hand didn’t tremble. “Oh, I don’t think so. The wedding preparations—”

  “Can wait a few hours while you take some much-needed air,” Aunt Olivia cut in, spearing her with a stern glare. “You’ve done little else over the past sennight. I’m beginning to think there will be nothing within your head at the end of this month other than bits of lace and a few crumbs of cake.”

  Much of the fault in that lay with Aunt Olivia and her constant nagging, of course. But Clara would never say such a thing aloud.

  “You need an outing,” her great-aunt continued, a note of finality in her voice. “And this is just the thing.”

  What else could she do? Heart dropping—she hadn’t returned since that dark time—she smiled nonetheless. “Very well.”

  Relief flashed in Quincy’s eyes. Before she could wonder at it, however, Yargood entered.

  “His Grace’s room is ready.”

  “Splendid. Thank you, Yargood.” Lenora, smiling, looked at Quincy. “If you’re done with your tea, I’ll show you the way.”

  “Nonsense,” Aunt Olivia said. “You’re needed here. Clara will bring him.”

  Barring any further discussion, she deftly wielded her cane, and before Clara knew what had happened she found herself with Quincy out in the hall.

  He gave her a bemused smile. “Well, that was impressively done.”

  “She has her talents,” Clara replied with a grin that quickly faded as they made their way through the house. She glanced up at Quincy, noting the new lines of strain about his eyes, and her heart ached for him. “I’m certain Miss Brandon couldn’t have been his mistress,” she murmured low.

  He shot her a rueful look. “And here I thought I had hidden my disquiet.”

  She flushed. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve no need to apologize. Besides, whatever the truth, it doesn’t change who my father was to me. And so it doesn’t matter who Miss Brandon was.”

  Clara bit her lip. No matter his words, there was an undercurrent of strain in his voice that told her it did matter. Quite a bit.

  “If you’ve a wish to know who she was,” she ventured quietly, “I’m certain there’s someone on the Isle who can answer that for you. There must have been someone working at the house while she was there.”

  There was a moment of tense silence. She feared she’d overstepped.

  When he spoke, his voice was low and threaded through with emotion. “I’ll consider it. Thank you.”

  They reached his room then. But when she might have brought him inside, she stopped cold. Or rather, hot, for at the sight of the large four-poster bed that dominated the space she couldn’t help but think of him amid the sheets. Which led to her body warming as she imagined herself amid those sheets with him…

  Drawing upon every ounce of willpower she possessed—similar to when he’d arrived and she’d wanted to throw herself into his arms—she smiled brightly. “Here you are then. We’ll be sure to have a maid show you the way to the dining room when dinner is ready.”

  “Thank you, Clara.”

  She nodded and turned, making her way down the hall. And she did not let down her guard until she had turned the corner and was well out of sight. As she leaned heavily against the wall, exhausted, she wondered how she would be able to get through the next weeks without falling in love with him.

  * * *

  Clara had not visited Swallowhill in nearly fifteen years, not since those days of heartbreak and pain, when all hope had seemed gone. The property had returned a modicum of that hope to her, showing her that, even in ruin, something could still hold grace and beauty. That though something might be cast aside, it still had worth.

  She had not imagined how altered the house would be.

  The gray stone exterior was chalky from the salt air, pockmarks dotting its surface. Ivy grew wild up its façade, lacing over windows, latching onto downspouts and tearing them from their moorings. Several windowpanes were cracked or broken, the paint peeling from their casements to show the bleached gray wood beneath.

  The gardens, however, had received the brunt of time’s heavy hand. The plants grew wild and unkempt, seeming to have swallowed everything in their path. Clara shivered. If the state of the front garden was this grim, what must the back gardens look like? Images of the paths
she had walked and found so much solace in rose up in her mind, the overgrown rosebushes and hedges only the more beautiful for their determination to thrive with no one to care for them. Her heart ached at the thought of it all going to ruin.

  She should have perhaps visited before now. This place had given her just what she’d needed when she’d been at her lowest, and a horrible guilt filled her that she’d allowed it to be reduced to this.

  No, she reminded herself firmly. Swallowhill was not hers to care for.

  “Goodness,” Margery said, peering up at the façade. “It’s in worse shape than I expected. Though after it was abandoned for so long, this shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

  Phoebe came up beside Clara, linking arms with her. The simple act grounded Clara, and she drew in a shaky breath.

  “Is it as you remember, Clara?” her sister asked.

  “A bit,” she said vaguely. “Though it’s been some time since I’ve been here.”

  “It’s heartbreaking to see what must have been such a beautiful house gone to ruin.” Lenora tucked her hand into the crook of her husband’s arm. “Do you think it will be difficult to renovate?”

  “No doubt,” Peter said, his cool blue eyes skimming over the exterior.

  Quincy shrugged. “We’ve seen worse.”

  “We’ve not seen the interior,” Peter said. “There are broken panes there. It could be in worse shape than the exterior. Especially in this sea air. The moisture and salt will do more damage than any climbing vine could.”

  “Then let’s get to it,” Quincy replied with a grin, apparently undaunted by the sad state of the outside and the grim possibilities within. He took the stairs two at a time, sidestepping broken urns, and made his way to the front door. They all followed, crowding close. From this distance the cracked and flaking varnish on the once beautiful door was painfully clear. But the fan-shaped window that topped it was intact. Perhaps it was a harbinger of positivity. At least, Clara hoped it was.

  Quincy reached into his coat pocket, pulling a tarnished key from its depths. “I found this tucked deep in my father’s desk,” he explained. “I’m hoping it fits. If not, I suppose one more broken window won’t matter.” And with that he slid the key into the lock.

  It fit easily enough. Yet the first few tries to turn it didn’t provide much hope that their attempt to enter the house through the front door would prove successful. “Once more,” Quincy muttered before, with a deeply indrawn breath, he put both hands on the key.

  It turned with a grating that fairly rent the air. Quincy turned back to them, a victorious smile on his face. Clara’s heart flipped over as his eyes met hers. He was doing a fine job of remaining jolly and positive, and seemed to have fooled everyone into believing this was nothing more than an adventure. They didn’t see the tightness about his eyes, the stiffness to his smile that was louder than words to her.

  Quincy pushed the door inward, the hinges, unused for so long, protesting mightily. With a deep breath, Clara followed the rest within.

  The musty, unused air was the first thing to assault her senses. It sat heavy and stale, and she wrinkled her nose against it as she stepped cautiously across the bare floorboards, the sound echoing back to her. After the bright late-morning light, it took her some minutes to adjust to the dim interior. Gradually, however, her surroundings became clear.

  She hadn’t seen the interior since she was a child. Even then it had been rare, with most of her time here spent in the gardens and greenhouse. But suddenly it came rushing back to her, though the simple beauty of her memory vied with what it had become. The once carefully polished staircase that swept up the back wall, with its gracefully arched handrail and intricately carved balusters, was dull now, coated in decades of dust. The walls, too, had been given no quarter, the fine hand-painted wallpaper stained and falling off in tatters, showing the bare walls beneath. A glance up high saw the once elegant plaster ceiling cracked, chunks missing.

  She looked to the floor, remembering the intricate wood inlay, now covered in a thick coating of dust and fallen plaster. As she watched, Peter nudged a chunk aside with his boot.

  “It’s not pretty, that’s certain. But it appears to be sound. The floor doesn’t seem to be warped in any way. It’s a miracle, really.”

  “Do you think it can be salvaged, then?” Lenora asked.

  Quincy, in the process of studying the stair treads, smiled over his shoulder. “Most certainly.”

  Peter gave him a severe look. “You cannot make such a claim on this one portion of the house.”

  Quincy rolled his eyes, rising to his feet. “Why must you be so pessimistic?”

  “Why must you insist on ignoring cold facts?”

  “It’s part of my charm,” Quincy quipped with a grin. “Why focus on the negative? We’ve only this one life to live. I prefer to look at the best possible outcome, and to enjoy myself while I’m at it.”

  “With no regard for caution or safety,” Peter rejoined. But there was no heat in it, only a weary kind of echo, as if it was a frequent argument between the two.

  Lenora stepped between them. “Neither of your hypotheses will be proven if you insist on standing about and arguing. Let’s find out for ourselves the extent of the damage, then I will happily leave you to finish your debate.”

  The party began a lively discussion regarding the merits of staying together as a group versus breaking off into pairs. Clara watched them for a moment. It was a scene she would normally be in the midst of, taking control, making sure no one was slighted. But she could not take the steps forward to join in. She sighed, a sudden exhaustion overcoming her. Would that she could break off from the group and explore alone. She needed solitude now more than anything.

  The idea was so tempting, she started up the curving stairs before she quite knew what she was doing. Soon she was on the upper floor, heading off down the hall, the sounds of happy bickering falling away behind her.

  She had never been to this part of the house before. The unfamiliar feel of it calmed her, and she took a deep breath for what felt like the first time since she’d arrived. The shadows were thick here, the tightly closed doors of the rooms that spread out on either side keeping away the sunlight, shrouding the space as surely as the dust that settled thick over every surface. Going to the closest door, she turned the knob and pushed inward.

  The door swung open with a creak, revealing a large square room with wide windows looking out over the sea far below. Cloth-covered furniture rose up like specters, crowding the space. She went to the first, pulling a corner back. A side table, still beautiful, its glossy finish dull but protected for the most part by its covering. The next revealed a low settee, the rose damask brittle. More seating and a low table followed, proving this room had been used as a sitting room. The last piece, a delicate white desk, had a place of honor against the large windows. She looked down on the painted top, running her fingers over the surface. Had this been Miss Brandon’s desk? Had she sat here, looking out over the sea, penning letters?

  But she was growing maudlin. Flipping the dusty cover back over the desk, she left the room and went to the next. Here was a larger space, the square cloth-covered piece dominating the floor proclaiming it to be a bedroom. Her eyes scanned the other pieces. Surely that tall one there was an armoire, that long one a dressing table. There were chairs before the cold hearth, small side tables bookending the bed.

  She noticed a small, low shape that stood out awkwardly from the rest. Frowning, she walked to it and pulled back the cover.

  A baby’s cradle. Pain exploded in her chest. Without pausing she threw the cover back over it. Dust rose up as she spun away, desperate to leave the room. Quite another cradle rising up in her mind, for a child who would never have reason to use it.

  So intent was she on escaping, she didn’t realize anyone had followed her until she was upon him. Strong hands came up to grasp her arms, halting her before she barreled into his chest.

  “C
lara, are you well?”

  Quincy. The sudden urge to lay her head on his broad chest nearly overwhelmed her. How wonderful it would be to stop fighting against those painful memories. She was so very tired of that never-ending battle.

  But she couldn’t. Not ever. If she did allow it to escape, she might never rein it back in again.

  She stepped away from him, gifting him with a bright smile that felt brittle on her lips even as her heart ached at the loss of his hands on her. “Of course I’m well. The dust affected me, that’s all. I was trying to escape before it caused me to sneeze.” She peered over his shoulder. “Where have the others gone?”

  An expression much like frustration passed through his eyes before they cleared. “Phoebe dragged Margery off to the kitchens, and Peter and Lenora have taken to exploring the drawing room.”

  “I’ll find them, then,” she said, trying to move past him.

  His hand caught hers. “Clara—”

  “I’m fine,” she said hastily.

  “No, you’re not.”

  She heaved a sigh, closing her eyes against the urge to confide in him. “I’m fine,” she repeated, rearranging her features into pleasant calm.

  He peered down at her, that same frustration rearing again. “If you’re certain.”

  “I am. Now,” she said, “I think I’ve had enough of this part of the house to know it’s all bedrooms and sitting rooms and such. I’ll leave the rest to you to explore. My favorite part was the greenhouse; I’ll go there.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  She wanted to scream at him to leave her in peace. Instead she smiled, tilting her head in acquiescence, taking his arm when he offered it.

  The back garden, when they finally reached it, was just as bad as she’d feared. The meandering paths had been swallowed up by vegetation, the beautiful rosebushes choked by weeds and vines. She paused at her first sight of it, swallowing back her gasp of dismay.