The Lydia Whitfield that Robert had just met was a completely different young lady—in countenance and temperament. Tall, for a woman, and willowy, she walked with the loping grace of a deer—without the skittishness. Rich black curls spilled out from under her green bonnet with enough haphazard profusion to indicate a thick head of hair, and her features were soft and fine. Although some might say her nose was overlong and her chin a trifle sharp, Robert found both features appealing. Swaying, their gait in harmony, he quite enjoyed her proximity. Quite.
As to her character, Robert was pleased with her readiness to laugh, her compassion toward a stranger, and her barely disguised impatience with his boring observance of the passing storm clouds. As to the other facets of her personality, well, Robert was surprised to discover that he was looking forward to getting to know them.
“Well, here we are, at last, Mr. Newton.”
Robert looked up, for despite Miss Whitfield’s words, they had only just come in sight of the house. It was the typical hodgepodge of a sixteenth-century manor, with irregular additions, mullioned windows, and timber beams. The moss-covered tile roof was dotted with chimney pots and embellished with a chapel tower. Everything about Roseberry shouted antiquity saturated with grandeur. This was, of course, no great surprise as Miss Whitfield was the heiress of a large fortune made in the sugar industry over the past two generations of Whitfields.
“Very nice,” he said, nodding with approval and noting her smile of pride.
However, Miss Whitfield’s smile suddenly disappeared, and she came to an abrupt halt, frowning as she stared at her boots.
The reason for her frown became quite clear—well, muddy.
Miss Whitfield set about stamping her feet—knocking off a significant amount of caked, dry mud. “Oh dear, this will not do.” She dropped into a squat to wipe away the last of it, and as she did, she glanced down the tree-lined drive. Her frown deepened.
“Miss Whitfield? Is anything amiss?”
“No … not really. It’s odd more than anything else. Shadows that seem out of place. It has happened several times this past week.” She continued to focus on one particular bush.
“Really?” He squinted toward the object of her concentration, noticing only that it had been trimmed recently.
“Indeed. I know the grounds down to the last blade of grass.… And yet the shape of that silhouette is somewhat odd—as if a person is lingering and watching from behind the greenery.”
“That will not do,” Robert said as he stepped forward, marching on the shrubbery in question. However, upon gaining said bush, he found nothing untoward. “All is well,” he called as he circled around and then returned to her side. “Not to worry, Miss Whitfield. Merely a trick of light.”
Laughing, somewhat weakly, she stood and then shook her head. “My imagination is running amok. I shall endeavor to keep it in check.”
Robert found Miss Whitfield’s flight of fancy as charming as it was surprising. They lapsed into silence until reaching the arched front entrance.
There, the wide door opened, seemingly of its own accord. Miss Whitfield glanced over her shoulder toward the elm trees, shrugged, and stepped across the threshold. Thanking her butler, by the name of Shodster, she then arranged for the rescue of Robert’s horse and gig before stepping farther into the great hall. Partway across the marble floor, she stopped abruptly. And so, of course, did Robert.
“Mr. Chilton, what are you doing here?”
Miss Whitfield’s tone was so frosty that Robert expected the object of her disgust to freeze on the spot. Instead, the man, who had been seated on a narrow chair beneath the balcony of the upper hall, leaped to his feet and minced toward them. He was a fleshy fellow in his midthirties, dressed with the eye-popping flair of a fop. His waistcoat was an exotic, beaded bright orange with a clashing cerulean blue jacket. Worse still, the man’s overly starched neckcloth pushed his chin up and his jaw out, forcing him to drop his shoulder to see forward.
“Miss Whitfield, what a wonderful coincidence. I was just on my way to Spelding when my—”
“Mr. Chilton,” Miss Whitfield interrupted, “I believe I asked you not to darken my doorstep again.”
“No, no, my dear. You asked me not to visit … which I am not doing. I was on my way to Spelding when my horse threw a shoe.”
“How is it, then, that I find you cluttering up my hallway?”
Robert glanced uncomfortably around the cavernous hall, taking in its impressive fireplace and abundance of dark paneling, preferring to be elsewhere for what was turning into a heated discussion. He spied an alcove off to the right with a collection of small landscapes and decided art appreciation might be a worthwhile enterprise for a lawyer’s apprentice. Still, with only fifteen feet separating him from the confrontation, Robert could hear the conversation without any effort.
“Why, the shoe came off just outside your gates, my dear Miss Whitfield. If it had been anywhere else—”
“Is your horse being taken care of?”
Robert thought the painting of a flower garden was nicely rendered—the light shining through the trees added an ethereal atmosphere.
“Oh, yes, my dear. The hospitality of Roseberry Hall is renown. Your dearest mama arranged for—”
“Have you been offered any refreshment while you wait?”
It was a shame that the varnish of the seascape had darkened. It required a squint and a closer look to make out the crashing waves and jagged rocks.
“Oh dear me, no, my dear. That is most kind of you to—”
“Shodster, could you have Hugh show Mr. Chilton to the kitchen. I’m sure Cook can find him a glass of beer—”
“Kitchen? Beer?” Mr. Chilton squeaked, clearly astonished by the offer of such an unrefined libation and made worse by being relegated to the back of the house.
“And a bite of cheese and bread. There you are, Mr. Chilton, the staff will have you back on the road in no time. But on the next occasion that your horse loses a shoe in front of my gate, please find your way to the servants’ door, because you will not be granted entrance here.”
Hugh arrived before Shodster could do anything as demeaning as seek the liveried footman, and soon the hall echoed with the steps of the two men as they vacated the grand entrance. Shodster quietly disappeared, too. Miss Whitfield joined Robert in the alcove, where he was, for want of a better word, hiding.
“A most interesting collection,” he said, staring at a depiction of four cows in a field by a stream, with a boy fishing and a lady on a black stallion riding through the background; a busy place, this pastoral landscape.
“Yes, indeed, in a very pedantic way.”
Robert turned to see that Miss Whitfield’s color was higher than it had been. It was most becoming, but as it was caused by either anger or embarrassment, he was sorry to see it.
“I should not have subjected you to such a scene. I do apologize.”
“Think nothing of it. A solicitor, if possessing no other qualities, should have selective hearing. Excellent practice.”
“Still, I should have seen you settled first before dealing with…”