Miss Beatrice sighed and looked out the window.
After a few minutes of companionable silence, Miss Charlotte asked, “Are you fond of painting?”
Henry thought it an odd question. “I do not paint, but I enjoy art.”
“I only ask because Constable, a painter I greatly admire, did a lot of his landscapes not too far north of here.”
“Ah, yes, they call it Constable Country, do they not?”
“Indeed, Your Grace. Willy Lott’s cottage is there from Constable’s famed Hay Wain. Perhaps tomorrow, if we set out earlier, we could take a day trip to see it.”
“Charlotte,” her sister warned softly. “We don’t know what tomorrow will bring, nor if His Grace will be staying another night.”
“True,” he confirmed. “Yet it sounds like a good outing, so we shall see.”
Not looking the least bit put off, Miss Charlotte suddenly exclaimed, “We’re here! And we have plenty of time to look around and work up an appetite.”
Soon, both carriages were parked with the coachmen seeing to the horses, and Henry found himself one of a joyful group as long as he ignored Mr. Cole, who stuck so closely to Amity, it was a wonder he wasn’t made of tar.
Luckily, Henry found the man easy to ignore. Happy to lay eyes upon Amity once again, he asked, “When you are out in the world, Miss Rare-Foure, do you taste chocolates wherever you go?”
She tilted her pretty head to one side and crinkled her eyes thoughtfully. “I suppose it depends upon the place. In certain cities, I want to see what the confectioners are making, but often, somewhere like this, I don’t bother. I’d rather enjoy a good public house lunch and not worry about the sweets.”
For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine Lady Madeleine uttering words of pleasure about a public house lunch, and again, he felt fortunate not to be engaged to her.
They proceeded along the narrow main street, which was also winding and steeply inclined for much of the way. Mr. Foure and Mrs. Rare-Foure walked in front, Amity and her fiancé in the middle, and Henry bringing up the rear with a sister on either side of him. It was an unusual experience. As a duke, or even when a mere marquess, he usually led the way wherever he was going. At least, from his vantage, he could see that Mr. Cole was not touching Amity.
There was an additional benefit — Henry could watch the gentle sway of her bustle, which was very pleasing and caused his mind to wander wickedly.
Miss Beatrice broke into his wicked thoughts as she said, “The Saxons called the town Colneceaste, and it is listed as Colcestra in the Domesday Book.”
Amity turned to smile at her sister and caught Henry’s eye. When he smiled at her, she quickly turned around again.
“It is one of the oldest continually inhabited towns in all of England,” Miss Beatrice continued. They strolled through the Dutch quarter where Flemish weavers traditionally lived and worked. They walked along Trinity Street with the welcoming red brick town hall at the end, its spire the tallest structure they could see. More modern structures were blended in with older ones. They passed Markhams, a pawnbroker, with all of them glancing at the treasures in the windows, mostly jewelry. Henry longed to pop in and purchase the largest bauble for Amity.
“It would take a long time to walk around the entire town and see all the parts of the Roman wall they’ve discovered,” Miss Charlotte told him. “But I was hoping we could stop at the castle on the way out of town after lunch. I think part of it is still being used as a gaol. Is that right, Father?” she called ahead.
“Yes, dear one,” he replied.
They arrived at the ruins of the Roman gate, and all seven of them stood silently, perhaps thinking as he was of the great age of the structure. It faced the west, toward London, and all the traffic going northeast would have come through it.
“The town didn’t have a wall at first,” Miss Beatrice told them as they dared to place their hands upon the ancient stones. “But Queen Boadicea, according to Roman historians, destroyed the place in 61 AD, and when they rebuilt, the Romans realized the prudence of a good strong wall against the native Britons.”
“You are an historian, Miss Beatrice,” Henry proclaimed.
While looking pleased, somewhat somberly, she said, “No, I am a toffee-maker, Your Grace.”
Peculiar young woman. “They have a number of lovely churches, don’t they?”” he remarked. They had passed Trinity and St. Daniels already, and he could see more spires.
“Maybe Miss Rare-Foure and I shall marry in one of them,” Mr. Cole said, and Henry wanted to clobber him.
“Not if I can help it,” he muttered, then startled when Miss Beatrice’s head turned in his direction, one pretty eyebrow arched. She had heard him, he feared.
“I’m hungry,” Miss Charlotte declared, and they passed under the Roman arch and entered the whitewashed public house with its many windows and shutters. A previous owner had poked a large hole in the ancient Roman stonework of the adjoining wall so his edifice could be seen by those arriving at the train station. Henry thought him a smart business owner and appreciated being able to look outside.
Their group was seated at a large table by a window and were soon tucking into simple fare of thick ham, bread, cheese, and pickled onions. They all drank fruity local ale, and Henry even managed to sit next to Amity although Mr. Cole was on the other side of her. All the same, her warmth seemed to flow more in his direction, and he felt it seeping through his clothing.
Henry couldn’t recall ever sitting with family — his own or anyone else’s — in a pub and having such a nice meal and discussion. They talked about the amazing Roman domination of Britain, which had, after four hundred years, petered out as quickly as it had occurred. With Amity chatting beside him, occasionally wiping mustard sauce from her lips, it was perfect.
After lunch, they went to the Norman-era Colchester Castle where, for a few pennies, a curator took them around, except for inside the gaol, which was still occupied, as Charlotte had guessed. Between Miss Beatrice telling them how William the Conqueror built the castle as the first Norman keep and the guide explaining how its great size was due to it being built around the podium of the Roman Temple of Claudius, Henry felt as if he were back at Eton in a history lecture.
“With this sacred place already destroyed by Queen Boadicea a thousand years earlier, the Normans wished to show their authority by claiming the spot,” the curator added, “precisely because it was of great significance to the English.”
It would be of even greater significance, Henry thought, if he could get Amity alone. At one point, she lagged behind, speaking with her sisters and examining a tapestry. As the rest of the group rounded a castle corridor, and her sisters preceded her, he simply grabbed her arm and kept her back.
“Your Grace?” she questioned uncertainly.
“This is intolerable,” he complained. “Promise me you will give me some time to speak with you alone when we return to your family’s home.”
“That would be inappropriate.” She tugged at her arm.
“So would my kissing you right here in Colchester Castle, but if you don’t promise, that’s precisely what I will do.”
Her mouth fell open before she snapped it closed.