It was certainly a far cry from Aunt Magda’s; there was wealth everywhere Signa looked. Dignified pillars surrounded the courtyard, inlaid with whorls of gold. On the second floor of the manor, delicate stained-glass windows of a million colors shone over a balcony. Even the soil itself looked rich, and the grass somehow wilder and more vibrant than what lay beyond the gates. There were no weeds to be seen, and tiny orange and yellow wildflowers bloomed across the hills, stretching toward a thick grove of trees in the distance—the start of the woods.
No place had ever stolen her breath so thoroughly; Signa found herself pressed against the carriage window, fogging the glass as the landscape unfolded before her. She felt like a minnow in a springtime pond, small and insignificant among such beauty.
As the carriage rolled to a stop, it took everything in her power to remember her manners and not throw the door open so that she might hurry and explore, but instead wait for the coachman to clamber down and open the door for her. When he did, the brisk autumn air grasped Signa around the shoulders, carrying the scent of sap and earth and twirling leaves underfoot. It wisped through her dark tresses, and she breathed in its greeting as she made her way up the path toward the magnificent estate.
Waiting upon the massive porch, three people watched Signa at a distance—a portly older man, a gentle-looking woman, and a young man with the most severe expression she’d ever seen. The younger man stood upon the threshold of Thorn Grove in a fine navy suit that fit him like a glove, his shoulders squared as he observed the guests filtering in. He was far too young to be Signa’s guardian, yet the pride in his frame spoke of his comfort at the manor.
It’d do her no good to simply stand there, yet Signa waited a beat longer, wishing at once that she had a mirror. Even a large body of water or a polished stone would do—anything she could see her reflection in—so that she might ensure she looked presentable. She fussed with her mourning dress, smoothing out the bombazine to make it more presentable. “That couldn’t be Mr. Hawthorne, could it? Oh, he looks so young. Tell me quickly, am I presentable?” She looked to Sylas, whose smoky-gray eyes skimmed over her just once. At the worry in her voice, he softened a little.
“That isn’t Elijah,” he said. “And you look fine, Miss Farrow. Given how far we’ve traveled, I’m certain they wouldn’t mind if you arrived haggard.”
She wondered whether that was meant to reassure her. “If you could introduce me, Mr. Thorly, it’d be much appreciated.”
But Sylas drew back with a dip of his head. “Believe me when I say it would be better if I didn’t. Mr. Hawthorne didn’t give the staff much notice of your arrival, and not everyone will take kindly to someone of my status being sent to escort a lady such as yourself. You’ll have to handle introductions on your own, I’m afraid.”
There wasn’t time to press for further details, as Sylas was already escaping down the hill behind her and toward the stables. Left standing alone among fallen maple leaves with panic in her chest, Signa swallowed and tried to quell her fretting by recalling the introductory lessons in her mother’s etiquette book.
1. A woman should always wear a smile.
2. A woman should never shake the hand offered to her but accept it with cordial pressure.
3. For a woman, meekness and modesty are considered two of the most respected virtues. They’re to be practiced at all times.
Signa had trouble believing the third rule was one anyone should adhere to. Though, for the sake of her future, she’d try. Skirts in hand, Signa started up the path to the manor. Curious eyes and pointed whispers followed her, and step by step, Signa found herself wishing only for a deep enough hole in which she might hide.
It was impolite to be seen dressed in mourning wear at a soiree, yet what choice did she have? It seemed a poor day for her new guardian to hold such an event, though she was in no position to comment.
When she approached the young man at the door, Signa could see from his smooth face and intense eyes that he was even younger than she’d assumed, in his early twenties. Up close, he reminded Signa of a fox, with bright green eyes that were friendly but a little too squint as they peered down at her. The sun had leeched away color from his hair. It wasn’t red, nor was it blond, but somewhere odd and in between. A rich harvest orange, brassy and bright. There was a hitch in his jaw as he looked her over, clearly attempting to level his disapproval.
“Miss Farrow?” asked the older man beside him. He was stout and of an olive complexion, dressed in a fine black suit. Though a smile lingered beneath his full black mustache, his eyes were dark and tired things. “Welcome. I’m Charles Warwick, the butler of Thorn Grove.”
“It’s a wonder you’ve arrived,” said the younger one, his chin dipping as he inspected her. “Father told us of you just this morning. Welcome, cousin. I’m Percy Hawthorne.”
Signa extended a hand, and when her cousin accepted it after a beat of hesitation, she squeezed with her best effort at cordial pressure. Percy’s lips pressed into a thin line as he drew his hand back, tucking it behind him. Perhaps that was too much pressure, then. Or maybe not cordial enough? Or was this a situation that warranted a curtsy and no handshake at all? A Lady’s Guide to Beauty and Etiquette really ought to have been more specific.
“We’re glad to have you staying with us, Miss Farrow.” Signa was relieved to turn her attention to a curvy woman who had soft strawberry-blond curls and was wearing a dress the color of blue forget-me-nots. “Do you not have an escort?” The woman glanced behind Signa, as if expecting someone else to appear. When no one did, she took Signa by the shoulder. “Never mind that. I’m Marjorie Hargreaves, governess to the master’s daughter, and now to you as well. Your room is already in order.” Her voice was soft as a song. “Should you need anything, I’d be happy to—” She jumped as glass shattered somewhere near the estate’s entrance, followed by laughter that sounded… inebriated, to put it kindly.
Percy’s eyes flashed, though that lasted for only a moment before he rectified himself. “Warwick will see to it that your belongings are moved in promptly. You should have no trouble settling in.”
Marjorie motioned for her to follow them into Thorn Grove, and once inside, Signa knew that her cousin was right. The estate was grander than anything she could have imagined; they could have put her in a stall with the horses, and she would have been just fine. Anything was better than living at Aunt Magda’s, but Thorn Grove was on a level of its own. Still, there certainly were a lot of people.
“Is Mr. Hawthorne celebrating something?” she asked, hoping for an indication that this was a rare occurrence. Percy scowled, and though he opened his mouth to respond, Warwick cut in with a swift, “It’s nothing to pay any mind to right now. If you’re wanting to attend, then worry not. There will be plenty of soirees for you to join in the future when you’re properly dressed and prepared.”
Signa brushed a clammy hand over her gown. “Come,” Marjorie said with a kind smile. “You must be tired after your travels.” She jumped at the sound of another crash, followed by even rowdier laughter in the ballroom ahead, but she never once looked away from Signa.