“Marshland’s first novel, I believe.”
She met his eyes. “Do you have all his novels?”
“That surprises you?”
“A little. I knew you’d read him, and that you have decided opinions about his style, but I never thought you a particular admirer of his work.”
“I wouldn’t call myself an admirer. No more than I admire the works of Mrs. Braddon or Mr. Collins. It’s reading I enjoy, and if an author can tell a good story . . .” He shrugged.
“Do you have all Mrs. Braddon’s novels?”
“No,” he admitted.
“What about Mr. Collins’s? Or Mr. Dickens’s?”
Jasper fell quiet. A part of him began to question the wisdom of having brought her here. “I’m afraid,” he said carefully, “their novels don’t come as cheaply as Marshland’s do.”
The answer appeared to satisfy her.
“I suppose not.” Returning the first novel to the shelf, she reached for another.
He gently stopped her hand. “You wouldn’t wish your tea to get cold.”
“But there’s so much more to see!”
“Tea first.” He tucked her hand in his arm, leading her away. “These novels aren’t going anywhere.”
* * *
After tea, Jasper carried their bags up to their bedchamber. Julia accompanied him, looking around the room with vivid interest as he brought in first her two carpetbags, then the rest of their luggage.
It was a comfortable enough space, even for a wife. Jasper had made certain of that. Since taking possession of the Hall, the bulk of his small income had gone toward making the family apartments hospitable. His own bedroom and those belonging to the boys, Daisy, and Beecham were all well-appointed, with new mattresses, draperies, linens, and fresh coats of paint.
The furnishings themselves were the same as in Erasmus Blunt’s day. Great mahogany chests, wardrobes, and—in Jasper’s chamber—a magnificent four-poster bed carved with what, he suspected, had once been the figures of angels and cherubs. Their features had long been worn away, giving the blank faces and writhing limbs that adorned the bedposts the appearance of creatures screaming in agony.
Julia examined the carvings with something like alarm.
“We can replace the bed,” Jasper said.
“I don’t mind it. Only . . .” She traced one of the angels with a curious fingertip. “Is this poor man being tortured?”
“I daresay he’s meant to be in religious ecstasy.”
Her brows lifted. “Gracious. It doesn’t seem at all pleasant.”
Jasper hoisted her carpetbags and portmanteau onto the bench at the foot of the bed. He felt a twinge of guilt that she had no maid to assist her in unpacking them. She shouldn’t be exerting herself.
“I must find the children,” he said. “But afterward, I’ll help you get settled.”
Her hand fell from the post. She turned to him, her hip leaning against the mattress, causing the wide skirts of her blue carriage gown to swell out to one side. “Where do you suppose they’ve got to?”
“In this weather? Somewhere in the house, very likely. Once I round them up, I’ll bring them to you for a proper introduction.”
“Or you could let them come to me on their own.”
“I’d prefer to start as we mean to go on. Besides,” he added irritably, “if we waited on their initiative, we might well be waiting ’til Judgment Day.”
Her gaze tipped briefly to something behind him. Her mouth curved in a sudden smile. “Very well,” she said. “I am anxious to meet them properly. Daisy, especially.”
“I’ll find her for you,” he promised.
With that, he took his leave, striding off down the empty stone corridor.
He hadn’t anticipated having to play truant officer the very day he arrived home with his new bride. No doubt he should have done. Though the children had known why he’d gone to London, none of them had seemed particularly keen on his mission. Too many books with evil stepmothers, he’d wager.
Ridgeway would say it was his own fault for insisting the children learn to read.
Jasper trusted that, in his absence, their knowledge hadn’t extended to reading anything in his study.
It was the foremost thought in his mind as he made his way up the circular stone staircase that led to the fourth-floor tower. A heavily bolted door stood at the top of the steps. A door to which only Jasper held the key.
Sliding his key into the lock, he opened it with a grating scrape of metal. The door swung open before him, revealing the shadow-kissed room where he’d spent the majority of his six years at the Hall.
Inside, things looked much as he’d left them. There was a sturdy wooden desk stacked with ledgers, a set of glass inkpots in a brass holder, and a sheaf of papers weighted down with a stone he’d found while walking on the moors.
None of the books that lined the walls were out of place. And none of the locked desk drawers had been forced open.
Thus far, the children had respected the sanctity of his study. Nevertheless, it was always the first place Jasper checked whenever he returned from a visit to Malton or York, never entirely confident he wouldn’t find it ransacked, all his secrets laid bare.
But not this time.
He’d been exceedingly careful. Before leaving for London, he’d locked his most private papers away in the desk. The study was neat and tidy, absent its usual whirlwind of clutter—the stray pages covered edge to edge in scrawled script, the stacks of dog-eared novels, and piles of correspondence.
Satisfied, Jasper withdrew, locking the door behind him.
Charlie and Alfred were probably hiding in the east wing. And Daisy was either battened down with them or tucked away in a cupboard somewhere.
Jasper set out to find them.
* * *
“You can come out now,” Julia said.
The door of the large mahogany wardrobe slowly creaked open. A small head emerged, followed by an equally small body clothed in a stained cotton pinafore. It was a little girl, with plaited hair as black as Charlie’s, and a face just as narrow. She gave Julia a frank look of appraisal.
“You must be Daisy,” Julia said. “How do you do?”
The little girl didn’t speak. She merely edged closer, examining Julia’s face and dress, as if drawn by an overwhelming curiosity.
“Have you been in there long?” Julia asked.