As it turned out, the next train departed in three hours. Since there wasn’t nearly enough time to have his private train car made ready, nor was there an immediately available locomotive to couple it with, Rhys was more than happy to go by regular train. By some miracle, the unflappable Quincy managed to pack their bags with such efficiency that they were able to reach the station in time. Had there been any lingering question in Rhys’s mind about the merit of having a valet, it was forever silenced.
During the two-hour journey from London to Alton Station, Rhys found himself leaning forward in his seat as if to urge the toiling engine to a greater speed. At last the train stopped at Alton Station, and Rhys found a hired carriage to convey him and his valet to Eversby Priory.
The massive Jacobean manor house was in the process of being restored, and had been ever since Devon had inherited it. Richly ornamented with parapets, and arcade arches, and bristling with rows of elaborate chimneystacks, the Jacobean house surveyed its surroundings like a dignified dowager at a ball. The discovery of a hematite deposit on the estate had come none too soon—without a heavy infusion of capital, the manor would have fallen to ruins before the next generation could inherit.
Rhys and Quincy were greeted by the butler, Sims, who said something to the effect that they hadn’t been expected quite so soon. Quincy agreed that their arrival had indeed been precipitate, and the two servants exchanged a quick glance of mutual commiseration over the difficulties posed by rash and demanding employers.
As Rhys prowled restlessly around the front receiving room, waiting for someone to appear, it occurred to him that his surroundings were deeply comfortable in a way that his modern house was not. He’d always preferred newness, associating old things with decay and dowdiness. But the faded charms of Eversby Priory were soothing and welcoming. It had something to do with the way the furniture was arranged in cozy groups on the flowered rug. Books and periodicals were stacked on small tables, and there were cushions and lap blankets everywhere. A pair of friendly black spaniels wandered in to sniff at his hand, and left at the sound of some distant noise in the house. Baked sweet smells wafted into the room, heralding the approach of afternoon tea.
He hadn’t known what to make of the fact that he had been invited to Eversby Priory at a time of mourning. From what he knew of mourning rituals—which wasn’t much, save for the merchandise he sold at his store—a recently bereaved family did not invite or accept visitors. Calls of condolence weren’t encouraged until after the funeral.
However, Quincy, who was versed in such matters and had known the Ravenels for decades, had explained the significance of the invitation. “It would appear, sir, that Lord and Lady Trenear have decided to treat you as one of the family, even though you have not yet married Lady Helen.” Turning away, he had added with a hint of disapproval, “This new generation of Ravenels is not always traditional.”
Rhys’s thoughts snapped back to the present as Devon entered the room.
“Good God, Winterborne.” Devon looked bemused and a bit weary. “I only sent the telegram this morning.” But he smiled in the old comfortable way, and reached out to shake Rhys’s hand firmly. It seemed that their differences had been set aside.
“How is Lady Trenear?”
Devon hesitated, as if debating how much to admit. “Fragile,” he finally said. “She’s grieving not for the father she lost so much as the father she never had. I’ve sent for Lady Berwick, who will arrive tomorrow from Leominster. Kathleen will find comfort in her presence—the Berwicks took her in after her own parents sent her away from Ireland.”
“The funeral will be there?”
Devon nodded a slight frown. “Glengarriff. I’ll have to take her. Needless to say, the timing is bloody inconvenient.”
“Couldn’t you find a suitable traveling companion for her?”
“Not in her condition. I need to be with her. She’s having morning sickness, and is more at the mercy of her emotions than usual.”
Rhys considered the logistics of the trip. “The fastest way is to go from Bristol to Waterford by steamer, and stay the night at the Granville—it’s a fine hotel with a railway station close by. You could take a train to Glengarriff the next day. If you wish, I’ll wire my office to make travel arrangements. They know the schedules of every ship and steam packet route going to and from England, as well as every railway station and halt in existence.”
“I would be much obliged,” Devon said.
Wordlessly Rhys picked the black leather Gladstone bag he’d carried inside, and gave it to him.
Lifting his brows, Devon unlatched the end catches, pulled the top apart, and looked inside the bag. A slow grin crossed his face as he beheld two dozen glass jars of salted almonds packed among layers of tissue paper.
“I gather Lady Trenear has a fondness for them?” Rhys asked.
“Cravings,” Devon said, his smile lingering. “Many thanks, Winterborne.” Closing and latching the bag, he said affably, “Come to the library, we’ll have a brandy.”
Rhys hesitated. “Where is everyone?”
“West is at the quarry site and will return soon. The twins are out walking, and my wife is resting upstairs. Helen is most likely still out at the glasshouse with her orchids.”
Knowing that Helen was nearby—alone, in the glasshouse—caused Rhys’s heart to pound out a few extra beats. After a discreet, desperate glance at the mantel clock, he said, “Four o’clock is a bit early for brandy, aye?”
Devon gave him an incredulous look, followed by a low laugh. “My God. What kind of Welshman are you?” Before Rhys could reply, he continued, “Very well. I’m going to deliver this”—he hefted the bag in his hand—“to my wife. As repayment for your generosity, I’ll deny all knowledge of your whereabouts for as long as possible. But if you and Helen are late for tea, it’s on your head.” He paused. “She’s at the first glasshouse past the walled garden.”
Rhys gave him a short nod. He could feel himself bracing inwardly, a knot tightening at the pit of his stomach as he wondered how Helen would react to seeing him.
Devon’s lips twitched. “No need to brood, Heathcliff. She’ll be glad to see you.”
Although the reference escaped Rhys—he was not one for novels—he was annoyed to realize that his rampaging nerves were obvious. Damning himself silently, he couldn’t keep from asking, “Has she mentioned me?”
Devon’s brows flew upward. “Mentioned you? You’re all Helen talks about. She’s been reading Welsh history books and plaguing the family with accounts of Owain Glyndŵr and something called the Eistedfodd.” His eyes sparkled with friendly mockery. “Helen was hacking and spitting so much the other day that we thought she was coming down with a cold, until we realized she was practicing the Welsh alphabet.”
Ordinarily Rhys would have made some sarcastic retort, but he’d barely noticed the gibe. His chest had gone tight with pleasure.
“She doesn’t have to do that,” he muttered.
“Helen wants to please you,” Devon said. “It’s her nature. Which leads to something I want to make clear: Helen is like a younger sister to me. And although I’m obviously the last man alive who should lecture anyone about propriety, I expect you to behave like an altar boy with her for the next few days.”