Graham could only groan again in response.
Chapter Thirteen
The country is far and away better than Town, and I defy any who would argue otherwise. London may have more events and people, but the country has more freedom, beauty, and life than any city or town could ever boast. One must occasionally, if not frequently, take time in the country. It will do a person good.
-The Spinster Chronicles, 8 November 1816
Edith could not say that she had seen much of England, her exposure limited to the travels from Scotland to York and from York to London, and only the trip to Withrow, the Ingrams’ country estate, beyond that.
Taking all of that into account, she would have to admit that Berkshire might have been the most beautiful county in England. So green and lush, with rolling hills and grand expanses of nature at almost every turn. It reminded her of the lowlands of Scotland, and despite being a Highland lass, she had felt those faint pangs of longing for her home, though she had not been back for several years.
Her awe and appreciation only increased when she caught sight of Merrifield Terrace. The house itself surpassed what Georgie and Grace had described it to be. A massive expanse of Tudor architecture and style, the stone an idyllic golden color that made the contrast against the green of its countryside all the more lovely. Decorative battlements lined the façade, drawing one’s eyes up without any hesitation, and the enormous windows cradled between stone glistened in the morning light. Ivy crept up the lower levels of the place, but instead of looking wild and unkempt, it added an air of romance to the building.
Never had she seen a place situated so perfectly, with elegant design and arrangement of every detail of the exterior, with its gardens and lake and unassuming elegance.
Edith could have stared at the house for hours and never gotten tired of what she saw. She could scarcely draw breath for looking at it, and Amelia had been much the same. Grace and Georgie laughed at their expressions, but they could not contain their excitement, either.
All were greeted by Lord Radcliffe, who was as reserved as ever, though he was polite and accommodating, as a host ought to be. He looked Edith over carefully as if checking for new injuries or distress, but he seemed perfectly satisfied by her appearance. The housekeeper, Mrs. Bates, was pleasant and cheerful, showing them all to their rooms and making sure everyone was comfortable. She even provided Amelia and Edith with their own ladies’ maids, since Edith had left Simms in London and Amelia did not have one.
Amelia was given the bedchamber next to Edith with an adjoining sitting room, which they would be sure to enjoy.
The formality of their greeting and the arrangements were strange to Edith, though understandable. There were several other guests due to arrive, including the rest of the Spinsters and Miranda, and there likely wasn’t time or need for a more personal greeting or treatment.
But why should Lord Radcliffe treat her differently than any other guest here? Who was she to be deserving of anything out of the ordinary?
Sitting in her bedchamber, which was certainly lovely and perfectly elegant and comfortable, Edith could only feel restless. In this beautiful house, this lovely escape from her struggles in London, she wished to be free. Pushing up from her bed, Edith moved into the sitting room.
“Amelia? I am going to walk about the house. Would you like to join me?”
“No, thank you,” came the cheery, if tired reply. “I will rest a while, I think.”
For a moment, Edith tensed at her words. Could she go alone? Would she be safe without someone else? Would Amelia be safe by herself here?
Then she recollected her location and the seclusion that being here provided. Merrifield Terrace was far from the reaches of Sir Reginald, or anyone else who might cooperate with him. The only person in London who knew she was here already, apart from her own household and Prue, who couldn’t travel in her condition, was her brother, and even that admission had made her uneasy.
If Lachlan wished for her trust, this would be the time to prove his loyalty.
Eventually, word would get out of the house party and its attendees, but for now, all would be well.
She had no idea what measures the men had put in place to keep Sir Reginald from coming to Merrifield, but she would trust that they were enough.
Inhaling slowly, then exhaling the same, Edith left the sitting room and ventured into the corridor, her steps timid. She could hear the others unpacking, laughing, and talking, but didn’t stop to converse. Georgie and Grace would no doubt be anticipating the arrival of their husbands, who hadn’t travelled with them, and Edith, for one, didn’t care to see the reunions.
Joyous though they were, the evidence of such love and bliss made Edith painfully jealous. And she was no romantic.
The corridors and rooms of the guest wing at Merrifield were no less lovely than the rest of the estate, which should not have surprised her in the least. Here were ages of family history portrayed in every stone and wall, in every portrait and carpet, every tapestry and tile. How many of the Radcliffe ancestors had put their own particular tastes on grand display in this place? What guests had stayed in these rooms, and of what station and influence did they belong?
Moving down the grand staircase, her fingers tracing the surface of the dark wood railing, Edith took in the Great Hall with more intensity than she could have managed when she entered. The grandeur of the space was understated, which she could appreciate, and the immaculate windows stretched nearly to the height of the ceiling. Dark wood spanned the ceiling and the lower portion of the walls, with ornate carvings in the corners and along the beams above. One might have considered Merrifield a hunting lodge, if its size were condensed and antlers dotted the walls.
As it was, the whole place felt particularly comfortable to her, as opposed to many fine houses that seemed more a display of finery.
Tapestries hung along the southern wall, and Edith found herself admiring each. It seemed that the Radcliffe family had a taste for legends, as she could see Robin of the Hood, King Arthur, and St. George with his dragon among the stories portrayed. The work was impeccable, though there were signs of aging in each, if one looked close enough.
This was no home on display for the fine Society of London. This was a family home in every respect.
Which begged the question: why had it been so very popular among them?
Edith frowned in thought as she continued to explore, moving further into the house. She passed two parlors and a breakfast room, then paused at the sight of a woman standing out on the terrace. The grand windows at the rear of the house, which belonged to no room to speak of, offered an unhindered view of the terrace, and the woods and gardens beyond.
There hadn’t been others arriving when Edith had, apart from the rest of her party, and she wasn’t aware that anyone else had come since their arrival. There was something about this woman that made Edith curious.
She stood at the railing, a deep blue shawl wrapped around her slender frame. Fair hair barely contained in a low chignon, stray locks dancing on the breeze, and a pale complexion provided such a contrast to Lord Radcliffe that it seemed impossible for her to be a sister of his.
Searing pain lanced at Edith’s throat, and her hand flew there as if to soothe it. Could it be that Lord Radcliffe had a wife?