Evan helped her down a pair of steps, puzzling over the layout of the grounds and the way the broken path seemed to turn back on itself in the midst of the weeds and high grass. “What did this area even used to be? There are flagstones here, but they don’t lead anywhere.”
“These are the parterre gardens. Imagine these box hedges and yews trimmed down to knee height, with flowers planted within the borders. Formal, geometric plantings. That gnarled tree in the center is probably an apple tree, which will flower in the spring. Can’t you just see it?” She removed her arm from his and turned in a half circle. “A fountain at the far end and an arbor with a bench beneath it. Climbing roses and clematis and wallflowers on trellises.” She pointed to a brick enclosure. “Behind that wall is the space for the kitchen gardens. And next to that, you won’t believe it. There’s an orangery.”
“A what?” He followed her gaze to a tall, many-windowed building perhaps fifty yards away.
“An orangery. At one time, when it was properly heated, it held more than two dozen orange trees, lemon trees, and maybe some banana palms too. It seems the previous earl was quite a botanist. Either that or he really enjoyed tropical fruit. Can you imagine having oranges whenever you wanted?”
“We did once, in Spain.” He narrowed his eyes, remembering. “At one point, that was all our troop had to eat. The supply chain had been cut off, and we bivouacked in an orange grove. For nearly a week, it was nothing but oranges, morning and night. I was never so glad to see salted beef and oat porridge in my life as when the supply wagons rolled in.” He could still remember the Spaniard who’d protested them eating his crop. But war was like that, and they lived off the land as much as they could. Even if it was someone else’s land. Now he wondered how he would’ve reacted if it was his property that had been overrun, his crop that had been devoured. Guilt settled into his middle.
They reached the edge of a glade that sloped away from the back of the house, and Evan paused. Stacked stone fences crumbled here and there, and hedges had grown wild, with unwanted species of trees forcing their way up through what had once been neatly laid-out fields. What had grown here? Wheat? Barley? Oats? Hops? Or had this been pastureland for cattle and sheep?
“Greville Monroe, if his memory can be trusted, tells me the estate runs to more than three thousand hectares. Two thousand of those used to be under production, crops, cattle, and orchards, with another thousand of woodland and the lake. There is a succession house where plants are started and seeds stored. And granaries, barns, and farmyards. Someday we can create quite the ramble through the woods, and there is a boathouse somewhere along the shore and a summer pavilion for parties. White Haven will become one of the most beautiful properties in England if we do it right.”
Evan stared at her, and she stopped talking, the words dying to silence.
“I’m sorry. I have overstepped.” She tucked her chin, her arms tightening around the folder. “You know what is best for the estate. I’ll keep my thoughts to myself.”
“No, it isn’t that. I’m just wondering if all women are like you.”
Her head came up, eyes questioning.
“Everywhere I look, I see overgrown, broken-down shambles. But when you look at it, you see graceful lines, serene paths, blooming flowers, and possibilities.” He pointed to her folder. “You can see the parlor furnished and the dining room with the cherubs restored. I’ll admit that I don’t have much experience with women, but I had imagined you’d be in despair at the monumental task of bringing this place up to scratch, and here you are already seeing the finished results in your mind.”
He took the folder from her grasp and threaded her arm through his elbow. “And don’t keep your thoughts to yourself. I find them refreshing and encouraging.”
When they reached the stable block, south of the west-facing house, he stopped. The stone building spread wide, with an opening in the middle to drive carriages through to the inner yard. Slate tiles had broken off the roof, leaving gaps, and weeds grew almost to the barred windows, but above all rose a beautiful clock tower. Though missing the hands, the clock faces looked austerely out over the property from each side of the cupola.
“I was out here taking inventory yesterday.” Diana took back the folder and riffled through it, pulling out a page and consulting one of her lists. “There are boxes for forty horses, and quarters for coachmen and grooms above the stables. A carriage house, harness room, feed rooms. It takes a lot of horses to run an estate this size.” She peered over one of the open half doors in the stable yard. “Can you imagine all these boxes filled?”
For the first time, Evan felt he had caught her vision, the way she could see a positive future when she looked at the house and grounds. “I can imagine it.” He went from one box to the next. The stables had fared better than the house, and it wouldn’t take much to have them ready for occupants. The thought that had been niggling at the back of his mind for some time blossomed. “But …”
“But what?”
“You’ll think me daft.”
Her delicately arched brows rose, and her eyes filled with questions.
“Perhaps I already do.” A saucy grin touched her lips. “After all, you married me without so much as a courtship and brought me to this grand estate with undue haste, so quickly that we’re now living in an inn.” She waved her hand at the wreckage that was their property. “Perhaps you’re as daft as a duck.”
Which hit rather close to home, though she didn’t know it. He hesitated, knowing what he wanted would be considered sheer folly to people of her class. It would be sheer folly to most anyone, except perhaps a military man.
“What are you thinking?” she asked. “And I promise not to laugh.”
He took a deep breath and then plunged.
“That first week, after I was made an earl”—it still sounded strange—“Marcus was showing me around town and getting me kitted out like a gentleman. He took me to Tattersall’s to look for suitable carriage and riding horses—which I still don’t have.” He remembered the encounter with Fitzroy and Diana’s brother, Percival, and their invitation to visit the high-class prostitutes of King’s Place, and his collar grew tight. “In the back of the stables at Tattersall’s, they kept a pen of horses that didn’t have a very bright future ahead of them.”
She tilted her head, listening, toying with her lower lip, drawing his attention. “What kind of horses?”
“Military horses. Cavalry and artillery horses no longer useful to the army. In some cases they’d been wounded. In others they’d just become old or lame. Or they could no longer face the guns, the sounds and smells and sights of the battlefield. Surprising that they were even shipped home.” He pressed his lips together. “The army tries to recoup some of their investment by selling them, mostly as cart or hackney coach horses. Those that do not sell wind up at the knacker’s yard. I know we would need suitable carriage horses for traveling to London, and perhaps mounts for riding and hunting, but what would you say if I told you I wanted to bring cast-off army horses here to White Haven and either rehabilitate them into useful animals or give them an easy retirement?”