Page 7 of When She Was a Governess
Amelia nodded, as if she knew exactly what he was saying. “My best friend is Miss Sophia.”
Oh dear. This was going to be awful for all of them. If only there was some way Sophia could stay.
Sophia began cutting the pudding into small bites, her movements unhurried and gentle.
“I shall take my leave.” Henry rose to his feet. “Good evening, Amelia. Miss Ashford.”
He lingered by the door, wishing he could stay in the cozy room for a while longer. Miss Ashford came to stand next to him.
“Thank you for coming to visit,” she said.
“You were right, Miss Ashford. I should have done this sooner.”
“It wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He inclined his head. “It was not, no. I’ve not been particularly brave.”
“It is never too late.”
“I certainly hope not,” Henry said.
With that, he left the nursery. But as he walked down the corridor, the echo of Amelia’s laughter and Sophia’s gentle voice warmed his heart. He would come see her again tomorrow. One week before they lost Miss Ashford. He hadn’t much time.
*
The Thornbridge carriagelamps gleamed like low stars against the evening fog as Henry ascended the steps. The great doors opened before he reached for the knocker, and the butler bowed low.
“Lord Montrose. Welcome.”
Henry handed over his coat and hat, smoothing a hand through hair still damp from the mist. He followed the butler down the long gallery, where gilt-framed portraits watched ineternal silence. Light spilled from the open doors of the drawing room, where Charlotte rose from a damask chair by the fire.
“Henry, at last.” She hurried forward, her golden-brown curls gleaming under the chandelier. “You’re late.”
“My sincerest apologies, dear cousin. It has been a trying day.” He pressed a kiss to her hand. “You look well. London agrees with you.”
“We are happy to be home,” Charlotte said. “The city seems loud compared to our quiet life here. I’ve missed you.” She tilted her head, searching his face with discerning eyes. They’d grown up together and knew each other well. Charlotte had once been a tomboy, keeping up with all of Henry’s outdoor adventures. Now, she was an elegant duchess, but he could still remember her love of dungarees, which her eccentric father had allowed her to wear while playing outside.
Thomas came forward, shaking Henry’s hand. “Good to see you, Montrose. Care for a brandy?”
“Nothing sounds more delightful at the moment,” Henry said truthfully.
“Come, sit. You’re looking tired,” Charlotte said.
“Thank you,” Henry said, accepting the glass of brandy offered by a footman. “I am tired. I’ll tell you all about my troubles at dinner. For now, tell me about London. Did you do anything interesting?”
Charlotte sank back onto the settee, eyes sparkling. “One party after another. Poor Thomas had his fill.”
“Terribly tiresome. All that chatter about nothing,” Thomas said.
When they were children, Thomas, Charlotte and Henry had been as thick as thieves. They’d roamed the countryside together and spent days down at the shore, building forts and sandcastles. They were happy as long as they could be outdoors. Thomas had worshiped Charlotte even back then. It had taken alittle persuasion on his part to win Charlotte’s heart but in the end, he’d been triumphant. Now, they were living in domestic bliss, as far as Henry could tell. They’d been married five years, however, and there were still no children. He knew it pained them both, but they never spoke of it. However, it was not lost on Henry that it was Charlotte and Thomas who should have a child, not him.
At the striking of the clock, the butler appeared at the doorway. “My lady, dinner is served.”
The three of them entered the dining room, a stately chamber paneled in pale oak and lit by a branching silver candelabrum. The table glittered with crystal and china bordered in gold.
As etiquette required, Thomas offered his arm to Charlotte and led her to her place at the head of the table, while Henry took the seat of honor to her right.
Dinner began with a clear soup of veal and barley, its steam scented faintly with parsley. Then came salmon in white wine sauce, garnished with lemon and dill, followed by roast pheasant with bread sauce and early carrots from the glasshouse. Between courses, servants moved with choreographed precision, gloved and silent, never reaching across a guest. The footman filled their glasses with a fine Burgundy, then a Madeira to accompany the roast.
