Page 55 of The Unlovable Lady

Her breath caught, and the color came up into her face. “Then tell me about it. All of it — the house, the land, the offices, the neighbors. I want the whole inventory, and you are not to hurry over it.”

“The house is good stone and indifferent chimneys. The land is better than the house. There is a village, and a church with a crooked spire that three generations have promised to mend, and a great deal of weather.”

“And the name?” she asked. “Wrenfield. Is it for the bird?”

“It is. My grandfather was fond of them. He would not let the hedges be cut if a nest had been found there.”

“I think I should have liked him.”

“He would have liked you. He admired people who had opinions about hedges.”

She laughed. “Then I shall reserve judgment until I see them.”

“I gave up hoping for easy approval at a decorating party some weeks ago.”

“And you are sure,” she said, “that you are not dressing up a rescue as a country house? I told you I would not be saved at your expense, and I meant it.”

“I am sure. I want you at Wrenfield. I want you to know the house if you wish, quarrel with the chimneys if they smoke, and leave them smoking if you do not. I want you there whether you do a useful thing all day or not.”

Her eyes warmed. “That sounds dangerously like wanting me.”

“It is exactly that.”

She pressed her lips together, and mastered it, and when she spoke again there was a thread of laughter under the unsteadiness. “You have not asked me anything, James. You have described a county and a house and a whole life, and you have not once put a question to me.”

“Because I mean to ask you at Christmas, in the manner the thing deserves. Your aunt’s leave got beforehand, no whisper anywhere near it, and nothing in the room but the two of us and the question.” He held her gaze. “You have had a great deal in your life done improperly. This one thing I mean to do right.”

“Then I shall wait.” She turned her face to the window, and the smile broke through at last. “Ask me properly at Christmas. I shall give you the proper answer, and you will not be surprised by it, and neither shall I.”

At the hearth, Lady Holt set down her needle with a small, precise click.

“Well,” she said. “I am no longer required to be deaf, I think, and a good thing too, for I am wretched at it. Lord Dover, you may stay to a cold chocolate, which is the only kind this house is offering this morning, and you may tell me about your drains in Shropshire, since I gather I am to have a niece living over them. Am I not?”

“You are, Lady Holt. With your leave, at the proper time.”

“You have it, and well you know it. Rosalind, ring for a fresh pot, and stop standing at that window as though the snow owed you money. You have settled the thing. Sit down and enjoy it for a quarter of an hour.”

Rosalind went to ring the bell, and she did not go to be useful. She went because she was glad.

“Now,” said Augusta, when the fresh pot had come. “The drains.”

“The drains are sound, Lady Holt.”

“They all say that. The cellars?”

“Dry.”

“The chimneys?”

“Two smoke.”

“Ha! Honesty. You improve on acquaintance, Lord Dover. Which two?”

“The library and the blue bedroom.”

“Then we shall have the sweep to them before —” Rosalind stopped, for she had heard herself.

“Before Lady Dover takes up residence,” Augusta finished comfortably, and poured. “Yes. I should see to it directly, my lord. She has begun upon your chimneys already, and there is no calling her off once she has begun.”