Page 11 of Weave me a Rope
Spen would be waiting for her. Spen wanted to make her his wife.
Spen’s stepmother, father, and—Cordelia’s wildest nightmares insisted—every one of his august ancestors in their frames on the wall would also be waiting. In her dreams, they cried out as she walked in the door. “Mill girl!” they shouted. “Doesn’t belong here! Away with her! Off with her head!”
His father will not be home yet, she reminded herself. Spen had asked her to arrive a day or two before the other guests so that he had time to show her around the house and the estate. The marquess would not be there for several more days.
They entered the ornate gates, the outriders without whom her uncle would not allow her to travel arriving first and ensuring the gates were opened and the carriage was waved through.
“So considerate,” Cordelia’s aunt enthused, and then, as they turned a bend in the carriageway, “Oh, my word!”
For a few minutes, the park, and then the gardens, spread before them. On the far side of the gardens, an enormous house dominated the vista, the golden stone lit by the sun that sparkled off dozens, perhaps scores, of windows.
Cordelia barely had time to take in that much before the carriage turned another corner. Spen had told Cordelia the final approach to the great house ran in a straight line through the stately garden until it passed through an arch and terminated in a courtyard at the foot of stairs up to the main entrance.
Short of leaning out of the window, she would not see the house again until they arrived. Cordelia said a quick prayer that Spen would be waiting to welcome her. She could face his father if he was at her side. She could face anything with Spen beside her.
Aunt Eliza might almost have read her mind. “I imagine Lord Spenhurst will be waiting for you, Cordelia. Such a nice young man. Not at all proud, as I imagined an earl might be.”
Aunt Eliza and Uncle Josh were thrilled Cordelia had attracted the attention of an earl. It was a courtesy title, Spen had said, modestly. He was not an actual peer, but merely the eldest son of one. The title Earl of Spenhurst was merely the next most senior title of the Marquesses of Deerhaven.
“Imagine,” Uncle had said. “Our little DeeDee. A marchioness.”
When Spen’s stepmother had sent the invitation for Cordelia and Aunt Eliza to visit Deercroft, she had also invited Uncle Josh. “Nay, lass,” Uncle Josh had said. “I know my place. I’ll not be embarrassing thee in front of all of them fine folk. Nay, Lizzie’ll be the ticket. Lizzie knows the gentry ways. Aye, thou’ll be safe wi’ Lizzie.”
Aunt Eliza was nearly as much out of her depth in the rarified upper reaches of Society as Cordelia, but neither his sister nor his niece would tell him so. He would be most upset to know how Society had looked down their collective noses at the widow of an obscure country gentleman and the niece of a man in trade. At least until the Earl of Spenhurst began to pay Cordelia singular attention.
The bright sunlight was suddenly cut off as the carriage passed under a long arch, almost a tunnel. In the stone walls on either side, shallow steps led up to a door. The arch of which Spenhurst had spoken passed through a building.
A moment later, they came out into the courtyard, turning left to pass beside the building they’d driven under, then continuing on in a circle past another long building to come to a stop before the third, the great house itself.
Then Cordelia lost all interest in architecture, for the Earl of Spenhurst was gesturing the footman out of the way and opening the door himself.
“Cordelia! You are here at last.” He remembered his manners and looked past Cordelia to her aunt. “Welcome, Mrs. Walters. Thank you so much for coming.”
Cordelia took Spen’s hand, feeling the thrill of his touch even through her glove. He helped her down and turned to offer the same assistance to Aunt Eliza. Cordelia gazed up the stairs to the huge wooden doors, ornately carved with leaves, flowers, and even animals. She could make out a stag, or was it a unicorn? Above, between rows of pillars, stretched a leaded window at least another story high, and above that, a ledge holding more pillars.
Spen spoke from just behind her, his voice warm. “You’ll get a crick in your neck, Miss Milton. The best view is from across the courtyard. There is a roof walk, and I look forward to showing it to you.”
She turned with a smile, and he gestured to the building they’d driven under. She couldn’t see the roofwalk of which he spoke, just a row of pilasters along the top of the wall, with glimpses of tiles behind.
The courtyard was surrounded by the house and its outbuildings, so that it was completely enclosed and could be entered only by the arched opening behind her and two otherpaved openings below the buildings to each side that allowed passage into the world beyond.
The great house made up the tallest wall, with four rows of windows and dormers in the roof above. The three lesser buildings were half the height. Most impressive of all were the two towers placed one at each corner of the great house, stretching twice the height of the house. Surely from the windows at their highest level, one would be able to see far across the estate, and miles into the countryside beyond.
Spen offered her one arm, and Aunt Eliza the other. “Come,” he said. “I am looking forward to introducing you to my stepmother.” Lady Deerhaven had not been in London for the Season, as she was approaching her confinement.
The entrance hall soared the full height of the building to a magnificent cupola, the biggest Cordelia had ever seen. Cordelia promised herself she’d come back for a better look, but for now, she needed all her wits about her to make a good impression on the Marchioness of Deerhaven, to whom Spen was now presenting her and her aunt.
Aunt Eliza was overwhelmed, as evidenced by the court curtsey they had practiced together, but never yet had the opportunity to use. Cordelia fought the urge to do the same and succeeded. She had to present herself as a lady worthy to be Spen’s countess. Proper respect, but not the obsequious humility the aristocrats expected from those beneath them. “Be yourself,” Spen had said. “My stepmother will love you.”
He said nothing about his father.
A bob of a curtsey. That is what her finishing governess would have decreed, and that is what Cordelia did.
Lady Deerhaven was a surprise—not the elegant matriarch Cordelia had expected, but a small, faded lady who could not have been more than a few years older than Cordelia herself. Her pregnancy was obvious, and she walked awkwardly.
“Welcome, welcome,” she said. “I am so pleased you were able to come. Let me show you both up to your rooms. You will want to tidy up. Perhaps to rest? I always find travel so exhausting.”
Cordelia glanced at Spen. Rest? When they had been separated for days and were only just together again?
