Page 12 of Weave me a Rope
Lady Deerhaven must have noticed, for she added, “If Miss Milton is not tired, perhaps Spenhurst would take her for a tour of the house?”
Aunt Eliza looked alarmed. “With her maid, of course,” she insisted.
“Yes, of course,” agreed Lady Deerhaven. “Please come this way, and I will show you to your rooms. Spenhurst, Miss Milton will be with you shortly.”
She personally conducted her guests up to their rooms. They had been given a little suite—two bedchambers, each with a tiny dressing room, and a sitting room in the middle.
“How lovely,” Cordelia said, sincerely. She washed as quickly as she could, and she and the maid left Aunt Eliza sitting next to the window with a rug over her lap and the promise of a cup of tea on its way.
Spen was waiting on the landing just outside of the door to the guest wing, and his eyes lit up when she joined him. “I thought of showing you the picture gallery,” he said.
Cordelia, remembering her nightmare, shivered. Of course, Spen noticed. “Are you cold, Miss Milton? These halls can be chilly. Would you like a shawl?” Of course, he would address her formally in front of the maid.
She followed his example. “Thank you, Lord Spenhurst. I am warm enough.”
He offered her his arm, and the maid fell into step behind. “First, would you mind if we went up to the children’s floor? I would like to make you and John known to one another.”
Cordelia resisted the urge to skip. From what Spen had said, he and his brother were very close, even though Spen was seven years older than John.
“I would like to meet Lord John,” she said.
“He should be at Eton in Windsor,” Spen explained, as he conducted her up the stairs. “But he had a fall and broke his arm, and they sent him home to recover since the summer holidays start in just two weeks.”
“The poor boy. How did it happen?”
Spen grinned. “He must have been doing something he should not, for he is reluctant to talk about it. Lady Deerhaven had the physician, and he says it is just a simple fracture and should heal without any difficulty.”
They crossed another elegant landing, went through a door, and arrived in a stairwell very different from the entrance hall. Left behind were marble steps wide enough for four people walking abreast, with ornately carved balusters, half-paneled walls, statues, and huge paintings—landscapes and heroic scenes.
They were now climbing narrower stairs in polished wood with a central runner of plain serviceable carpet. The watercolors and illustrations on the walls were more domestic and far less deftly painted. “Most of these were done by my aunt or great aunts,” Spen said, “when they were children.”
Cordelia was charmed at the idea. “And what of you and John, my lord? Are you represented here on the walls?”
Spen looked astounded at the very thought. “Only the girls. Painting is not an activity for boys.” He frowned. “Though it is a pity some of John’s drawings have not been framed. He is very good. The marquess would never permit it, though.”
That was the opening for Cordelia to ask, “When may I expect to meet Lord Deerhaven?” To be presented for his disapproval, from all she had heard of the man. But he could notbe as bad as people said if he had allowed his son to invite her here, despite her common birth.
She followed Spen along a long, narrow passage. He kept talking as if he was afraid to be silent lest she ask her question again. It was just Cordelia’s imagination. He had no need to avoid her question. “The nursery has always been on this floor,” he said, “with bedrooms and the schoolroom along the passage at this end and the playroom in the tower, and the same in the other direction, but for guests.”
He stopped outside the door. “John has made the playroom into a sitting room since he is the only inhabitant of the family side of the children’s floor.” He knocked and then opened the door into a round room that must occupy the entire top of the tower. The space was light and sunny, though the windows were barred.
The boy who stood at their entrance did not look much like Spen. His hair was a darker brown, and his skin was lightly tanned. His face was more oval than square, though that could be his age. He had hazel eyes, too, instead of Spen’s blue. He was tall, though very thin. Cordelia guessed he had grown upwards, as boys did at his age, and had not yet had time to put on muscle and flesh to match his height.
Cordelia knew him to be thirteen, but his eyes were older—cautious and assessing. Perhaps it was just the pain from the bandaged arm she could see protruding from the sling he wore.
“Miss Milton, may I present my brother. John, this is Miss Cordelia Milton, my betrothed.”
“I am very pleased to meet the lady my brother has been enthusing about in his letters this age,” John offered, a smile lightening his solemn visage.
“And I am delighted to meet the brother Lord Spenhurst speaks of so often,” Cordelia returned.
They talked for a few minutes more, and when Spen mentioned he was showing Cordelia around the house, John asked if he could come.
“I am tired of seeing the same rooms over and over,” he said. “I won’t be able to come down once the guests arrive, even if the marquess is not expected home until later in the week.”
That was a curious thing to say. Did John mean he was not allowed from his rooms? Perhaps the marquess was an overprotective father, but nothing in the little Spen had said about him fitted that conclusion. Indeed, Cordelia had the impression Lord Deerhaven was harsh and demanding.
Eventually, no doubt, her curiosity about the man would be satisfied. She shivered again at the thought. “He is probably not happy about us, even though he did give his consent,” Spen had said. “But what can he do? I shall reach my majority in a few months. He must realize I can marry you then if he does not give his consent now.”
