Page 105 of Marry in Secret
Well, now this lovely old house belonged to Thomas and no one could deny him.
The carriage pulled up, and two grooms ran out. The front door opened and a plump, bespectacled man of about thirty came running down the stairs.
“That’s Ambrose,” Thomas told her.
“Thomas, welcome, welcome.” He embraced Thomas, talking nonstop. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I received your letter last week. To think that after all these years of believing you were dead and gone, you turn up alive and well! It’s a miracle, a dream come true. A nightmare ended.”
As Thomas turned to help Rose down from the carriage, Ambrose exclaimed, “And of course, you’re married. This must be your lovely wife. Welcome to Brierdon Court, Lady Brierdon. I am your husband’s cous—” He broke off guiltily and turned to Thomas. “You don’t mind my claiming the connection, do you, Thomas? Or would you prefer I call you Lord Brierdon?”
“You will call me Thomas, as you always have, cousin.”
“And you must call me Rose,” Rose told him. She linked her arms with both men, and together they entered Brierdon Court.
“Are you tired? Would you like to refresh yourselves? Holden, the butler—you won’t know him, Thomas, he’s only been here a few years—and Mrs. Holden, his wife who is also the housekeeper, are waiting to meet you. Holden will introduce you to the rest of the staff.”
Thomas turned to Rose, a question in his eyes. They’d taken the journey in easy stages so as not to aggravate her injury, but any long coach trip was tiring, and London to Gloucestershire was, by anyone’s reckoning, a long trip.
“I’m not in the least tired,” she said immediately. “And I’m looking forward to meeting everyone.”
“I’m glad,” Ambrose said. “I’m afraid your predecessor wasn’t willing to be introduced to any staff except the butler. He, um, had certain attitudes about what was suitable for the earl, and meeting underlings wasn’t one of them.”
Thomas and Rose exchanged glances. The implication was that Cousin Cornelius had also regarded Ambrose as an underling. Rose recalled that he hadn’t recognized the blood relationship between them, either. Harsh, when in fact Ambrose was closer in blood to the old earl thanCornelius was. But then illegitimacy was an uncrossable barrier.
“He did his best,” Ambrose added tactfully. “But he wasn’t really up to the task. Not interested in the estate at all. Such a relief that you are home to take up the reins, Thomas.”
“Oh, that’s right, I ought to make an appointment to go over the books with you while I think of it,” Thomas said.
Ambrose laughed. “I wasn’t hinting, though of course whenever it suits you, you’re most welcome. But give yourself some time to relax, show your lady around the estate while this fine weather holds. The books aren’t going anywhere and there’s nothing urgent that I can recall. If there is, I’ll bring it in at breakfast.”
“You’ll join us for breakfast, then, as you used to?” Thomas said.
“No, no, very kind, I thank you, but these days I prefer to break my fast in my own cottage. I’m an early riser and like to get a lot of my work out of the way before breakfast. But I’ll stay for dinner tonight, if you’re asking.”
Dinner was a relaxed affair, with excellent food and easy talk, Ambrose encouraging Thomas to reminisce and tell Rose tales about their shared boyhood. “We’re not boring you, are we, Lady Brierdon?” he asked several times.
“Not at all, I’m enjoying learning about my husband’s misspent youth.” Rose laughed. “And please, call me Rose.”
“I think we’re going to be very happy here,” Rose said to Thomas as they went up to bed that night. “I’ve got one of Aunt Dottie’s ‘feelings.’”
***
Word must have spread about Thomas’s arrival because it wasn’t long before they were inundated with visitors—calls from the local gentry, cards and invitations and people simply dropping by on the off-chance.
Everyone wanted to meet the new Earl and Countess of Brierdon, to congratulate Thomas on his ennoblement and marriage and to exclaim about his apparent death and miraculous return.
Many people also wanted to express in subtle—and sometimes quite blatant—terms their delight that Cousin Cornelius was no longer the earl.
“Not really at home in the countryside,” was the vicar’s gentle summing up.
“A most elegant gentleman,” said one lady, “but not One Of Us.”
Her husband snorted. “Called himself a hunter. Wore a pretty pink coat and turned up on a very showy mount.” He snorted again. “Rode with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.”
“One of they demmed useless fancypants macaronis,” the elderly gamekeeper said, spitting on the ground to punctuate his remark. “Savin’ your presence, m’lady,” he added belatedly, much to Rose’s amusement.
Three days after they’d arrived, Cal’s groom, Kirk, and another groom arrived, leading Rose’s gelding, Midnight, and a magnificent black stallion whose noble lineaments proclaimed his superior breeding. “What a superb creature,” Thomas exclaimed, running his hand over the horse’s gleaming flanks. “Whose is it?”
“M’lord sent a letter,” Kirk said, and handed over a sealed note. Thomas broke it open and stared blankly at the writing inside.
