Page 14 of Hearts of Briarwall

Florrie brushed that away. She leaned forward, brows high. “Courtesy of the Wendy League?”

She couldn’t argue with that. “Oh, very well.”

Florrie let out a yip of delight.

What would the harm be in attempting to make a man smile? As Florrie had said, Lydia made friends easily. Surely, she could find something to set Mr. Hayes at ease. Perhaps she could ask him about clocks. Or birds.

She remembered the almost wistful way he’d gazed at the portrait above the fireplace, his handsome profile a testament to how much time had gone by since he had last been here in her home. Her mouth curved upward in amusement.

“What are you thinking?” Florrie asked.

“I’m thinking about time.” Lydia sighed.

“What about it?”

Lydia’s brow rose. “It does extraordinary things.”

“For example?”

She shook her head slowly. “Mr. Hayes is no longer all elbows.”

The girls broke into giggles until Ralston cleared his throat again.

“May I get you a lozenge, Ralston?” Florrie asked as she dug into her little bag.

Lydia snorted, and Ralston gazed at the ceiling and sighed.

Poor, long-suffering butler.

Spencer slid his arms into a dinner jacket and brushed away a speck of lint on the sleeve. The jacket was new, as were the starched collar and cuffs. He rarely dressed for dinner at home, but he’d known the tradition would still stand at Briarwall. The vest was older but would do. He needed to exude security. Confidence. Trust.

He glanced in the mirror, grimaced, and straightened his tie. If only he felt as confident as he looked.

Andrew Wooding had always had confidence in spades, and Spencer had learned the mannerisms quickly from his friend. As boys, he’d believed that Andrew’s self-assurance came from being a year older, and Spencer simply had to reach that age the following year to achieve the same confidence. What a naïve boy he’d been.

He took a deep breath and lifted his chin. At twenty-seven, was he any less naïve?

Briarwall Manor leaned on the smaller side of Surrey estates, but it was elegant in its simplicity. A pale-gold brick edifice with white trim and moldings sat amidst rolling Surrey hills with climbing roses and wisteria vines clambering up its walls as if the earth were saying, “Stay.” Once upon a time, it had been a country home of an earl who’d had to sell off his holdings one by one. Which is how it had come to Andrew Wooding’s great-grandfather, then to his grandfather, then to his father, then, much too soon after that, to Andrew.

No matter when Spencer had come to visit Briarwall, he had always been given this guestroom. The handsome mahogany furnishings in Greek lines were familiar and comforting. Deep blue draperies framed a wide window overlooking a verdant countryside—the sun lingering on the horizon below heavy clouds.

He crossed to the window and opened it. It still squeaked. Fresh, cool air brushed past him. Light rain plunked a rhythm on the eaves and leaves of the nearby walnut tree, which was much taller than he remembered it being. Distant brass rain chimes sounded from the unseen garden.

He leaned forward, almost able to picture two young men chasing the family dog—a collie named Champ—who raced them happily to the pond and always won. Spencer’s few days spent at Briarwall were filled with morning farm chores, studying from any of the academic volumes from the library that caught his eye, roaming the estate to swim or to fish, or enduring another futile riding lesson, care of Andrew. Whereas Spencer’s father had sent him away to learn how to better manage his family’s future, Mr. Wooding—and then his steward—had made sure Andrew learned the ins and outs of farming firsthand. Time at Briarwall was full, and Spencer had always hit his mattress hard at the end of the day. Tired, yes, but also inspired.

Was it any wonder confidence came so naturally to young Andrew Wooding? Briarwall had been a refuge from both the social pressures of school and the boom and hiss of Spencer’s life in Saltley.

Unbidden, Spencer’s father’s words came to him in his deep Brummie accent. “Don’t ever let ’em see you weak. Sure, you’ll feel it, you will. Life ’as a way of makin’ a man feel it now and again. But shed it off, like a downpour on a duck. You’ll get by just fine.”

The irony of those words coming from his father at that moment dampened any warm feelings of the memory. His father’s actions had become the downpour, and Spencer had awfully few feathers.

But the man had been right about weakness.

Spencer blinked at the view before him. Both of those boys had learned that lesson. Shed off weakness, or you drown.

A structure on the Brairwall grounds caught his eye, drawing him from his thoughts and sparking another distant memory. He’d forgotten about the “temple”—a covered colonnade fashioned after the Greek Temple of Concordia. Mr. Wooding had made the boys write a paper on the history of that temple, including calculating the scale by which the temple at Briarwall had been reduced and ciphering how many clay tiles were used on the roofing. But that was not Spencer’s only memory connected to that building.

One summer day, Spencer had retreated to the temple with a book of Leonardo da Vinci’s inventions, only to be tempted into a game of hide-and-seek with Andrew’s little sister, who would run from column to column and peer shyly around the climbing wisteria as Spencer pretended to read. As soon as Spencer would look her way, the girl would gasp and run to another column with a hushed giggle. This had continued until the governess had called her name from the green, and she’d gone running.

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