Quickly crossing the conservatory and striding through the refurbished ballroom, he paused to cast a critical eye over the now elegant dining-room before taking the stairs two at a time. He strode towards his mother’s rooms, noting with deep satisfaction how different the atmosphere in the long corridors now was. Gone was the must and the damp. Newly painted woodwork gleamed, and the floor was well-buffed and covered with bright runners. Windows, long stuck, had been repaired and the fresh autumn air danced in. Slim tables stood along the walls, some overhung by paintings, others sporting vases filled with bright flowers. Martin stopped by one such and chose a pink for his buttonhole.
Tucking it into position, he fronted his mother’s door. He knocked. When she called to him to enter, he grinned in wicked anticipation and obeyed.
Catherine Willesden looked up as he entered, unsurprised, for she knew his knock by now. To her amazement, Martin had taken to dropping by her room in the late afternoons, not to cause any furor but merely to chat. At first she had been stunned, then disarmed. He had a sharp eye and a ready wit, very reminiscent of his father. She had enjoyed his company far more than she would ever admit
.
Regally, she nodded and watched as he appropriated one of her gnarled hands and bent to kiss it. Then he placed a dutiful kiss on her cheek and stood back.
‘I’ve a surprise for you.’ Martin smiled down at her.
Lady Catherine struggled to remain immune. ‘Oh? What?’
‘I can’t possibly tell you, or it wouldn’t be a surprise.’ Martin watched his mother’s eyes narrow.
‘My dear sir, if you think I’m about to play guessing games with you, you’re mistaken.’
‘Naturally not,’ Martin replied. He found his mother’s acerbity refreshing and took the greatest delight in teasing her. ‘I would never presume to play games with you, ma’am.’
‘Huh!’ was his mother’s instant response.
‘But you’re distracting me from your surprise. You’ll have to come downstairs to get it.’
Lady Catherine frowned at her son. ‘I’ve not been downstairs for well nigh ten years—as you well know.’
‘I know nothing of the sort. If you were well enough to look about the place six weeks ago, you must be well enough to see my surprise.’ Martin watched as his mother’s crabbed fingers picked at the edge of her shawl.
‘Oh,’ said the Dowager. ‘You heard about that.’
‘Yes,’ Martin said, his tone several shades more gentle. ‘But there was no need for you to see it like that.’ He had learned that, when he’d left so abruptly after his first visit, she had insisted on being carried down to view the state she had by then guessed the house had disintegrated into.
‘It was awful.’ Lady Catherine shuddered. ‘I couldn’t even recognise some of the rooms.’
Her grief for her lost dreams, the images she had carried for so many years destroyed when she had seen the decay of her home, shadowed her voice.
‘Enough of the past. It’s all gone.’ Martin stooped and scooped her into his arms. Lady Catherine bit back a squeal and clutched at him, then glared when he smiled at her. Reflecting that Helen was at least twice his mother’s weight, Martin swung towards the door. His eyes fell on Melissa’s bent head. ‘Melissa—are you coming? Dinner will be downstairs tonight—come with us by all means, if you’ve a mind to see the workings, or come to the drawing-room at six.’
Melissa gawked at him. Dismissing her from his mind, Martin strode towards the door.
‘Downstairs?’ Lady Catherine finally found her tongue. ‘I have my dinner up here. On a tray.’
Martin shook his head. ‘Not any more. Now that we have a habitable dining-room, while I’m in residence, you’ll take your proper place at the end of my table.’ He made his voice sound stern, as if he was issuing an order.
He glanced sidelong at his mother. She did not know what to say. On the one hand, she did not like to accept what might just be his charity; on the other, she longed to be seated at her table again. Martin grinned and strode along the corridor to the stairs.
Catherine Willesden barely noticed the bright new furnishings through the veil of tears clouding her eyes. She had never, ever valued Martin and his arrogant, impulsive ways as he deserved. She knew quite well that it was because he had never been tractable, as his brothers had always been. But, while George had brought the place to ruin, Martin had set it to rights. Her heart had been broken when she had finally understood the full sum of the mess—Mr Matthews had been distressingly blunt when she had asked. Now it was as if a magic wand had been waved—it was even better than she recalled.
Not that she could tell Martin that—the rogue would be insufferable. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, she blinked rapidly. Martin eased her into a chair which had been set waiting. She settled her skirts as he stood back.
Suddenly, the chair started to move.
‘Martin!’ The Dowager awkwardly grabbed at the arms of the chair.
Her reprobate son chuckled—actually chuckled!
‘It’s all right. I’ve got hold of it.’ Martin pushed the chair slowly forward. ‘It’s a wheelchair. Set on wheels so you can be moved about easily. See?’ He stopped and showed her the wheels. ‘I saw it in London. I thought you might find it useful.’
‘I dare say,’ said his mother, vainly trying to sound as forbidding as usual.