Dropping the dustsheet, Lucinda went to one of the pair of long windows, presently propped open, and looked out. The windows gave onto a terrace which ran down the side of the house and disappeared around the corner to run beneath the windows of the parlour, which itself gave off the dining-room, as she next discovered.
Standing before the parlour windows, looking out across the rolling lawns, ringed by flowerbeds, presently a colourful riot of spring and early summer blooms, Lucinda felt a deep sense of certainty, of belonging, as if she was putting down roots where she stood. This, she knew, was a place she could live and grow and blossom.
“These three reception-rooms open one into the other.” Harry waved at the hinged panels separating the parlour from the dining room “The result’s quite large enough to host a hunt ball.”
Lucinda blinked at him. “Indeed?”
His features impassive, Harry nodded and waved her on. “The breakfast parlour’s this way.”
So was the morning room. As he led her through the bright, presently empty and echoing rooms, lit by the sunshine streaming in through the diamond-paned windows, Lucinda noted the dry plaster walls waiting to be papered, the woodwork and panelling already polished and gleaming.
All the furniture she saw was old but lovingly polished, warm oak, most of it.
“There’s only the decorating left to do,” Harry informed her as he led her down a short corridor running beside the large room he had described as his study-cum-library. There, the bookshelves had been emptied and polished to within an inch of their lives; piles of tomes stood ready to be returned to their places once the decorating was done. “But the firm I’ve hired won’t be in for a few weeks yet—time enough to make the necessary decisions.”
Lucinda eyed him narrowly—but before she could think of any probing comment, she was distracted by what lay beyond the door at the end of the corridor. An elegantly proportioned room, it overlooked the side garden; roses nodded at the wide windows, framing green vistas.
Harry glanced about. “I haven’t yet decided what this room should be used for.”
Looking around, Lucinda found no pile of shrouded furniture. Instead, her gaze was drawn to new shelves, lining one wall. They were wide and open, just right for stacking ledgers. She glanced about; the windows let in good light, an essential for doing accounts and dealing with correspondence.
Her heart beating in a very odd cadence, Lucinda turned to look at Harry. “Indeed?”
“Hmm.” His expression considering, he gestured to the door. “Come—I’ll introduce you to the Simpkins.”
Suppressing a snort of pure impatience, Lucinda allowed him to steer her back down the corridor and through the baize-covered door. Here she came upon the first evidence of established life. The kitchens were scrupulously clean, the pots gleaming on their hooks on the wall, a modern range residing in the centre of the wide fireplace.
A middle-aged couple were seated at the deal table; they quickly got to their feet, consternation in their faces as they gazed at Lucinda.
“Simpkins here acts as general factotum—keeping an eye on the place generally. His uncle is butler at the Hall. Mrs Babbacombe, Simpkins.”
“Ma’am.” Simpkins bowed low.
“And this is Mrs Simpkins, cook and housekeeper—without whom the furniture would never have survived.”
Mrs Simpkins, a buxom, rosy-cheeked matron of imposing girth, bobbed a curtsy to Lucinda but fixed Harry with a baleful eye. “Aye—and if you had only thought to warn me, Master Harry, I would have had tea and scones ready and waiting.”
“As you might guess,” Harry put in smoothly, “Mrs Simpkins was once an undernurse at the Hall.”
“Aye—and I can remember you in short coats quite clearly, young master.” Mrs Simpkins frowned at him. “Now you just take the lady for a stroll and I’ll pop a pot on. By the time you come back I’ll have your tea laid ready in the garden.”
“I wouldn’t want to put you to—”
Harry’s pained sigh cut across Lucinda’s disclaimer. “I hesitate to break it to you, my dear, but Martha Simpkins is a tyrant. It’s best to just yield gracefully.” So saying, he took her hand and led her towards the door. “I’ll just show Mrs Babbacombe the upstairs rooms, Martha.”
Lucinda turned her head to throw a smile back at Mrs Simpkins, who beamed delightedly in reply.
The stairs led to a short gallery.
“No family portraits, I’m afraid,” Harry said. “Those are all at the Hall.”
“Is there one of you?” Lucinda looked up at him.
“Yes—but it’s hardly a good likeness. It was done when I was eighteen.”
Lucinda raised her brows but, recalling Lady Coleby’s words, made no comment.
“This is the master suite.” Harry threw open a pair of panelled doors at the end of the gallery. The room beyond was large, half-panelled, the warm patina of wood extending to the surrounds of the bow window and its seat. A carved mantel framed the fireplace, unusually large; a very large structure stood in the centre of the floor, screened by the inevitable dustcovers. Lucinda glanced at it curiously, but obediently turned as Harry, a hand at her back, conducted her through the adjoining dressing-rooms.