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fabrics and styles, and taken his time with the ordering of an assortment of under things. Then he had continued on to his tailor and purchased himself an ensemble worthy of social functions. He enjoyed a well-cut coat as much as a well-aged brandy. If he was going to be forced to endure a limited thrust into society, he would need his armour. Nothing could distract from one’s inner emotions like the fine presentation of clothing. People rarely looked into one’s eyes if they were busy admiring the workmanship and style of one’s waistcoat.
    “No, she is borderline frugal, Reeston. I amended her orders and added to her purchases. She is clearly uncomfortable spending my money, but I’m not. Let’s hope she is having a little more fun on her outing this morning.”
    “Yes, I agree. Would you like me to have the footmen deliver these packages to her bedchambers?”
    “Perhaps you should open the yellow drawing room and have the packages placed in there until she can sort them through.” Devlin flicked his eyes towards the staircase, lost in reflection before he continued. “Actually, have the entire west wing reopened for Lady Alexandra’s use. It is time we aired out those rooms. Do you think they need to be refurbished?”
    “It has been some time, Your Grace.”
    Both men realized more was being discussed than a portion of the manor.
    The west wing had been sealed after his mother’s tragic death. She had loved that part of the house with its early-morning sunshine and unique design. Feminine and fresh, every room –– the conservatory, drawing room, parlour, guest bedrooms and her personal library –– boasted warm, bright colours. The drawing room doors led to extensive gardens lush with rose bushes, imported tulips and rare varietals in every colour. These flowerbeds wrapped around the house and followed a walking path past a small duck pond and further still, to the main gardens behind the estate. There one discovered a fountain, birdbath and collection of small marble statues, complete with ornate sundial, to complement the array of foliage and fauna. It was almost as if the space comprised a little house within a bigger one, and not until this very moment did Devlin question why his mother would desire such a retreat. Wasn’t she content in the main living area?
    Once she died, everything was closed, furniture covered and doors locked. What could have made her so desolate that she took her own life?
    Devlin was a child when his mother committed suicide. His father’s behaviour remained hidden well from him as a youth, but not so much he wasn’t aware of the lack of normalcy in his parents’ relationship. He rarely enjoyed his father’s company even at a young age. His father was short tempered, argumentative and unusually strict. While his mother was apt to intercede, she was not always able to protect him from his father’s anger and certainly not from his cutting deprecation.
    A sharp memory forced its way to mind and Devlin clenched his jaw, the brief remembrance hurtful on some unexplainable level he’d rather not consider closely. Decades had passed, yet the pain existed over a few trivializing moments when his father and not his mother had answered his bedtime plea. Had his father paused, listened to his heartfelt request and empathized with his childhood fear of the dark, his angered perception may never have festered. But no, on a laugh rich with mockery, his father had dismissed his request for a story and confirmed the shadows on the wall were indeed malevolent monsters meant to steal his breath if he did not go to sleep. He had then removed the only lantern and sealed the door tight so not a pinprick of light could be seen.
    How ironic that the darkness provided Devlin more solace than pain now; at least when he escaped the tremors. And where had his mother been that evening? She would have soothed away his concerns and spared him anxiety. Why hadn’t she come at his call? Had his