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Authors: Sabrina Jeffries
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Catholic,” Freddy added.
“My mother was Catholic,” Maria corrected him. “Papa wasn’t, but since Freddy’s mother is, too, we were both raised Catholic.” Not that she’d ever taken any of it very seriously. Papa had always railed against the foolishness of religion.
A devious smile broke over Oliver’s face. “A Catholic, too? Oh, this just gets better and better. Gran will have an apoplectic fit when she meets you.”
Tired of his insulting comments about her background, she said, “Really, sir—”
“We’re here,” he announced as the coach pulled to a halt.
Maria glanced out, her stomach clenching. Halstead Hall seemed to go on forever on either side, glistening like a multifaceted jewel in the wintry moonlight. The front might be considered plain—no grand steps, no towering columns—if not for the crenellated stone façade and battlements at the corners. Not to mention the massive oak door, now opening for their arrival. It was as if she’d stumbled into King Arthur’s court.
But the footmen and grooms in elaborate livery who came running were decidedly from this century.
Oliver tensed. “Apparently Gran brought her own servants, as well.” A footman put down the step and Oliver climbed out, then helped her out, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm.
“Has my grandmother sat down to dinner yet?” he asked the footman in the same imperious tones he’d used at the brothel.
“No, milord.”
“Good. Go tell Cook there will be three more for dinner.”
Maria clung to Oliver’s arm, feeling all at sea. It wasn’t as if she’d never had servants. After Papa began doing well, he’d hired a few, but he hadn’t dressed them in matching livery. These servants fluttered about them, taking her redingote and the men’s coats and hats as if it were an honor to serve “his lordship.” It unnerved her. Especially with Oliver glowering at them.
The archway she and Oliver walked through led them into a stone courtyard surrounded on four sides by walls punctuated with other doors. He took them across the cobblestones to yet another heavy oak door, which opened ahead of them. It made her feel like royalty being escorted through a palace.
Then they passed into a large room of such stunning aspect that she caught her breath. “This is the great hall,” Oliver explained. “It’s rather frighteningly medieval looking.”
“I think it’s beautiful.”
“Gran loves it. It’s her favorite room in the place.”
Maria could well understand why. Two scarred marble fireplaces broke up the vast expanse of one oak-paneled wall, and well-worn benches ran along the other. But it was the Jacobean oak screen spanning the end of the room—twenty feet high and wide enough to accommodate two doors—that captured her attention. It was carved with fantastical creatures and coats of arms. At the top, near the plasterwork ceiling with its own intricate designs, was a breathtaking latticework.
She was so captivated by the screen that she didn’t notice what lay at the other end of the room until a voice called out from behind them, “I see you managed to arrive in time for dinner, Oliver.”
As she and Oliver turned toward the voice, she spotted the elaborately carved, painted, and gilded staircase that rose above the ancient entrance hall. With its paint rubbed off in places, it looked older than America itself, yet sturdy enough to easily hold the five people descending it.
At the head of them, clinging to the arm of a lovely young woman, was a gray-haired lady whose eyes surveyed Maria with sharp interest. Behind them descended two young men and another young lady, all of whom looked uneasy.
“Good evening, everyone,” Oliver said, his voice cool. “May I introduce my fiancée? This is Miss Maria Butterfield and her cousin, Mr. Frederick . . .”
Maria realized he didn’t know Freddy’s surname. “Dunse,” she murmured.
His startled gaze flew to her. “Seriously?”
She
“My mother was Catholic,” Maria corrected him. “Papa wasn’t, but since Freddy’s mother is, too, we were both raised Catholic.” Not that she’d ever taken any of it very seriously. Papa had always railed against the foolishness of religion.
A devious smile broke over Oliver’s face. “A Catholic, too? Oh, this just gets better and better. Gran will have an apoplectic fit when she meets you.”
Tired of his insulting comments about her background, she said, “Really, sir—”
“We’re here,” he announced as the coach pulled to a halt.
Maria glanced out, her stomach clenching. Halstead Hall seemed to go on forever on either side, glistening like a multifaceted jewel in the wintry moonlight. The front might be considered plain—no grand steps, no towering columns—if not for the crenellated stone façade and battlements at the corners. Not to mention the massive oak door, now opening for their arrival. It was as if she’d stumbled into King Arthur’s court.
But the footmen and grooms in elaborate livery who came running were decidedly from this century.
Oliver tensed. “Apparently Gran brought her own servants, as well.” A footman put down the step and Oliver climbed out, then helped her out, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm.
“Has my grandmother sat down to dinner yet?” he asked the footman in the same imperious tones he’d used at the brothel.
“No, milord.”
“Good. Go tell Cook there will be three more for dinner.”
Maria clung to Oliver’s arm, feeling all at sea. It wasn’t as if she’d never had servants. After Papa began doing well, he’d hired a few, but he hadn’t dressed them in matching livery. These servants fluttered about them, taking her redingote and the men’s coats and hats as if it were an honor to serve “his lordship.” It unnerved her. Especially with Oliver glowering at them.
The archway she and Oliver walked through led them into a stone courtyard surrounded on four sides by walls punctuated with other doors. He took them across the cobblestones to yet another heavy oak door, which opened ahead of them. It made her feel like royalty being escorted through a palace.
Then they passed into a large room of such stunning aspect that she caught her breath. “This is the great hall,” Oliver explained. “It’s rather frighteningly medieval looking.”
“I think it’s beautiful.”
“Gran loves it. It’s her favorite room in the place.”
Maria could well understand why. Two scarred marble fireplaces broke up the vast expanse of one oak-paneled wall, and well-worn benches ran along the other. But it was the Jacobean oak screen spanning the end of the room—twenty feet high and wide enough to accommodate two doors—that captured her attention. It was carved with fantastical creatures and coats of arms. At the top, near the plasterwork ceiling with its own intricate designs, was a breathtaking latticework.
She was so captivated by the screen that she didn’t notice what lay at the other end of the room until a voice called out from behind them, “I see you managed to arrive in time for dinner, Oliver.”
As she and Oliver turned toward the voice, she spotted the elaborately carved, painted, and gilded staircase that rose above the ancient entrance hall. With its paint rubbed off in places, it looked older than America itself, yet sturdy enough to easily hold the five people descending it.
At the head of them, clinging to the arm of a lovely young woman, was a gray-haired lady whose eyes surveyed Maria with sharp interest. Behind them descended two young men and another young lady, all of whom looked uneasy.
“Good evening, everyone,” Oliver said, his voice cool. “May I introduce my fiancée? This is Miss Maria Butterfield and her cousin, Mr. Frederick . . .”
Maria realized he didn’t know Freddy’s surname. “Dunse,” she murmured.
His startled gaze flew to her. “Seriously?”
She
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