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As the secretary hastened away, Severin picked up the pages and sorted through them. “What about this one?” he asked, handing a paper to Rhys. “A small bespoke station with a dedicated line connecting to the Great Western route. We can run a special train from there to Caernarvon. The station building is a two-story structure with a drawing room for entertaining prior to departure. No crowd, no tickets, no waiting. My general manager will personally see to it that your private carriages are coupled with our best rolling stock, including a new locomotive and extra passenger carriages with compartments for servants.”
Rhys smiled, glancing briefly over the page before giving it back to him. “There’s no way in hell that any other man in England could provide all this on such short notice.”
“Two other men in England could,” Severin said modestly. “But they wouldn’t give it to you as a wedding present, as I’m doing.”
“Thank you, Tom.”
“Barnaby,” Severin called, and the secretary rushed back in. Severin handed the page to him. “This station. Everything has to be ready by tonight. Make certain Winterborne’s private carriage is stocked with ice and fresh water after it’s delivered.”
“Yes, sir.” Barnaby nodded wildly and ran out.
Severin sent Rhys an inquiring glance. “Do you want to walk to a food shop for lunch? Or at least have a whiskey here?”
Rhys shook his head regretfully. “I have too much to do. Let’s meet after I return from Wales.” It occurred to him that he would be a married man then. Helen, in his bed every night, and sharing breakfast with him every morning . . . for a moment he was lost in a daydream, imagining ordinary life with her, the multitude of small pleasures he would never take for granted.
“Of course.” Severin’s blue-green eyes were friendly and inquisitive. The angle of the light on his face caught his right eye, illuminating the extra green. “This takes a bit of getting used to,” he said. “All this smiling and good spirits. You’ve never been one of those lighthearted fellows.”
“I’m not lighthearted, I’m . . . wholehearted.”
Severin smiled reflectively as they stood to shake hands. “It must be nice,” he mused, “to be any kind of hearted.”
RHYS RETURNED TO Winterborne’s, finding that most of his executive staff was rushing about at a berserk pace that rivaled Barnaby’s. Sales clerks and dressmakers’ assistants carried stacks of white boxes and armloads of garments to his private office, where his social secretary, Miss Edevane, was making detailed packing lists. Things were being accomplished, he observed with satisfaction. He decided to find Fernsby and ask about her progress.
As he approached her desk, he found himself following behind Dr. Havelock. The older man carried a tray bearing silver-covered dishes, a glass of iced lemonade, and a tiny vase containing a perfect half-open rosebud.
“Havelock?”
The lionesque head turned as the older man glanced over his shoulder. “Winterborne,” he said gruffly.
“Who is that for?” Rhys asked.
“Not you.” Havelock proceeded to Fernsby’s desk and placed the tray on it. “I heard about the frenzy you’ve created up here, obligating your entire office staff and three other departments to work themselves to the bone. All the fuses lit at once, as usual. Why must an elopement happen with such all-fired haste?”
“Elopements aren’t usually known for being slow,” Rhys pointed out.
“Are there parents in pursuit? A rival lover determined to prevent the wedding? No—only an impatient bridegroom who won’t cool his heels long enough to allow his hardworking secretary enough time for lunch!”
Just then, Mrs. Fernsby came to her desk. Her gaze fell on Rhys first. “Sir, we found a temporary lady’s maid: one of Mrs. Allenby’s assistants in the dressmaking department. Mrs. Allenby is altering at least two finished dresses from an order placed by a customer with similar measurements to Lady Helen—the customer agreed as long as we replace them with free dresses of more costly design. As for the nursemaid, Miss Edevane has a younger sister who would be delighted to accompany you and Lady Helen to take care of the . . .” Her voice trailed away as she noticed the other man standing nearby. “Dr. Havelock. Has something gone awry?”
“No, Mrs. Fernsby,” Havelock said, “but something might well go awry if you forego proper nutrition, especially at the bruising pace Winterborne has set.” He guided her to the desk and urged her to sit.
“You brought lunch for me?” Mrs. Fernsby asked in bewilderment, picking up the linen napkin on the tray and placing it on her lap.
“Indeed.” Havelock glanced at her covertly, assessing her reaction. A flash of triumph entered his eyes as he saw how pleased she was, and he quickly covered it with another burst of indignation. “If it were left to Winterborne, you would soon be carried to my door in a state of nervous exhaustion and malnourishment. And I already have enough patients to attend to.” He removed the silver covers, and turned the rosebud so that it was shown to its best advantage.
“I am rather hungry,” Mrs. Fernsby said delicately, as if she could hardly summon the strength to lift a fork. “Will you keep me company, Dr. Havelock?”
“I suppose I must,” came his enthusiastic response, “to make certain Winterborne allows you fifteen minutes of peace.”
Rhys tried to sound grudging. “Very well, Fernsby. You can have food. But only because Havelock insists on it.” Before turning away, he exchanged a quick glance with Mrs. Fernsby, and her eyes twinkled at him.