Page 9 of Mr Winterbourne's Christmas
They rode their horses up to the entrance to the Abbey. This was the last remaining part of the original Augustinian monastery, with its pointed roof and flying buttresses. Behind the ancient façade stood a rather less remarkable Jacobean mansion, to which the east and west wings had been added some sixty years later.
As Lysander and Adam dismounted, two grooms stepped forward to take the reins of their horses, and then the great oak doors of the Abbey were opening and a figure was emerging: Quincy, the earl’s butler.
Quincy stood at the top of the small flight of steps that led up to the high-arched oak doors, his expression as lugubriously glum as ever.
“Welcome home, sir,” Quincy said to Lysander, greeting him first with a deep bow before turning to Adam and offering a still deferential but shallower bow. “And Mr. Freeman. Welcome to Winterbourne Abbey, sir.” He stepped back, holding the heavy door open with his stooped frame to allow them to pass.
“Thank you, Quincy.” Lysander stepped inside, crossing the portico that led to a second set of doors and the main house, Adam on his heels.
“I presume your carriage is following, sir?” Quincy said behind him.
“Indeed,” Adam said. “Mr. Winterbourne and I elected to ride ahead, but my coachman should be here very soon.”
“Very good, sir,” Quincy said. “I will have your luggage brought to your rooms directly it arrives.”
The next set of doors opened then, each one held by a richly clad footman. Lysander’s pace faltered at the sight of them, his stomach sinking as he took in the new royal-blue-and-silver livery they wore.
The brief brush of Adam’s gloved hand at the small of his back had him moving forward again, moving into the spacious hallway where a maidservant waited to take his and Adam’s coats and hats.
“Your usual rooms have been aired, sir,” Quincy told Lysander as he handed his hat to the maid. “And Lady Winterbourne has had the blue room in the east wing made ready for Mr. Freeman.”
Lysander hid his disappointment. The last time he and Adam had come to the Abbey, for the wedding, they’d had neighbouring rooms in the east wing. Lysander’s usual rooms, however, were in the west wing.
Quincy turned to Adam. “Parker will show you up, sir. Tea is being served in the drawing room when you are ready.”
Adam nodded at him, then turned to Lysander. “Are you coming up too?”
“My rooms are in the other wing,” Lysander said, trying not to sound as regretful as he felt. “But I’ll see you in the drawing room shortly for tea?”
“Of course. I’ll see you there.” Adam’s tone was perfectly normal, but Lysander sensed a disappointment that matched his own.
Adam turned away then, following the blue-and-silver clad footman up the east staircase. Already Lysander felt distant from him, unable to talk as they did at home, absurdly conscious of the servants’ eyes upon them.
Miserably, he turned and trudged up the west staircase towards his own rooms on the second floor. They were at the furthest end of the corridor, about as far away from Adam as could be.
He opened the door and went inside. Everything was exactly as he’d left it. The furniture and the drapes and the bedcovers—all the same as when he’d left, and when he went to the window and gazed down at the gardens below, he felt almost as though he’d never been away. As though the past year and half hadn’t happened.
Sighing, he crossed to the dressing table and examined his appearance. The last leg of their journey had been easy so his clothes weren’t too rumpled. A quick wash, a fresh neckcloth and clean boots—once his luggage arrived—would be sufficient for the purposes of tea in the drawing room.
Pouring out a basinful of water, he untied and removed the cravat from his neck and splashed the water over his face. He was in the process of drying off when a knock at the door heralded the timely arrival of his trunks.
Within ten minutes, he was spick and span and on his way down to the drawing room. He wanted to be sure to get there before Adam and, sure enough, there was no sign of the man amongst the dozen or so ladies and gentlemen gathered there.
“Lysander! My darling boy!”
That voice was unmistakable. His mother. He turned to find her in her usual reclining pose, draped over a chaise longue by the window and holding out her hands to him.
Obediently, he went to her, smiling. She had been a much-admired beauty in her youth and was still a handsome woman, in a plump sort of way.
Taking her hands in his, he bent his head to kiss her knuckles. “Mama, you look quite lovely.”
She beamed at him happily. “Do you think so? The gown is new—I do love pink!—and oh, but I’ve missed you, you wretch. None of my other children tell me I look lovely.”
He chuckled. “They’re monsters.”
“Aren’t they?” she agreed. “Every one of them! Let’s get you some tea, my darling.” Of course, she didn’t fetch it herself, merely lifted her chin and called for his sister. “Althea!”
His sister, who was standing nearby, turned at her voice. “Yes, Mama?”