Page 34 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)
“Not yet,” said Nigel with faint irony, “but if you ask again, it will surely make us arrive sooner.”
Gyles had good-naturedly lent Nigel the Audeley carriage and coachman to take him and Archie to Lincolnshire.
After all, Gyles had pointed out, as a newlywed couple, he and Louisa had no intention of leaving their bedroom for at least a month.
Nigel had thanked Gyles for the loan of the carriage—and informed him that he could have done without that bit of explanation.
Now, after two days of easy travel, they were getting close to the location of Nigel’s country estate.
Grimsbald was a chimera of a castle, or—perhaps described more accurately—a history lesson of a manor house.
The original tower, thick and squat, had been built shortly after the Conquest. Later, the Lymingtons of the Tudor Era had constructed a quadrangle, with the tubby tower on the northeast corner.
And still later, Nigel’s grandfather had remodelled the entire south wing of the quadrangle in the Palladian style.
Grimsbald sat on a vast swathe of land. Nigel had no exact idea of the area although he had heard his father say that it approached seven thousand acres.
It was nearly a half hour after the carriage passed the stone fence demarcating Lymington land before they arrived at the circular drive in front of Grimsbald’s Palladian entrance .
“Mayhap we’re earlier than they was expecting?” said Archie, peering out the window at the empty stone steps that led up to the house.
“I didn’t send word ahead of time,” said Nigel. Better to surprise the skeleton staff that he had inherited from his brother and see the worst of things all at once.
Jumping down from the box, John opened the door, and Nigel climbed out with Archie close behind him.
They ascended the grand steps, steps that Nigel had not walked up in nearly a dozen years.
Nigel caught sight of movement in the window.
In a location this isolated, the servants must have been peering out the upstairs windows since the carriage came into view five minutes prior.
Nigel lifted the knocker.
The door opened sombrely. An old man in a faded black coat stood there, alone but adorned with respectability. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Indeed, I hope you can,” replied Nigel.
The old man, hands shaking, took hold of the doorpost. “Can it be? Master Nigel? Home at last!” Then collecting himself, he straightened and folded his hands behind his back. “Welcome to Grimsbald, your grace.”
“Er, yes, Thank you.”
The butler opened the door and Nigel entered, followed by a gaping Archie.
Although the other older parts of the house contained exposed stone and rough-hewn beams, the northern wing was a luxurious confection of crystal chandeliers, decorative mouldings, and gilt-framed paintings.
“We were not aware of your visit, your grace, or we would have prepared the master bedroom. Would you care to sit in the breakfast room while I locate some refreshment? ”
“Of course,” said Nigel, noting with satisfaction that the entrance hall and adjoining salon were clean and well-kept. “How many staff members are there at present, Randall?”
“Eight, your grace. Myself, Mrs. Grenville, two footmen, two housemaids, the stable master, and of course, Mr. Billings.”
Nigel readily remembered the housekeeper Mrs. Grenville, but another name on the list gave him pause. “Remind me who Mr. Billings is.”
“He is your steward, your grace.”
“Ah,” said Nigel, the name drawing some recognition from the recesses of his mind.
Jonathan Billings—the steward who had written back to him.
He took a seat in the breakfast room, ordering Archie to go ahead with Mr. Randall and unpack his trunk.
Then he waited, looking about the light green room with a faint smile.
It was just as he remembered it when he had sat in here as a child with a steaming cup of chocolate.
His mother had always taken breakfast in her room.
His father had rarely been at home to have breakfast. And his older brother, Louisa’s father, had been too impatient to sip chocolate when he could be riding horses, shooting pheasants, or harassing pretty housemaids.
This room had been Nigel’s domain. He would read while he sipped his chocolate or set up tin soldiers on the breakfast table.
He heard a sound at the door and looked up to see a grey-haired woman in a dark dress enter.
For a moment, he thought it was a vision of Belinda Morrison, forty years into the future, having grown old with him at Grimsbald—but within seconds, he saw that the lined face was that of the housekeeper, Mrs. Grenville.
He stood up to greet her, with the same civility that he would have shown his mother.
“Welcome home, your grace.” Her voice was laced with emotion. “It’s been a good long time, it has. ”
“Yes, it has, Mrs. Grenville.” Nigel’s voice caught as he spoke.
“I’m afraid the ducal chambers are not cleaned and aired, but if your grace does not mind, your old bedroom is ready for tonight.”
“My old bedroom?”
“Aye, we’ve had it at-the-ready each night for nearly thirty years, ever since you went away to Eton. Just so that your lordship—I mean, your grace—would have something to come home to.”
Nigel’s eyes grew misty. “Thank you.” It was more than a thank you for the room.
It was a thank you for making Grimsbald a home for him all those years ago.
For giving him happy memories at Christmas.
For remembering him every night for the last thirty years, even when he had forgotten who he was and who he ought to be.