Page 69 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
“Don’t mention it. Now, I hope, Ophelia, that you have that library book you recommended to me. I’d be glad to read it.”
Ophelia smiled. “Of course, Julia. I’ll fetch it for you before lunch.”
“There’s no need to rush, dear. But I’d be glad to have it—it's grand to have something to read and someone to discuss things with! You’re very informed.”
“Thank you, Julia,” Ophelia said, going scarlet. She beamed at Julia. The older woman was learned and intelligent, and her saying that was truly high praise.
“Now, don’t mention it,” Julia repeated, smiling at her.
They sat and drank lemonade and talked, and after half an hour Julia excused herself.
“I just recalled I have a matter to settle with the butler about the accounts—he takes them off to our solicitor tomorrow forrecording, so I’d best tell him now before I forget. Excuse me a moment, my two dears.”
“Of course,” Ophelia murmured, and Owen did likewise.
The breeze blew in through the window and Ophelia smiled, feeling the pleasant sensation of coolness on the back of her neck. Her riding dress had a higher collar at the back than most of her dresses, but her hair was arranged in a high, tight chignon that kept it all off the back of her neck and she still felt cool despite the severe style of the dark red gown.
“Julia is right,” Owen murmured.
“I beg your pardon?” Ophelia said softly, not sure what he meant.
“Julia is right—you are learned,” Owen replied, making Ophelia blush.
“Oh, Owen,” she said softly.
“No, it’s true,” Owen said firmly. “And it makes me think of something.”
Ophelia felt herself frown and she wanted to inquire as to what he meant, but she felt too shy and so she didn’t, and let him change the subject, instead, to the kind of trees that grow well around a building.
They discussed the trees at some length, and the water-garden that they would like to design, too, and then the butler appeared to inform them that Lady Julia was ready to have lunch, if they would like to join her downstairs in the dining-room.
They went down to join Julia in the dining room; a bright, airy room with white wallpaper and a vast table as well as many large windows and beautiful paintings. Ophelia looked around. She felt at ease in Haredale Manor now, though it had taken her some time to get used to it. Lady Haredale had given them permission to stay there for as long as was needed, regardless of how long the restoration of their home took. While her housewas situated in London, it was relatively far from the city center and pleasant enough because of it. From the upstairs rooms, one could see views over fields and woods, and it was far more pleasant than staying in London.
“Shall we take a walk after lunch?” Owen suggested as they sat sipping a pleasant tisane.
“Yes, that would be very nice.”
Julia excused herself to rest—she always rested for an hour or two after luncheon, and Owen said she always had done, since she was much younger—and Owen and Ophelia went down to the garden and sat on a bench near the roses.
“A fine afternoon,” Owen murmured.
“Indeed. Very fine,” she agreed. The rose-garden was shaded somewhat from the direct rays of the sun by large trees, but the smell of hundreds of roses blooming intensified in the drowsy sunshine. Bees hummed somewhere nearby, and the splashing of a fountain drifted across the garden.
“We will have something like this at Ivystone,” Owen said softly.
“I would love that,” Ophelia admitted, feeling her spirits soar. In a place like this, inspiration was everywhere. She needed only to sit here and a hundred poems, like butterflies, flocked around her, waiting for her to write them on paper.
“Well, then. That’s all I need to know. The architect will simply have to design one.” Owen chuckled.
Ophelia smiled at him. He had the most open heart of anyone she’d ever seen. She loved how he never considered anything for longer than one had to—he was ready to try almost anything.
“Thank you, Owen,” she murmured. “It would be wonderful.”
“I think so, too.” He smiled. “My mother was like you, I think. She would like you very much.”
“I would like to think that,” Ophelia agreed warmly. She had seen one portrait of Lady Amelia—the gallery had, fortunately, not been burned, and the paintings had been carefully carried to a cart and transported to Julia’s home for safekeeping.
“Well, I am sure it would be true,” Owen said softly.
