Page 3 of To Bed the Bride
After closing the door softly behind her, she raced to the armoire, tapping along the left side, just as her father had taught her. This piece of furniture had a secret panel, but it wasn’t the only one. Her desk had a secret drawer, too. So did her father’s massive desk in his library.
The space wasn’t all that large, but it was big enough to hide her riding skirt. Not the one that went with her habit, sewn by one of the finest seamstresses in London. No, this style she’d devised for herself when she was ten. She’d taken one of her older skirts, sewn two tight seams, then cut the skirt in the middle. Only her father had known what she’d done and he’d approved wholeheartedly.
“A woman’s saddle is a danger,” he’d said. “It’s flimsy and won’t do you any good. The harpies don’t have to know you’ve learned to ride astride.”
They’d ridden together just after dawn every morning. For years she’d awakened with the same bright excitement until she was eleven and realized that those days were gone and would never come again.
This time she would ride just as she had with her father, as she had on each of her annual visits.
Standing, she grabbed the top half of her riding habit and paired it with her altered skirt. After pulling on her boots, she ignored the chaplet and the hat with its veil. She was going riding this morning, not like they did in London’s parks, but across the glen and down the roads until she and Maud grew tired.
In her sitting room was a block of ornamental panels along one wall. She pressed the third block, then used her fingertips to open the secret door even farther.
Hearthmere was a treasure trove of secrets and she knew them all. Her father had taught them to her one by one, revealing another magical aspect of the house on every birthday. She learned about this set of secret corridors and stairs when she was ten. There was no need for a lantern or candle. Arrow slits, once part of the old castle, lit the space.
She made her way down the stairs, listening. There was an exit into the large pantry, but that was too close to the kitchen. A great many of Hearthmere’s servants congregated there in the mornings. The last thing she wanted to do was pop out and shock everyone. Instead, she took the next exit leading to an anteroom close to the library. Holding on to the door for a moment, she waited until a maid passed before stepping out.
She left the house and made it past the milking shed before she was noticed. Two young boys heading in the opposite direction waved to her and she waved back.
Turning, she looked at Hearthmere sitting on a knoll of earth, blocking out the view of the horizon, its two wings stretching out like arms to enfold anyone who came close. A long time ago a castle had stood there, home to the first Craigs.
The gray stone was the color of London fog. The white-outlined windows looked like dozens of eyes, ever vigilant. All the chimneys reminded her of organ pipes, but instead of sound they belched smoke, especially from the kitchen. The house lived and breathed on its own without her interference, sheltering those who worked at Hearthmere, who kept her father’s legacy alive. Strangers were welcome here and travelers were greeted with a hot meal and sometimes a bed for the night, all in the name of Archie Craig.
Hearthmere was, on the whole, self-sustaining. There were crofters on a huge swath of land that wasn’t managed under the home farms, and both cattle and sheep were being raised on the rest of the acreage.
They employed twenty-five people, some who worked in the house, but mostly those who managed the horses.
As she looked at the house, pride soared through her. She would always be a Scot, regardless of how many years she lived in England. Her father was a Craig and his father before him, a long line of men that stretched back hundreds and hundreds of years.
Family is everything.Her father had said that to her repeatedly. She didn’t understand how her aunt and her family could so easily toss their heritage aside.
She would never abandon Hearthmere.
Chapter Two
At the crest of the hill, Eleanor stopped to appreciate the view. Below her was the main stable building, consisting of over fifty stalls. The construction mimicked that of Hearthmere, the gray brick and white trim a perfect match to the house. Behind the stable was a series of paddocks and corrals, chutes, and rings to exercise the horses. Farther still was an oval dirt track her father had constructed to train the horses.
Hearthmere Thoroughbreds were known for their gray coloring, and had won at The Oaks, The Derby, and most of the English races. Their winning times had improved the sport to the point that Hearthmere Thoroughbreds were synonymous with the best of the breed. They’d had requests to purchase available horses from all over the world. Only those buyers known to her father or uncle were considered, the health and well-being of their horses being of paramount importance.
Their winnings were compiled in her steward’s monthly report. Every year they made more than the previous year. The profits were spent on improvements to the stables as well as buying more blood stock. When a foal was born she was informed of it, the birth heralded as important and recorded in her father’s large ledger. She wasn’t supposed to call it what it was, his stud book. Such an inelegant term would have been shocking said in mixed company. She wasn’t supposed to know a great deal that she knew, which was a shame because she could have had some rousing conversations about racing with several of her more boring suitors.
Michael didn’t seem inclined to gamble, which was probably an asset in a future husband. He wasn’t interested in the Hearthmere bloodline, either, which was disturbing. Despite her bringing up the subject on numerous occasions, he seemed not to want to discuss her home.
She’d met her fiancé at a ball. He’d been pointed out to her by Jenny Woolsey, who’d become her friend by dint of having attended most of the same social functions. The poor thing was always laced too tightly and had the misfortune of perspiring when anxious.
Perhaps as a result of being shunned by the other girls—as well as potential suitors—or because she was naturally observant, Jenny could identify most of the guests at the various events they’d attended. She knew a man’s title, if applicable, and what his yearly income was rumored to be. She’d spotted Michael immediately.
“It’s the Earl of Wescott,” she said, her voice excited. “He’s recently returned from the Caribbean.”
Eleanor had given him a quick glance, but she hadn’t paid him much attention. After all, he was an earl and she hadn’t aimed that high. Yet by the end of the season they were engaged. Her entire future had changed.
“My dear girl,” her aunt had said, “aren’t you the sly puss? You’ve managed to acquire the most eligible man in London, perhaps all of England.”
She’d never been the focus of her aunt’s attention, let alone her praise. Eleanor found herself bemused by the situation and the speed at which it had happened. One moment Michael had called upon her aunt’s husband, and the next she was being feted for her charm, poise, and grace.
Not to mention being the object of speculation and endless rumors wherever she went.
Now she began the long trek down to the stable complex, noting changes that had been made in the past year. She knew about all of them, thanks to her steward’s monthly reports: the new fencing in the north pasture, the construction of an area for the foals to be trained.
