Page 40 of The Mistletoe Countess
“I’m not sure what to make of my blushing bride when she’s speaking of improvements instead of vistas and romances.”
She rolled her eyes. “What do you think I’m doing with all these books on architecture and design? Merely looking at pictures? Though the pictures are nice.” She shrugged and looked back out the window. “Besides, I’d much rather be at workdoingsomething instead of worrying about fashion designs and house parties.” She flipped her gaze back to his. “I warned you of my dramatic bent.”
“I gathered as much about your dramatic bent upon our first meeting.” His lips spread wide as if he harbored a laugh. “And I’m quite pleased you want to make Havensbrooke your home.”
“I was reading from an article another American wrote of her work on her husband’s estate, and she decided to close off some of the unused wings of the house to save money. That may be a first way to conserve space and energy toward refurbishing, don’t you think?”
“Your suggestion is on the nose, and an easy remedy to lower some costs. The south and east wings showcase some of the best rooms of the house, and it makes sense to reduce costs by closing off the north tower rooms as well as the west wing, once we can renovate the east wing bedrooms.”
“I’m afraid your mother won’t like it.”
He slid her a glance, his lips twitching. “She hasn’t liked a great many things I’ve done, so this should prove in line with my usual course. But it is smart and in the long run will save money, resources, and time. I’m certain the servants will appreciate it.” His expression gentled. “Do you always paint the world with such color? It’s difficult to see the gray when you’re a part of the conversation.” He gave her fingers a squeeze. “You’re rather enchanting.”
The crinkle in his brow spoke of hardship, of regret, even. Paired with his comments throughout the last week, a vision of a man who’d lost some beautiful part of himself to a dark and dreary past resurrected. Lord Frederick Percy was a lost hero, as only the best fiction provided, and Grace felt certain God had placed her in Frederick’s life to rescue him. After all, few people understood lurid backstories, strong-willed heroines, or happy endings quite as well as she.
And she’d always longed to rescue something or other. It sounded ever so heroic, even as they traveled nearer to a house with secrets, a bitter dowager mother, and a future of uncertain possibilities. Yes, it sounded very much like a novel. “I certainly hope I can continue to add color to your life, Lord Astley.”
“Of this, I have no doubt.”
Frederick patiently endured his role as informant for the continuation of the train ride. Which proved a mercy, since Grace was notorious for questioning people into delirium.
The countryside looked familiar and strange all at once. Here and there among a vast expanse of rolling hills, a beige stone steeple—pic-turesque among the pastures—would dot the scenery like an unexpected find in a painting. Patches of sheep speckled the landscape, as twisty roads carved paths among emerald hills and rock walls. There was magic to it, especially as freezing fog—as Frederick called it—curled over distant mountains like a shroud, leaving behind a wonderland of icy trees and glistening towers.
A village of the most delightful conglomeration of gray brick, tan stone, and cobblestone lanes emerged among the hills as the train slowed. Astlynn Commons. People lined the way, some stringing garland along the outside of the train depot, others—it appeared—keeping watch. As the train came to a stop, the crowd increased with a great deal of commotion, all swarming toward the station, some with little banners, others waving their hats. What on earth was going on?
“Are you greeted this way every time you come home?” Grace grinned up at Frederick as he offered his hand to help her rise from her seat.
“They’re not here to greet me.” His lips lifted with the slightest smile. “They’re here to see the new Countess of Astley.”
“Me?” Her face drained of warmth. “Oh dear.”
“I feel certain it will be relatively painless.” He chuckled and drew her forward to the door of the train. “The older women of Astlynn Commons will send you smiles, the children will wave, the men will dip their chins in acknowledgment, and the young ladies will speak of nothing else but your fine hat and your lovely hair.”
“My lovely hair.” She rolled her eyes and allowed him to guide her through the train.
“It’s as remarkable as its bearer.”
He whispered the sentence, barely loud enough for her to hear, but she felt it spill through her with the sweetest thrill. He liked her hair. After shouldering years of unkind comments related to her scarlet locks, to have her husband find them—her smile stretched from cheek to cheek—remarkable?Well, that certainly meant something to her.
A young man in a driver’s suit approached as they disembarked, removing his cap to reveal a wild array of curls almost the same color as Grace’s. “Sir, glad to see you’ve arrived safely.”
“Thank you, Patton.” Frederick turned toward Grace. “Lady Astley, this our chauffeur, Mr. Patton. Patton, the Countess of Astley.”
“My lady.”
Grace offered him a not-so-demure smile. She’d been attempting to practice demure smiles, but they never failed to expand to her entire face, despite her best efforts. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Patton.”
His cheeks deepened to match his hair color. “I pulled the car ’round to the side for privacy, my lord, but there’s been a crowd out since mornin’ trying to catch sight of the new lady.” Mr. Patton returned his hat to his head, his gray eyes sparkling. “News of your arrival has caused quite a stir.”
They followed Patton through the station, and Frederick stopped to greet a few people on their way. A Mr. and Mrs. Larson, who were from one of the esteemed families of the parish. Sir Archibald and Mrs. Elaine Withers represented another. By the time Frederick and Grace had made it to the Model T—all outfitted with fur-covered seats and several blankets to keep them warm on their drive—the carriage with Elliott, Ellie, and all their luggage had already disappeared down the road.
As they drove down the cobblestone street, Frederick’s descriptions of the quaint village of Astlynn Commons and its series of perfectly lined, stone buildings came to life. She recognized the white-haired attendant who walked with a limp, and the rambling lane that led alongside a river. The bakery and butcher’s shop. Frederick’s beloved book shop, of which she took special note. A mercantile and millinery.
St. James of Astlynn’s spires rose above the patchwork roofs, into a sky battling between clouds and sun. Everything about the village settled upon Grace like a picture show from a fairy tale.
The dark blush of dusk dimmed Grace’s ability to take in all the sights, but each new curve in the road revealed another little gem of English charm and curbed the residual ache from the long distance to the home she’d once known.
“I love it all. It’s exactly as you described.” She turned to Frederick as he sat beside her in the autocar. “And Astlynn Commons is a part of your estate?”
