Page 2 of Mending the Baron's Sins
He continued to march past her, leaving her dumbstruck. He stepped out of the door and, for good measure, just to show his irritation all the more, he slammed the door behind him.
One of the paintings on a nearby wall went crooked because of the movement.
In the silence afterwards, Orla tiptoed toward the painting and set it straight again.
“What a warm place,” she whispered to herself.
“Orla?”
She spun around at her name, looking through the open doorway that the stranger had just appeared.
“Uncle Colm?”
He smiled in greeting, hurrying toward her. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he wiped his hands on a white cloth as he neared her.
“Ah, I am glad to see you,” he said, with not a trace of the Irish accent that had once been his in his voice. Many years ago, he had adopted a strong Manchester lilt in its place, blending in with society around him. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have come and collected you from your parents’ house myself.”
“The baron’s carriage was enough to cause questions.” She grimaced. “You can well imagine what a coach as grand as that did on our street.” Colm nodded knowingly, matching her expression, making his dark brown hair dance around his ears.
“The baron needed me today. We were hardly expecting a meeting from his business partner, on today of all days.” He sighed loudly and rubbed his brow.
Out of habit, Orla took the cloth from him and folded it neatly, returning it to the pocket in his waistcoat for him.
“Thank you,” he whispered with a sad sort of smile.
“His business partner… would he be the man who stormed from this house now? Rather like a child having a tantrum.”
“Be careful with your wit in this house, Orla.” Colm fought his smile on this occasion. “Yes, that would be him. Mr. Walter Gladstone is his name.”
“And the baron?” She glanced over her uncle’s shoulder. “If I am to attend to him, perhaps it is wise that I meet him?”
“You and your curiosity.” He tutted, though there was still fondness in his voice. “Come, another time. Lord knows the baron is in no state for visitors now.” He took her leather reticule from her. “I’ll show you to your room.”
“Thank you.”
He led her through the doorway and to the second staircase, hurrying up together.
“How was your journey?” he asked her many questions as they walked, and she answered all of them woodenly, thinking more of her surroundings than the house she had left.
“It was long, but I am here now.”
“And your parents? I bet they had much to say about me taking you away from your home. I do not doubt my brother spoke again about how it was high time you settled down and married.”
“You know my father well,” she murmured, her eyes on the poky corridor and the low-lying brown timber beams that her uncle nearly hit his head on as they walked along.
“This way.” He led her down a turning and to the east wing, to which a door was ajar.
Muffled voices sounded within, ones that were clearly so angry, Orla found herself slowing her pace.
A glass shattered. Had it been thrown against a wall? Had it been thrown at someone?
“Never mind about that,” Colm whispered hurriedly, clearly eager to get her away from this part of the house. “Come, quickly, Orla.”
She did as he asked, following in his shadow.
When they found her room, her portmanteaus had been left here by George and the butler. It was a small room at the back of the house, yet larger than the one from home that she had to share with her siblings. The roof was slanted, meaning she’d have to be careful when she climbed in and out of bed, not to hit her head on the timber beams, but the furniture pieces were impressive. She had two chests of drawers, an old coffer, and a sideboard topped with her own washbowl and jug.
“Goodness,” she whispered. “It is quite a place.” She moved to the window and peered through the latticed glass out at the garden. It struck her that in the summer, when the sun shined, it might be a fair-looking garden with red roses gleaming in the light. “I bet this is a fine view in summer.”
