He gestured her forward. “Now let’s go upstairs and see the guest rooms.”
Together they crossed the hall to the stairway.
At its foot, Jane looked up and hesitated. The railing was the same, but the stair treads were newly carpeted in Turkey red. And the portraits were gone from the wall. All those old family portraits in gilded frames. Her ancestors. Gone. The plaster wall had been repainted a bright golden hue.
Noticing her pause, James said, “The portraits are in the attic as well, if you’d like any?”
“Thank you,” she murmured. But where would she put them? She swallowed and climbed the stairs without further comment.
At the top, she glanced down into the hall below. The skeletal structure—ceiling beams, outer walls, and placement of windows—was the same. But the view so altered. Gone were the formal tapestries and heavy mahogany furniture. In their place were groupings of brightly upholstered sofas, chairs clustered around tea tables, and inlaid game tables for chess or draughts. She looked away.
He led her next into what had been her parents’ room—now unrecognizable. Gone was the massive canopied bed, which she’d needed a footstool to climb into. She wondered for the first time if mattresses of hay, horsehair, flock, or feathers had made it so tall. Oh, the cold winter mornings she had joined Mamma under the covers to talk about the plans for the day, recount some strange dream she’d had, or share dreams for the future. . . .
“The floor here was slanted and sagging on that side, so Mr. Kingsley’s men had to bolster it from below. We’ll have two fine guest rooms in place of the one here previously.”
When she made no comment, he looked at her, the evident pride and excitement in his eyes fading as he studied her face. “Jane? You do not approve?”
“Oh, I . . . It is not my place to approve or disapprove.”
“Was this your parents’ room?”
She nodded, throat tight.
“Jane, the floorboards were rotting. And the ceiling water-stained. And—”
“I know.” She held up her palm to stop him. “I know the place was in disrepair. It was fading when I lived here, and left to disintegrate afterward. I don’t blame you for making changes as you see fit—for saving the place from ruin.” She forced a cheerful tone to her final words. “In fact, I should thank you.”
“Come,” he said. “There is one room I know you shall enjoy seeing. I have made no alterations to it beyond repairing the plaster and a leaky window.”
He led her down the passage, sidestepping the occasional workman’s tool bag, pile of lumber scraps, or pail of plaster. When he reached the door at the end, Jane held her breath.
He opened the door for her. Jane stepped inside and slowly exhaled. She looked at the carved half tester bed with its emerald-green bed-curtains, where Mamma had come to tuck her in and hear her prayers. The upholstered window seat overlooking the fountain was still there. And there—the door to the adjoining dressing room stood ajar, although a glance revealed a gentleman’s frock coats in place of the gowns once kept inside. And there—the stuffed chair and footstool near the fireplace where she’d huddled to stay warm while reading book after book, her cat on her lap. Only the dressing table was missing. In its place stood a masculine pedestal desk and chair.
“Whose room was this?” he asked quietly.
“Mine.”
“I thought it might have been.”
She glanced at him, but he looked away, surveying the room with satisfaction. “It’s perfect. I have decided to keep it for myself. The owner’s suite, as it were.”
“You plan to live here?”
“I do, yes. For the time being.”
“And your other hotel?”
“It is well established by now. Steady traffic. Dependable employees. My manager will write if he needs anything, and I will visit now and again to make sure everything is in order. But it’s important for me to be on hand here until the Fairmont is established as well.”
“How long will that take?”
“Only God knows.”
She looked around her old room once more, until she became aware of his gaze on her profile.
He took a step nearer and lowered his voice. “Jane, if you would like to come back here to . . . stay . . .”
Jane’s mind, whirling with memories of her parents and childhood friends, came to a jarring halt. He could not be serious, surely. She pretended to misunderstand him, saying brightly, “I doubt I shall need to stay in a hotel when I live nearby, but thank you so much for the tour, Mr. Drake. And congratulations on your progress. Most impressive. Now, I had better be getting back. . . .”
His expression told her he hadn’t been fooled, but he didn’t press her, instead gesturing for her to precede him out of the room and down the stairs.
A quarter of an hour later, when she rode through The Bell archway, Tall Ted helped her dismount and led Ruby into the stables. Across the courtyard, Jane saw Thora and Patrick standing outside, looking up at the roof and talking with the slater about the broken roof tiles and damaged statue.
Patrick looked over at her. “How does your old place look? Do we stand a chance?”
Jane summoned up some pluck. “It is most impressive. We shall have our work cut out for us to compete with it. Thank heavens for the Royal Mail or we’d be sunk.”
“Wish you could have stayed there?” Patrick teased.
“No. Not . . . quite,” she replied.
Thora, Jane noticed, said nothing, her somber eyes studying Jane in disconcerting directness.
Jane looked away to the roof, her gaze lingering on the broken angel. “You know, I’ve changed my mind about the old angel. Let’s not take her down. Let’s leave it.”
“Are you sure?” Patrick asked.
“Definitely.” Jane removed her hatpin. “I’ll join you in a few minutes. Just let me put away my things.”
Patrick waved and turned back to the others.
Jane entered the lodge, set her hat atop the nearby table, and pulled off her gloves.
Then she stepped into her bedchamber. There, Jane shut the door, leaned back against its solid weight, and let the tears come.
Chapter
Thirty-Two
After church the next day, Jane returned to the lodge for a short rest, Kipper curled up in a puddle of sunshine beside her. Then Jane played her pianoforte for a time—it had been too long since she had done so. She began with an Irish air, and then a sonata by Pleyel. As the final notes faded, Jane heard horse hooves, and glanced up. From her window, she glimpsed Gabriel Locke ride past—he had come back at last. She rose and looked closer. He rode Sultan, she noticed. Boarded horse, indeed. Then she saw the second horse tethered behind—a striking young bay. Good heavens, this was no humble hackney.
Jane hurried outside, in her eagerness forgoing bonnet and gloves.
“Hello, Jane,” Gabriel said as he dismounted. “I’m sorry my errand took longer than expected. But I’ve brought someone to meet you.”
Jane slowly walked around the young mare, admiring her glossy russet coat and black mane, tail, legs, and ears. “She’s beautiful.”
“Glad you agree.”
Jane gingerly extended her hand, and the horse snuffled her palm with a velvety muzzle. “Where did she come from? Whose is she?”
“She’s yours.”
Hope and confusion furrowed her brow. “Mine?”
“Yes. John told me you always regretted losing your horse when you married him. I planned to look for one earlier, but after John died, I—”
“John talked to you about a horse for me?” Jane sucked in a breath. Old assumptions shifted, and a new idea struck her. “Did he ask you to buy her? Is that what the two of you were doing on some of those trips? John was rather secretive, I recall. And that would explain it—if he wanted it to be a surprise.” Stroking the horse’s sleek neck, Jane said, “You don’t know how I’ve missed having a horse. My Hermione would be quite old by now, but this young beauty reminds me
of her.”
Gabriel cleared his throat. “Yes, well. I should have acted earlier, but with you in mourning and all . . .” His words drifted away on a shrug.
“How thoughtful of you. And of John. It was John’s idea, was it not?” She heard the almost desperate hope in her voice, yet could not stifle the eager smile trembling on her lips. She could not accept such an extravagant gift from Mr. Locke, but if it were from her husband in absentia . . . ?
Gabriel’s eyes were distant. “John often spoke of you and asked me about horses.”
“He considered you an expert?”
He tilted his head. “I suppose he did.”
“Did you intend to find a horse for me when you traveled north?”
“It was one of my purposes, yes.”
“You might have mentioned it when we met in Epsom.”
“And spoil the surprise? I hope you’re not too disappointed that I returned with her instead of a hack?”
“Disappointed? Quite the opposite. Though Thora and Patrick won’t approve of the added expense.”
Gabriel waved a dismissive hand. “Taking on a horse when one hasn’t any is expensive indeed, but when we already have a stable full, and buy feed by the wagon? The incremental cost is not so high.”
Jane nodded, hoping Thora and Patrick would see it that way. “What is her name?”
“Athena.”
“Athena . . . I like that. Where did you find her?”
“You mentioned the bloodline of your former horse, remember? I asked around until I learned the name of the breeder who bought your mare. It took longer than I expected. However, when I did, I discovered that your Hermione had given birth to a promising foal named Athena, now four and a half years old.”
She gaped at him. Looked back at the mare and then shook her head in wonder. “Are you telling me this horse not only looks like my Hermione, but is actually her daughter?” Her voice cracked.
“Yes.”
Jane’s eyes heated and her throat burned. She turned away so he would not see her tears.
He said quietly, “She is fairly well trained already, but spirited. Let’s give her time to settle in. Then I will help you work with her, if you don’t mind.”
“If I don’t mind?” she echoed, half laugh, half sob. “Of course I don’t mind, you foolish man.”
The thought of The Bell’s uncertain future flickered through Jane’s mind, and her excitement momentarily faded—tempered by the realization that there might not be a Bell stable for long, and she could not afford a horse’s upkeep on her own. But she pushed the thought from her mind. She would not contemplate such a heartbreaking thing. Not yet.
Gabriel cleared his throat and turned toward the stable. “Well, both of these horses have earned their oats, not to mention a good rubdown and grooming, so . . .”
“I will help, if you don’t mind.”
He gave her a slow smile. “Of course I don’t mind, you foolish woman.”
Tall Ted, Tuffy, and the young postboy, Joe, came out to greet Gabriel, all three smiling broadly to see him again. So broadly, in fact, that Jane saw Tuffy was missing a few teeth. When the men had exchanged their news, they returned to the bunk room to enjoy some rare leisure on the relatively quiet Sunday.
Jane took Athena’s lead and led her into the stables, the mare’s ears alert and eyes wary at the sight, sounds, and smells of unfamiliar horses. Jane inhaled a deep breath. She had always liked the smell of stables—hay, leather, horses—though she knew many ladies did not. Now, walking beside Gabriel Locke, she noticed another aroma—his spicy shaving tonic, she guessed. She breathed in the masculine scent, for a moment reminded of John.
Athena whickered nervously, and Jane stroked her neck, murmuring reassurances.
Gabriel led Sultan to his stall, then stepped out to help her maneuver Athena into an empty stall next to it. “At least she is already acquainted with this boy.”
Athena resisted a moment, but between the two of them and the lure of a feed bucket, she allowed herself to be cajoled inside. Gabriel stepped gingerly around the horse, his shoulder brushing Jane’s as he squeezed by her in the confined space.
“There now, girl. You’re all right,” he murmured as he passed behind her, and for a moment Jane mistook the words as meant for her.
He disappeared into the tack room, and came out a few moments later with a brush and currycomb for each of them. He handed her a set over the gate, then let himself back into Sultan’s stall.
Jane began with the currycomb over Athena’s back and sides, loosening dirt and hair, then followed with the brush. Gabriel she noticed, did the same, moving the rough-toothed comb over Sultan’s coat in a circular motion.
Jane said, “I take it the man from Pewsey Vale boarding his horse here was you all along?”
“Yes. A recent gift from my uncle. I hope you don’t mind.”
“You might have said so.”
“I thought it might raise questions about where I’d got the money or spur resentment among the other horsemen.”
Oh yes, a horse like Sultan would certainly raise questions. Jane had a few of her own.
They worked in companionable silence for several moments, then Jane asked, “Remind me. How did you and John first meet?”
“At a horse market in London.”
“Tattersall’s?”
“Yes.”
“And were you a farrier there as well?”
“No.”
“But you did work as a farrier elsewhere?”
“I have worked with horses for years, in several capacities.”
“How did you learn the trade? Were you apprenticed at a young age, or . . . ?”
He shook his head. “My grandfather worked with horses, and I was his shadow as a lad. Even had my own toy hammer and mimicked his every move. My uncle joined him in the business, and I helped out whenever I could. Did everything from groom to shoe to worm to shovel manure. I love everything about horses. Their intelligence. Their strength and nobility. The bond that forms when you earn their trust.”
His words reminded Jane poignantly of her years with Hermione, and she hoped she and Athena would in time form that same trusting bond.
“Are you from Pewsey Vale?” she asked.
“My uncle lives near there, though my parents live in Newbury. They hoped I might pursue another profession, but I wanted to work with horses like my uncle and grandfather.”
“This is a good job for you, then,” she said. “Do you enjoy working here?”
He shrugged. “Some days are difficult. Seeing coach horses mistreated or driven to an early death, pulling overloaded carriages up and down hills in all weather . . .” He grimly shook his head. “The life of a stagecoach horse is not much better than a chained slave rowing a ship.”
“If you feel that way, then why do you stay on here?”
“I have my reasons.”
She paused and looked over at him. “Reasons you’d like to share with me?”
He met her gaze. “No.”
Jane studied him a moment longer, weighing the resolve glittering in his dark eyes. She decided to let the matter drop. For the time being.
“Well. I’m glad you’re back,” she said.
“Are you?”
“Yes.” His direct eye contact disconcerted her and she looked away, toward Athena once more. “With such a gift—how could I not be?”
Thora sat at the booking desk early on Tuesday morning, mulling over recent events. She did not like the idea of their farrier buying such a fine horse, let alone making a gift of it to Jane. Unheard of! Jane had tried to justify the gift, saying it had been John’s idea—a long-overdue present from him. That searching out a horse for her had been one of the things that had taken John to London and Epsom and Bath all those times. At some point, he had apparently engaged Mr. Locke’s help in the quest—a quest that had lain fallow all these months since John’s death. Thora couldn’t quite credit it. Yes, John had been a besotte
d fool where Jane was concerned, but not where horses were concerned.
She recalled John mentioning a few years ago that Jane had asked if they might buy a riding horse. But John had discouraged the idea. She was surrounded by horses every day, he reminded her. There was no room in The Bell stables for a horse that didn’t earn its keep, unless she wanted to see it harnessed to a post chaise. Jane had not wanted such a life for any horse of hers, so both she and John had let the matter drop, or so Thora had thought.
Now, with a glance at the clock, Thora rose and stepped to the window.
She was looking forward to seeing Charlie Frazer that morning, having missed seeing him the Saturday before. Thora had been feeling a bit low and unsettled since her visit with Nan and Talbot. But she felt certain a talk with Charlie was just the thing to cheer her up.
In a rush of horses, jingling tack, and blowing horns, the Quicksilver arrived right on schedule, ushered into the yard with a cheerful tune played by its handsome Royal Mail guard. She’d have to be on her guard with that one. She’d already seen Cadi ogling Jack Gander more than once. Although The Bell had only a few overnight guests at present, Thora doubted they would appreciate the private concert at such an early hour. But she did.
Thora returned to the booking desk, feeling a little brighter already.
A short while later, Charlie Frazer entered, removing his hat as he came. He ran a hand through his thick silver-and-black hair.
“Hello, Charlie.”
“Thora.”
His tone of voice caused her to glance again. His usual jovial smile was absent. He looked down at his hat, as if inspecting the brim.
“What is it, Charlie?”
“May I speak to you?”
“You are speaking to me.”
“In private, I mean.”
Good heavens. Smoothing his hair nervously, avoiding her eyes . . . and asking to speak to her in private? What now?
“Very well. No one is in the office this early.” She led the way and opened the door for him. She wondered if she should leave it open, to discourage him from saying anything too personal. Instead she closed the door and turned to face him. “Well?”