A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(32)
Charlotte excused herself to enjoy her bath, and Sherbourne used the time to go through the correspondence stacked in date order on his desk. He gave Charlotte an hour—fifty-two minutes—to soak, then made his way to the ground floor suite now serving as the master bedroom.
He found the new Mrs. Sherbourne swaddled in his favorite dressing gown, fast asleep in a chair by the fire.
“Thus begins the wedding night,” he murmured.
Mrs. Sherbourne slumbered on.
After he’d warmed the sheets and pillows, Sherbourne scooped her up and deposited her on the bed, dressing gown and all. He tucked the covers around her, blew out the candles, banked the fire, and went back to the correspondence waiting for him in the library.
*
Charlotte slept like a debutante after her court presentation, felled by profound fatigue and relentless worry. Her first thought, before she’d entirely awakened, was that she was near the ground, the safest place to be.
She opened her eyes and was greeted by unfamiliar surroundings, and yet the sense of being anchored rather than one or two floors higher than she preferred would not leave her.
“Mr. Sherbourne said to let you have your rest, ma’am. I’ve kept the tea hot, and there’s chocolate too, if you prefer.”
The voice belonged to a giantess of a maid, and she’d spoken in Welsh.
I’m in Wales, in my husband’s house. In my new house. “We’re on the ground floor, aren’t we?” Charlotte could hardly recall arriving, though Elizabeth had been on hand, and then there had been enormous trays in the library, to which Sherbourne had done swift justice. Charlotte had enjoyed a lovely, hot, bath…
“Right you are, ma’am. The footmen had a time moving the furniture downstairs, but Her Grace got us organized. Would you like breakfast in bed?”
The bed was huge and singularly lacking in evidence of another occupant. “I’ll use the table by the window. What’s your name?”
The girl—for she was quite young, despite her grand proportions—popped a curtsy. “Heulwen Jones, ma’am. Most at Sherbourne Hall call me Heulwen, because half the staff are Joneses.”
Heulwen meant sunshine, and the name suited her. She was plain and freckled with bright red hair peeking from beneath a white cap.
Charlotte struggled from the bed, and Heulwen held up a dressing gown Charlotte hadn’t seen since she’d left London.
“You unpacked for me?”
“Mr. Sherbourne said we were to see to your every comfort. When he uses that tone, even lazy Owen Jenkins pays heed. Owen is ever so handsome to hear his mama tell it. Handsome is as handsome does, I always say. Chocolate or tea, ma’am?”
“Let’s start with chocolate. Owen is the first footman, if I recall correctly?”
Heulwen made the bed and freely discussed her coworkers while Charlotte munched on fluffy eggs and buttered toast. Most-call-me-Heulwen was not by any standard a London house servant.
Thank the heavenly intercessors for that mercy.
“What did you mean, that the footmen had to move furniture about?” Charlotte asked, when the maid had laced her into a comfortable day dress.
Heulwen tidied up the tea cart, making enough racket to mortify any Mayfair housemaid. “Mr. Sherbourne sent word to the duchess that the master bedroom was to be moved to the ground floor. Himself takes an occasional queer start, and Her Grace says newlyweds must be indulged. Her being newly wed to His Grace, she must know what she’s about. And she’s your sister, and a duchess, so we did as we were told.”
Sherbourne had moved his bedroom to the ground floor?
“Heulwen, you have made my first morning in my new home comfortable, and for that I thank you. Have you any idea where Mr. Sherbourne might be?”
Town servants didn’t expect thanks, and town employers would not ask the maid where the master had got off to. Town was one hundred and fifty miles away, and for the first time, Charlotte was glad.
“Mr. Sherbourne has gone down to the works, ma’am, and best he does that while the rain has let up. I’d rather it snow, though Mrs. Moss says I’m daft, but I’m not. We’ve had nothing but rain for the past fortnight, and enough is enough. Snow is much prettier than mud, I always say.”
The day outside had a sunny, blustery look that presaged changeable weather and swift-moving clouds. Like friendly servants, fresh air was another rarity in London, especially as the coal fires heated up in colder weather.
“Please ask Mrs. Moss to meet me in the library,” Charlotte said, opening one of two large wardrobes. She was greeted with an assortment of waistcoats, shirts, and morning coats.
One question answered. The second wardrobe held Charlotte’s effects. She wrapped her favorite plain wool shawl about her shoulders.
“Tomorrow, you needn’t bring both tea and chocolate for me. Chocolate will do.”
Heulwen gave her a curious look. “Yes, ma’am.”
Last night’s glimpses of the house had left an impression of luxury on a tasteful scale. Sherbourne Hall wasn’t a castle, but neither was it a manor house with bare, narrow corridors and more pantries than bedrooms. The appointments were spotless, the carpets bright, the corners free of cobwebs.
The staff valued either their master or their wages, and the housekeeper was competent. The master of the house apparently set little store by his own life, however, for he failed to appear for either luncheon or dinner.