And Then She Fell(77)

She walked on to where she could better view the massive, carved oak, four-poster bed that dominated the shorter arm of the room, its ornate head against the end wall. The warm, autumnal decor continued, with cream sheets, gold satin bedspread, and russet-and-gold brocade canopy and curtains tied up with tasseled gold cords.

The tallboys and dressers were all oak, all substantial; with the heaviness of the furniture offset by the soft tones of the decor and the rich detail of the landscapes again decorating the walls, the room was a curious blend of male and female.

James was studying her face as if trying to gauge her reaction. “Grandaunt Emily wasn’t overly fond of frills and lace.”

Henrietta met his eyes and smiled. “That’s probably why her style so appeals to me—I’m not overly fond of frills and lace either.”

He breathed out, and she allowed her smile to deepen. “What’s through there?” She pointed to two doors spaced along the inner wall. There were clear pathways along both sides of the bed, the one further from the windows, giving access to those two doors, ending at another, third, closed door.

James strolled across, opened the nearer door and set it swinging. “My dressing room.”

Following him, Henrietta peeked in, glimpsing more tallboys and chests, with the usual paraphernalia of brushes and grooming implements laid out neatly on top.

Then James walked on to the next door, opened it, and waved her in. “This will be yours.”

She walked on and entered a lady’s closet with extensive wardrobes and cupboards, and a dressing table with adjustable mirrors. “Are these from your grandaunt’s day?”

James nodded. “Despite her age, she liked to keep up with the latest improvements.” He caught her eye and tipped his head toward a door at the far end of the narrow room, opposite the door through which they’d entered. “Speaking of which, take a look through there.”

She cast him a curious glance, then walked on, opened the door, looked in—and laughed. “It’s our bathroom.”

The long narrow room had a large skylight. She spent several minutes examining the amenities and appurtenances, noting that James’s dressing room also had a door to the bathroom, while a third door gave onto the main corridor, then James waved her back into the bedroom. “We have one more room to inspect.”

Back in the bedroom, he opened the last door, the one alongside the head of the bed, and ushered her through—into the most beautiful lady’s sitting-room-cum-boudoir she’d ever seen.

“Oh, my!” Eyes round, she drank in the wide windows, the Hepplewhite chairs, the well-stuffed armchairs and chaise. Care had been taken, to an even greater extent than elsewhere, to ensure that every last little detail matched and contributed to the ambience of the room; not a single touch marred the overall impression of being surrounded by a warm, autumn wood. Trailing her fingers along the butter-soft tan leather of the chaise’s raised back, Henrietta murmured, “Your grandaunt loved these colors, didn’t she?”

Sliding his hands into his pockets, James leaned against the mantelpiece. “Yes, she did.” After a moment, he went on, “These are the colors she chose for her rooms up here. Downstairs is mostly woodland greens and browns, and the other bedrooms, you’ll have noticed, are in brighter shades—more yellows and light greens, more summery.”

He paused, but when Henrietta turned and looked at him—as if sensing there was more to it than that—he went on, “She was an artist, old Emily.” He tipped his head toward the painting above the mantelpiece, a rich tapestry of greens and golds and subtle browns depicting a scene of a path through a wood. “I told you she spent half the year in town, but her heart remained in the country, in Wiltshire, at her estate there. She loved the walks, the woods, so she painted them and brought them with her here.”

Henrietta searched his eyes, then looked at the painting. Drawing—drawn—nearer, she asked, “So when we’re there, I’ll be able to see this—the real this?”

He nodded. “All the paintings in the house are hers, and you can see all of the views, all of the scenes, in real life, at Whitestone Hall.”

Henrietta studied the painting, then looked at him. “You’ll have to take me to see each of the places depicted in her paintings.”

He held her gaze. “If you’d like that.”

She smiled and nodded decisively. “I would.” Returning to his side, she cast the painting one last glance. “It’ll be like making contact with your grandaunt, and I rather think, had I ever met her, I would have liked her.”