For the first few days Leo had been given to uncontrollable shaking, agitation, and profuse sweating. Now that the worst of it was over, he looked more like his old self. But few people would believe Leo was a man of eight and twenty. The past year had aged him immeasurably.
The closer they came to Stony Cross, the lovelier the scenery was until it seemed nearly every view was worth painting. The carriage road passed tidy black-and-white cottages with thatched roofs, millhouses and ponds shrouded with weeping willows, old stone churches dating back to the Middle Ages. Thrushes busily stripped ripe berries from hedgerows, while stonechats perched on blossoming hawthorns. Meadows were dense with autumn crocus and meadow saffron, and the trees were dressed in gold and red. Plump white sheep grazed in the fields.
Poppy took a deep, appreciative breath. "How bracing," she said. "I wonder what makes the country air smell so different?"
"It could be the pig farm we just passed," Leo muttered.
Beatrix, who had been reading from a pamphlet describing the south of England, said cheerfully, "Hampshire is known for its exceptional pigs. They're fed on acorns and beechnut mast from the forest, and it makes the bacon quite lovely. And there's an annual sausage competition!"
He gave her a sour look. "Splendid. I certainly hope we haven't missed it."
Win, who had been reading from a thick tome about Hampshire and its environs, volunteered, "The history of Ramsay House is impressive."
"Our house is in a history book?" Beatrix asked in delight.
"It's only a small paragraph," Win said from behind the book, "but yes, Ramsay House is mentioned. Of course, it's nothing compared to our neighbor, the Earl of Westcliff, whose estate features one of the finest country homes in England. It dwarfs ours by comparison. And the earl's family has been in residence for nearly five hundred years."
"He must be awfully old, then," Poppy commented, straight-faced.
Beatrix snickered. "Go on, Win."
" 'Ramsay House,'" Win read aloud," 'stands in a small park populated with stately oaks and beeches, coverts of bracken, and surrounds of deer-cropped turf. Originally an Elizabethan manor house completed in 1594, the building boasts of many long galleries representative of the period. Alterations and additions to the house have resulted in the grafting of a Jacobean ballroom and a Georgian wing.'"
"We have a ballroom!" Poppy exclaimed.
"We have deer!" Beatrix said gleefully.
Leo settled deeper into his corner. "God, I hope we have a privy."
It was early evening by the time the hired driver turned the carriage onto the private beech-lined drive that led to Ramsay House. Weary from the long journey, the Hathaways exclaimed in relief at the sight of the house, with its high roofline and brick chimney stacks.
"I wonder how Merripen is faring," Win said, her blue eyes soft with concern. Merripen, the cook-maid, and the footman had gone to the house two days earlier to prepare for the Hathaways' arrival.
"No doubt he's been working ceaselessly day and night," Amelia replied, "taking inventory, rearranging everything in sight, and issuing commands to people who don't dare disobey him. I'm sure he's quite happy."
Win smiled. Even pale and drained as she was, her beauty was incandescent, her silvery-gold hair shining in the waning light, her complexion like porcelain. The line of her profile would have sent poets and painters into raptures. One was almost tempted to touch her to make certain she was a living, breathing being instead of a sculpture.
The carriage stopped at a much larger house than Amelia had expected. It was bordered by overgrown hedges and weed-clotted flower beds. With some gardening and considerable pruning, she thought, it would be lovely. The building was charmingly asymmetrical with a brick and stone exterior, a slate roof, and abundant leaded-glass windows.
The hired driver came to set out a movable step and assist the passengers from the vehicle. Descending to the crushed-rock surface of the drive, Amelia watched as her siblings emerged from the carriage. "The house and grounds are a bit unkempt," she warned. "No one has lived here in a very long time."
"I can't imagine why," Leo said. "It's very picturesque," Win commented brightly. The journey from London had exhausted her. Judging from the slump of her narrow shoulders and the way her skin seemed stretched too tightly over her cheekbones, Win had little strength left.
As her sister reached for a small valise that had been set by the carriage step, Amelia rushed forward and picked it up. "I'll carry this," she said. "You are not to lift a finger. Let's go inside, and we'll find a place for you to rest."
"I'm perfectly well," Win protested as they all went up the front stairs into the house.
The entrance hall was lined with paneling that had once been painted white but now was brown with age. The floor was scarred and filthy. A magnificent curved stone staircase occupied the back of the hall, its wrought-iron balustrade clotted with dust and spiderwebs. Amelia noticed that an attempt had already been made to clean a section of the balustrade, but it was obvious the process would be painstaking.
Merripen emerged from a hallway leading away from the entrance room. He was in his shirtsleeves with no collar or cravat, the neck of the garment hanging open to reveal tanned skin gleaming with perspiration. With his black hair falling over his forehead, and his dark eyes smiling at the sight of them, Merripen cut a dashing figure. "You're three hours behind schedule," he said.
Laughing, Amelia pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and gave it to him. "In a family of four sisters, there is no schedule."
Wiping at the dust and sweat on his face, Merripen glanced at all the Hathaways. His gaze lingered on Win for an extra moment.
Returning his attention to Amelia, Merripen gave her a concise report. He had found two women and a boy at the village to help clean the house. Three bedrooms had been made habitable so far. They had spent a great deal of time scrubbing the kitchen and stove, and the cook-maid was preparing a meal?Merripen broke off as he glanced over Amelia's shoulder. Unceremoniously he brushed by her and reached Win in three strides.
Amelia saw Win's slight form swaying, her lashes lowering as she half collapsed against Merripen. He caught her easily and lifted her in his arms, murmuring for her to put her head on his shoulder. Although his manner was as calm and unemotional as ever, Amelia was struck by the possessive way he held her sister.
"The journey was too much for her," Amelia said in concern. "She needs rest."
Merripen's face was expressionless. "I'll take her upstairs."
Win stirred and blinked. "Bother," she said breathlessly. "I was standing still, feeling fine, and then the floor seemed to rush up toward me. I'm sorry. I despise swooning."
"It's all right." Amelia gave her a reassuring smile. "Merripen will take you to bed. That is? She paused uncomfortably. "He will convey you to your bedroom."
"I can manage by myself," Win said. "I was just dizzy for a moment. Merripen, do put me down."
"You wouldn't make it past the first step," he said, ignoring her protests as he carried her to the stone staircase. And as he walked with her, Win's pale hand lifted slowly around his neck.
"Beatrix, will you go with them?" Amelia asked briskly, handing her the valise. "Win's nightgown is in here—you can help her change clothes."
"Yes, of course." Beatrix scampered toward the stairs. Left in the entrance hall with Leo and Poppy, Amelia turned in a slow circle to view all of it. "The solicitor said the estate was in disrepair," she said. "I think a more accurate word would have been 'shambles.' Can it be restored, Leo?" Not long ago—though it seemed a lifetime—Leo had spent two years studying art and architecture at the Grand Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris. He had also worked as a draftsman and painter for the renowned London architect Rowland Temple. Leo had been regarded as an exceptionally promising student, and had even considered setting up a practice. Now all that ambition had been extinguished.
Leo glanced around the hall without interest. "Barring any structural repairs, we would need about twenty-five to thirty thousand pounds, at least."
The figure caused Amelia to blanch. She lowered her gaze to the pockmarked floor at her feet and rubbed her temples. "Well, one thing is obvious. We need the advantage of wealthy in-laws. Which means you should start looking for available heiresses, Leo." She flicked a playful glance at her sister. "And you, Poppy—you'll have to catch a viscount, or at the very least a baron."
Her brother rolled his eyes. "Why not you? I don't see why you should be exempt from having to marry for the family's benefit."
Poppy gave her sister a sly glance. "At Amelia's age, women are far beyond thoughts of Romance and passion."
"One never knows," Leo told Poppy. "She may catch an elderly gentleman who needs a nurse."
Amelia was tempted to skewer them both with the tart observation that she had already been in love once, and she would not care to repeat the experience. She had been pursued and courted by Leo's best friend, a charming young architect named Christopher Frost, who, like Leo, had been articled to Rowland Temple. But on the day he had led her to believe a proposal was forthcoming, Frost had ended the relationship with brutal abruptness. He said he had developed feelings for another woman, who conveniently happened to be Rowland Temple's daughter.
It was only to be expected of an architect, Leo had told her with grim remorse, outraged on behalf of his sister, sorrowful at the loss of a friend. Architects inhabited a world of masters and disciples and the endless pursuit of patrons. Everything, even love, was sacrificed on the altar of ambition. To be otherwise was to miss the few precious opportunities one might have to practice the art of design. Marrying Temple's daughter would give Christopher Frost a place at the table. Amelia could never have done that for him.
All she had been able to do was love him.
Swallowing back her bitterness, Amelia glanced up at her brother and managed a rueful smile. "Thank you, but at this advanced stage of life, I have no ambitions to marry."
Leo surprised her by bending to brush a light kiss on her forehead. His voice was soft and kind. "Be that as it may, I think someday you'll meet a man worth giving up your independence for." He grinned before adding, "Despite your encroaching old age."
For a moment Amelia's mind chased back to the memory of the kiss in the shadows, the mouth slowly consuming hers, the gentle masculine hands, the whisper at her ear. Latcho drom...
As her brother turned to walk away, she asked with mild exasperation, "Where are you going? Leo, you can't leave when there's so much to be done."
He stopped and glanced back at her with a raised brow. "You've been pouring unsweetened tea down my throat for days. If you have no objection, I'd like to go out for a piss."
She narrowed her eyes. "I can think of at least a dozen polite euphemisms you could have used."
Leo continued on his way. "I don't use euphemisms."
"Or politeness," she said, making him chuckle.
As Leo left the room, Amelia folded her arms and sighed. "He's so much more pleasant when he's sober. A pity it doesn't happen more often. Come, Poppy, let's find the kitchen."
With the house so stale and dust-riddled, the atmosphere was hard on poor Win's lungs, causing her to cough incessantly through the night. Having awakened countless times to administer water to her sister, to open the windows, to prop her up until the coughing spasms had eased, Amelia was bleary-eyed when morning came.
"It's like sleeping in a dust box," she told Merripen. "She's better off sitting outside today, until we can manage to clean her room properly. The carpets must be beaten. And the windows are filthy."
The rest of the family was still abed, but Merripen, like Amelia, was an early riser. Dressed in rough clothes and an open-necked shirt, he stood frowning as Amelia reported on Win's condition.
"She's exhausted from coughing all night, and her throat is so sore, she can barely speak. I've tried to make her take some tea and toast, but she won't have it."
"I'll make her take it."
Amelia looked at him blankly. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised by his assertion. After all, Merripen had helped nurse both Win and Leo through the scarlet fever. Without him, Amelia was certain neither of them would have survived.
"In the meanwhile," Merripen continued, "make a list of supplies you want from the village. I'll go this morning."
Amelia nodded, grateful for his solid, reliable presence. "Shall I wake Leo? Perhaps he could help?
"No."
She smiled wryly, well aware that her brother would be more of a hindrance than a help.
Going downstairs, Amelia sought the help of Freddie, the boy from the village, to move an ancient chaise out to the back of the house. They set the furniture on a brick-paved terrace that opened onto a weed-choked garden bordered by beech hedges. The garden needed reseeding and replanting, and the crumbling low walls would have to be repaired.
"There's work to be done, mum," Freddie commented, bending to pluck a tall weed from between two paving bricks.
"Freddie, you are a master of understatement." Amelia contemplated the boy, who looked to be about thirteen. He was robust and ruddy-faced, with a ruff of hair that stood up like a robin's feathers. "Do you like gardening?" she asked. "Do you know much about it?"
"I keeps a kitchen plot for my ma."
"Would you like to be Lord Ramsay's gardener?"
"How much does it pay, miss?"
"Would two shillings a week suffice?"
Freddie looked at her thoughtfully and scratched his wind-chapped nose. "Sounds good. But you'll have to ask my ma."
'Tell me where you live, and I'll visit her this very morning."
"All right. It's not far—we're at the closest side of the village."
They shook hands on the deal, talked a moment more, and Freddie went to investigate the gardener's shed.
Turning at the sound of voices, Amelia saw Merripen carrying her sister outside. Win was dressed in a nightgown and robe and swathed in a shawl, her slim arms looped around Merripen's neck. With her white garments and blond hair and fair skin, Win was nearly colorless except for the flags of soft pink across her cheekbones and the vivid blue of her eyes.