Chapter 7

Seven

The Lake District.

H enrietta had not been able to stop herself from gasping and cooing and exclaiming in admiration at the passing scenery as they came closer and closer to their destination.

What a beautiful place. All lakes and green fields and hills and mountains. No, hills and mountains weren't right. They were fells, Oliver had said. And the lakes were meres.

From time to time, she looked over at him to see if she was bothering him with her outbursts. She was studying him, as she had promised herself she would.

But Oliver did not appear irritated. True, she had not even known he could be irritated until yesterday when she had seen a bit of temper—a raised voice, the twitch of a muscle in his jaw, his eyebrows in a dark V —when he thought one of the ostlers at an inn was not gentle enough in his handling of Zephyr.

It had delighted her.

But there was no evidence of disapproval at the moment. True, it was too much to hope for him to smile back at her, but his gray eyes were calm and peaceful.

"This place is lovely," she ventured.

"Yes," he said, his gaze drifting to the window of the carriage. "I think so, too."

Nestled into a little valley, Crossthwaite was also beautiful. A sprawling house, added on to over the years so now it was quite large. And only Oliver and his young son lived here?

"It's originally Tudor," he told her as he helped her down from the carriage. "But there have been improvements made, both before and after I purchased it, and I hope you'll find it adequate."

He was very patient, making sure the grooms knew she wanted to lead Zephyr into the stables herself. After letting her fuss over settling her horse, Oliver took her into the house and made introductions to the rest of the staff. He must have sent word of his marriage because no one seemed surprised to have a new mistress. He then took her on a tour of the rooms on the ground floor before suggesting she must want to rest before dinner.

Not fatigued in the slightest but eager to please, she climbed the stairs. On the landing, she stopped in front of a portrait of a woman with pale skin, fine bones, and enormous, dark eyes. Dark hair like Oliver. And beautiful, like him.

"Is this your sister?"

"I have no sister. This was my second wife. Nathaniel's mother."

Oh. The woman in the painting was ethereal. Exquisitely delicate. So very much Henrietta's opposite in every way. She heard Oliver step onto the landing behind her, come closer to her.

She couldn't think. She blurted, "I'm sorry."

I'm sorry you had to marry me because I wouldn't leave you alone. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

"I'm sorry?.?.?.?your wife died. She was beautiful. You must miss her a great deal."

He said nothing.

"And Nathaniel must miss her?"

"He never knew her. She died giving birth."

Henrietta knew that. She meant the child must miss a mother? A motherly influence? She turned her head to look at Oliver, but he was staring at the painting.

"Emily was frail," he said.

"I'm not frail." Another blurt.

His head moved, and he took her in as if seeing her for the first time. "No, you're not."

"Is there a portrait of your first wife, too?"

His face closed, his eyes shuttered. "No."

"I see."

The air was a bit damp, so the curl was dangling. Shiny and soft. Tempting. She could reach out and touch it. But she mustn't. She should not impose herself, either.

"Where's the nursery? I'd so very much like to meet Nathaniel."

Oliver looked up the stairs. "He might be resting."

"Oh, please may I have a peek at him? I can creep away quietly if he's asleep."

After a pause, her husband nodded and took her up another flight of stairs and down a hallway. He stood in an open doorway for a moment and then gestured for her to approach.

Inside what must be the nursery, a dark-haired, dark-eyed little boy sat in a chair that was much too big for him, at a table that was much too high for him. He listlessly pushed blocks around on the table top, every once in a while looking up at his nurse who was in the chair next to him, darning a small stocking.

"Hello." Henrietta used her softest voice which still sounded too loud in this quiet room in this quiet house.

The little boy's head turned and his eyes immediately fixed on his father. The nurse hastily got to her feet and bobbed.

"Sir. Madam."

"Nurse Witherspoon, this is Mrs. Hartwell. Your new mistress."

The nurse bobbed again as Henrietta stepped into the room and curtsied. "I am very pleased to meet you, Nurse Witherspoon."

"And this is Nathaniel," said Oliver.

Henrietta came closer to the table and sank down onto her knees, making her face level with the boy's.

"Hello, Nathaniel. My name is Henrietta, but my brothers and sisters call me Hen. You can call me Hen, too, if you like, because Henrietta is a very long name. Almost as long as Nathaniel." Oh, goodness, she was talking too much.

The boy's eyes were still on his father. She looked over her shoulder at Oliver and smiled. "Nathaniel looks just like his mother."

"Yes," he said briefly.

Henrietta turned back to Nathaniel. "Do you want me to help you get down so you can go hug your father?"

The little boy shifted his gaze to her for the first time but did not answer. Perhaps she should ask a different question. A simpler one.

"Are you playing with blocks?"

The boy did not move or nod or speak or smile or do anything she would have expected a three-year-old child to do. She quite clearly remembered her own brother Gideon when he had been three. How much he had talked and wiggled!

"May I play with you?"

The boy looked at his father once more.

Henrietta tried again. "May I play with your blocks?"

The boy looked back at her. The trace of a nod. Henrietta took that as a yes and moved a bit closer to the table and put one block on top of another.

"I'm building a castle for a king. What are you building?"

The boy reached out and touched one of his blocks. Henrietta selected a block far away from the one he had chosen and put it on her pile.

"I want to build a tall castle. Do you think you could help me?"

The boy's hand tightened on his block, and he brought it towards him. A little shake of his head.

"It's very hard to build a castle." Henrietta put a fourth block on her pile, deliberately placing it off-center, making the pile precarious. "But if I make a mistake, I'll just start again." She put a fifth block on the pile. The top three blocks fell off the pile and hit the table with a clatter.

Nathaniel shrank back.

Had she frightened him? She must show him there was no reason for alarm. She laughed and put her hand to her mouth. "Oops. But no matter. You could teach me. Show me how you build a tall tower with your blocks."

Just like his father, the little boy raised his dark eyebrows at her.

She put a block on top of the two blocks that were still stacked. "Oh, now I think that will stay. What do you think?"

Henrietta turned around to see if Oliver would agree with her, if he would come forward and encourage his son to play with her, but the doorway was empty. He had gone.