Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,58

“Will Kathleen really go to Ireland for the funeral?”

“I think she should, if possible,” Helen said reflectively. “It’s important to say good-bye.”

“But her father won’t know,” Pandora pointed out.

“Not for his sake,” Helen murmured, linking an arm with her younger sister’s and patting her hand affectionately. “For hers.”

Chapter 14

POST OFFICE TELEGRAM

MR. RHYS WINTERBORNE

CORK STREET LONDON

HAVE JUST LEARNED THAT MY WIFE’S FATHER LORD CARBERY IS DECEASED. ALTHOUGH CIRCUMSTANCES LESS THAN IDEAL YOUR PRESENCE WOULD BE GREATLY WELCOME IN HAMPSHIRE.

OBLIGED IF YOU WOULD SEND SALTED ALMONDS FOR LADY TRENEAR.

—TRENEAR

“FERNSBY,” RHYS SAID CURTLY, looking up from the telegram, “clear my schedule for the week and arrange for two tickets on the next train from London to Hampshire. Have someone run to Quincy and tell him to pack for me and himself. And tell a clerk at the food hall to pack all the salted almonds we have, in a bag to be hand-carried.”

“All?”

“Every last jar.”

As the secretary rushed out of the office with lunatic speed, Rhys lowered his forehead to the surface of his desk. “Diolch i Dduw,” he muttered. Thank God.

If an invitation hadn’t come soon, he would have had no choice but to storm Eversby Priory like an invading army. He was sorry for the death of Kathleen’s father, but more than anything he was desperate to see Helen again. It had seemed impossible that Helen was beyond his reach when he wanted her so badly. All he’d been able to do was wait, which was the thing in life he had always been worst at.

Helen had sent three or four letters a week, telling him the latest news about the family and recent events in the village, the restoration work being done on the house, and the progress of the hematite ore quarry. She had sprinkled in descriptions of things like candle making, or harvesting the forced rhubarb they had grown in one of the glasshouses. Prim, cheerful, chatty letters.

He was mad with longing, sick with it.

His work, his store, had always absorbed his unlimited energy, but now it wasn’t enough. He burned with desire, a constant fever beneath his skin. He wasn’t sure if Helen was the illness or the cure.

As it turned out, the next train departed in three hours. Since there wasn’t nearly enough time to have his private train car made ready, nor was there an immediately available locomotive to couple it with, Rhys was more than happy to go by regular train. By some miracle, the unflappable Quincy managed to pack their bags with such efficiency that they were able to reach the station in time. Had there been any lingering question in Rhys’s mind about the merit of having a valet, it was forever silenced.

During the two-hour journey from London to Alton Station, Rhys found himself leaning forward in his seat as if to urge the toiling engine to a greater speed. At last the train stopped at Alton Station, and Rhys found a hired carriage to convey him and his valet to Eversby Priory.

The massive Jacobean manor house was in the process of being restored, and had been ever since Devon had inherited it. Richly ornamented with parapets, and arcade arches, and bristling with rows of elaborate chimneystacks, the Jacobean house surveyed its surroundings like a dignified dowager at a ball. The discovery of a hematite deposit on the estate had come none too soon—without a heavy infusion of capital, the manor would have fallen to ruins before the next generation could inherit.

Rhys and Quincy were greeted by the butler, Sims, who said something to the effect that they hadn’t been expected quite so soon. Quincy agreed that their arrival had indeed been precipitate, and the two servants exchanged a quick glance of mutual commiseration over the difficulties posed by rash and demanding employers.

As Rhys prowled restlessly around the front receiving room, waiting for someone to appear, it occurred to him that his surroundings were deeply comfortable in a way that his modern house was not. He’d always preferred newness, associating old things with decay and dowdiness. But the faded charms of Eversby Priory were soothing and welcoming. It had something to do with the way the furniture was arranged in cozy groups on the flowered rug. Books and periodicals were stacked on small tables, and there were cushions and lap blankets everywhere. A pair of friendly black spaniels wandered in to sniff at his hand, and left at the sound of some distant noise in the house. Baked sweet smells wafted into