The Promise of Change - By Rebecca Heflin Page 0,24
me Clara.”
“Thank you. I’ll try.” Sarah looked around the room, all rich golds, warm reds, and deep blues. The lapis fireplace served as the focal point of the large room, but several small furniture groupings lent an intimacy to the space.
“Before tea, would you like a tour of the main rooms?”
“That would be lovely.”
The ancestral home’s proportions were generous, but the country style architecture and warm, inviting rooms made it comfortable. As Lady Clara presented her home, she talked of her family, her life, and her marriage. She pointed out this artifact or that antique, and Sarah couldn’t help thinking how awe-inspiring it must be to walk in the footsteps of generations of ancestors.
Lady Clara Fraser was born Lady Clara Sutherland. “My family’s estate has a long and storied history. Once quite prosperous in the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries, the estate fell on hard times during the early part of the twentieth century, not uncommon in Great Britain.”
Climbing the stairs to the second floor, Sarah measured her steps so as to not out-pace her hostess. “Without the support of its tenant farmers, estates had little revenue. Many were sold off and divided up into smaller parcels, while others were turned into inns by their owners.”
“My father, Lord Rutherford, the seventh Earl of Rutherford, tried desperately to hold onto the family estate by any means possible, including opening it up to tourists.”
They walked along the large gallery looking at portraits of Lady Clara’s ancestors, before stopping in front of a painting of a beautiful young woman. Pale blue eyes set in a face of English rose skin and framed by golden blond hair stared back at Sarah with a subtle, but impish smile.
“Is that you?” Sarah asked, admiring the portrait.
“That was me at the age of twenty, not long before I met my Jonathan. He was a brash young upstart from Leeds, and I fell head over heels in love with him.”
They walked farther down the gallery until they stood in front of a portrait of Lady Clara and Jonathan.
“He was very handsome,” Sarah said, admiring his well-balanced features, hazel eyes, and sandy blond hair. “I can understand why you fell so hard.”
“My father did not approve of the match initially. My family is one of England’s respected and titled families. Jonathan was from a family of unknown origins, and although we were bordering on impoverishment, my father believed I was marrying beneath my station. My goodness . . . sounds rather like an Austen novel, doesn’t it?”
She turned indicating the door opposite the one through which they’d entered. “Shall we go down to tea?”
Walking along, Sarah paused in front of the portrait of another couple. She could see the resemblance of the man to Lady Clara’s late husband. However, the woman bore no resemblance to either Lady Clara or her husband, so she assumed the couple pictured was husband and wife, rather than brother and sister. There was something about her, something around eyes the color of dark chocolate, which reminded her of someone.
“That is my late son and his wife.” Lady Clara’s expression turned sad. “I lost my son twenty-four years ago in a plane crash in Africa.”
“I’m so very sorry.” Sarah hesitated. Then putting her hand on Lady Clara’s arm, she said, “Losing a child must be a grief like no other.”
“I can attest to that.” She reached up and laid her hand over Sarah’s. “However, my grandsons bring me comfort.” Lady Clara indicated the last two portraits along the wall. One was a slightly stockier version of Lady Clara’s son. The other was Alex Fraser.
Chapter 9
Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. He stood, one hand in his pocket, the other hand resting on the back of a chair, with golden oak-paneled walls serving as the backdrop. The dark blue suit deepened his brown eyes to almost black. His hair was shorter and more formally arranged, leaving very little evidence of the tousled waves that had elicited her mortifying thoughts.
There was no question it was a slightly younger version of the man she’d met last night. The engraved brass plate beneath the portrait confirmed it: Alexander Tristan Sutherland Fraser, Ninth Earl of Rutherford.
“My dear, are you quite well? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Lady Clara’s look of concern forced Sarah to regain her composure. “I’m fine. Perhaps I’m just hungry.”
“Of course, my dear.” Lady Clara directed Sarah through the doorway. “How impolite of me to keep you wandering these drafty halls, when we have tea