They also joined Das and his wife for an enjoyable dinner, and when Cassandra referred to the two men as friends, rather than as employer and employee, Joshua found no reason to object. After that, Das returned to headquarters to temporarily take over the reins of the business, and perhaps, Joshua suggested in passing, Das might devise new job titles for the secretaries, as someone had declared the existing titles to be “stupid.” Newell rejoined his family in Birmingham, from where he continued his hunt for a governess.
And on a sunny afternoon in May, the convoy of carriages trundled through the gates to Sunne Park.
Lord Charles had always spoken of his estate with pride and love, as did Cassandra, and when the carriage swung around the drive, with the afternoon sunlight falling on the sprawling red-brick manse, Joshua understood.
“Well?” Cassandra said, hugging his arm after he helped her down from the carriage. “Is it not splendid?”
Joshua would not call it “splendid” so much as “jumbled.” The house boasted gables of various shapes and roofs of various pitches, with a profusion of pepper-pot chimneys and mullioned windows. Surrounding it were a moat—a moat!—and a line of fruit trees dressed in a riot of pink and white blossoms.
It was full of character and life and, despite its size, had an air of welcome. One could be lulled into thinking of a place like this as home. The warm spring air washed over him and filled him with something suspiciously like hope.
Nonsense. Nothing more than the effect of the sunlight, too much fresh air in his lungs, that sort of thing. The day was too bright, and the fragrant country air hummed with life, and such things did tend to give places a dreamy feel.
And he did have a tendency to get confused sometimes, these days.
Odd to think that legally, he owned this house, when he had not earned it. It was a gift bestowed upon him, along with his wife, by a man who hoped to make them happy when his own hope of happiness was gone. Lord Charles, you fool, he thought. It was a valiant attempt, but you had it wrong. This is not my house, and I am not that man.
The fact was, this was all very pleasant and idyllic, but none of it would last. He had forged a life in Birmingham, he had forged himself in Birmingham. What he had built there was who he was and that, at least, could never be taken from him. That, at least, could never fall apart.
Cassandra was looking at him expectantly, wanting him to be pleased, and he was pleased. Ridiculously so. But that didn’t feel real either.
“It has a moat!” he said. “When are you expecting the invading hordes?”
She gave him a pointed look. “Today, apparently.”
“Mrs. DeWitt! Did you just call me an invading horde?”
She laughed and led him over the bridge, her face bright with excitement.
“It has more to do with drainage than defense,” she said. “Newer places have great ornamental lakes instead. But it is well stocked, if you like fishing, and I do like having somewhere to throw Lucy.”
At the stone archway marking the entrance, Joshua paused to read the inscription: The year 1533 and the words “The sunne is new each day.”
“That’s from Heraclitus,” Cassandra said.
The name stirred a memory from schoolbooks at Eton. One of those Greek fellows, the sort who had nothing to do all day but sit around and state the bleeding obvious, for no apparent purpose other than the torture of English schoolboys two thousand years later.
“Fellow couldn’t spell ‘sun’,” he said. “It’s inefficient, to have all those extra letters.”
“It was built in Tudor times. They didn’t have spelling back then. Come on.”
He allowed himself to be led inside, to greet the butler and housekeeper, the sense of unreality growing stronger as his boot heels rang out on the flagstones. He half-listened to Cassandra and Mrs. Greenway discuss Lady Charles and housekeeping matters, as he let his eyes bounce over the paintings and paneling to the staircase with its glossy bannister.
Bannister. Children. Cassandra saying: I can imagine them now, our children, running through Sunne Park, sliding down the bannisters, dashing through the roses. Dark-haired, bright-eyed children, and he could imagine them now too. He blinked away the images and took to making inane comments to keep them at bay, as she led him through the great hall, a formal dining room, a stylish drawing room,