with this severe and dour-looking woman.
“My lord Chatham!” The woman stepped upon the marble landing and smiled warmly, somewhat easing Ondine’s apprehension. She was severe, yes, in dress and appearance, but when she smiled, she came to life. She must have been near sixty. Her hair was dark as pitch except for one attractive streak of silver that might have been painted in from her temple to her neck. Her features were nearly gaunt, yet her eyes were a bright and luminous green, and when she offered that welcoming smile, she gave an illusion of youth and a hint of the beauty that must have once been hers.
“Mathilda.” Warwick returned the greeting. His footsteps were quick, causing Ondine to pant as he hurried her up the steps. Ondine felt the squeeze of his fingers, a reminder that he had warned her of the importance of those she would meet.
The housekeeper’s eyes fell to Ondine with an expectant curiosity. She seemed familiar with Warwick, but not beyond the bounds of propriety, for she made a small curtsy as he reached her. “I did not expect you, milord. Nor did I know of guests—”
“Not a guest, Mathilda, my wife, the lady Ondine.”
Surely Mathilda could not have been more surprised had the stone beasts before the steps come to life and rushed the manor. Her jaw fell, her lips pursed, and she stared at Ondine speechlessly before managing to gasp, “Your wife?”
“Wife, yes,” Warwick replied, bemused. “And we’ve been in the carriage for quite some time now.”
“Oh!” Mathilda recovered herself quickly and inclined her head in a low bow to Ondine. “Countess, please, this way …”
She led the way into a grand foyer in the French manor, one with marble flooring of a lighter shade than the steps. There appeared to be entrances to the foyer also from the east and the west, but Ondine was not to see them then, for Mathilda was leading the way up a wide and curving stairway to the apartments above. Warwick no longer held her arm; he followed behind her. Mathilda spoke over her shoulder to Ondine, a little too quickly, perhaps, as if she struggled to regain complete composure.
“There’s a dining hall beyond the staircase, my lady, and the old counting house. The living apartments are here, as you shall see, and the family takes its meals in the west wing. Justin’s apartments are also in this wing. The Earl’s are in the east, and the servants are quartered upon the third floor. Of course, any changes you might care to make—”
“Mathilda, it appears that the manor is most graciously run,” Ondine said pleasantly. A small and welcome thrill of excitement gripped her; it was all marvelous. After a year of running and filth, fate had cast her into a most comfortable situation. Her clothing was beautiful, her surroundings were more so, and Warwick Chatham was anxiously expecting her to play a role. She determined suddenly to do so with complete elan.
She paused on the landing, a long carpeted hallway that appeared to be the family portrait gallery. “It’s lovely!” she applauded sweetly, startling Warwick when she gripped his elbow and stretched upon her toes to plant a kiss upon his cheek. “My love, you did not tell me quite how grand …”
She lowered her lashes quickly to hide her amusement at his quickly suppressed amazement, then spun elegantly from him to approve the portrait of the handsome middle-aged man, amazingly like Warwick, yet more elegant in style, with a head of white hair to match the king’s in curls and abundance. “Your father, my love? Surely it is by Van Dyck?”
“Aye,” Warwick said smoothly, striding to her and managing to conceal his surprise at her knowledge of the painter. “As I told you, my lady,” he continued with equal ease, “my father stood by Charles the First until the end. Then he hastened into exile and fought by his son. Charles himself commissioned the portrait.”
Ondine moved down the hallway lightly. Ladies and lords
“My lord Chatham!” The woman stepped upon the marble landing and smiled warmly, somewhat easing Ondine’s apprehension. She was severe, yes, in dress and appearance, but when she smiled, she came to life. She must have been near sixty. Her hair was dark as pitch except for one attractive streak of silver that might have been painted in from her temple to her neck. Her features were nearly gaunt, yet her eyes were a bright and luminous green, and when she offered that welcoming smile, she gave an illusion of youth and a hint of the beauty that must have once been hers.
“Mathilda.” Warwick returned the greeting. His footsteps were quick, causing Ondine to pant as he hurried her up the steps. Ondine felt the squeeze of his fingers, a reminder that he had warned her of the importance of those she would meet.
The housekeeper’s eyes fell to Ondine with an expectant curiosity. She seemed familiar with Warwick, but not beyond the bounds of propriety, for she made a small curtsy as he reached her. “I did not expect you, milord. Nor did I know of guests—”
“Not a guest, Mathilda, my wife, the lady Ondine.”
Surely Mathilda could not have been more surprised had the stone beasts before the steps come to life and rushed the manor. Her jaw fell, her lips pursed, and she stared at Ondine speechlessly before managing to gasp, “Your wife?”
“Wife, yes,” Warwick replied, bemused. “And we’ve been in the carriage for quite some time now.”
“Oh!” Mathilda recovered herself quickly and inclined her head in a low bow to Ondine. “Countess, please, this way …”
She led the way into a grand foyer in the French manor, one with marble flooring of a lighter shade than the steps. There appeared to be entrances to the foyer also from the east and the west, but Ondine was not to see them then, for Mathilda was leading the way up a wide and curving stairway to the apartments above. Warwick no longer held her arm; he followed behind her. Mathilda spoke over her shoulder to Ondine, a little too quickly, perhaps, as if she struggled to regain complete composure.
“There’s a dining hall beyond the staircase, my lady, and the old counting house. The living apartments are here, as you shall see, and the family takes its meals in the west wing. Justin’s apartments are also in this wing. The Earl’s are in the east, and the servants are quartered upon the third floor. Of course, any changes you might care to make—”
“Mathilda, it appears that the manor is most graciously run,” Ondine said pleasantly. A small and welcome thrill of excitement gripped her; it was all marvelous. After a year of running and filth, fate had cast her into a most comfortable situation. Her clothing was beautiful, her surroundings were more so, and Warwick Chatham was anxiously expecting her to play a role. She determined suddenly to do so with complete elan.
She paused on the landing, a long carpeted hallway that appeared to be the family portrait gallery. “It’s lovely!” she applauded sweetly, startling Warwick when she gripped his elbow and stretched upon her toes to plant a kiss upon his cheek. “My love, you did not tell me quite how grand …”
She lowered her lashes quickly to hide her amusement at his quickly suppressed amazement, then spun elegantly from him to approve the portrait of the handsome middle-aged man, amazingly like Warwick, yet more elegant in style, with a head of white hair to match the king’s in curls and abundance. “Your father, my love? Surely it is by Van Dyck?”
“Aye,” Warwick said smoothly, striding to her and managing to conceal his surprise at her knowledge of the painter. “As I told you, my lady,” he continued with equal ease, “my father stood by Charles the First until the end. Then he hastened into exile and fought by his son. Charles himself commissioned the portrait.”
Ondine moved down the hallway lightly. Ladies and lords
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