splendid building were the family apartments on the left, and to the right the usual range of domestic buildings—kitchen, stables and workshops, and at the back, almost hugging the house, stood the old chapel.
Being home again made Ross feel uncharacteristically nostalgic. It was five years since he had been to Castonbury but of his welcome he had not a doubt. His uncle, Crispin Montague, the Duke of Rothermere, was well-bred and well set up, and he presided over the gargantuan Castonbury Park.
Drawing Bengal to a halt in front of the house, before he’d had time to dismount at the basement door, which was the everyday entrance to the central block, it was already being opened by Lumsden, clad in his usual black. Lumsden had been the butler at Castonbury Park from time immemorial and had always possessed uncanny timing. Leaving Blackstock to attend to the horses, Ross looked at this old retainer and smiled. It was Lumsden who’d found him sampling a bottle of his uncle’s French brandy when he’d been nine years old. It was also Lumsden—who was not averse to sampling a drop of His Lordship’s liquor himself—who took the blame for the missing bottle, explaining that he’d accidentally dropped it.
At the moment Lumsden’s eyes were passing fondly over Ross’s face. ‘Good afternoon, my lord,’ he intoned formally. ‘And may I say how good it is to have you home at Castonbury.’
‘Good afternoon, Lumsden. It’s good to be back. It’s been a long time and sadly much has changed in my absence.’
‘Indeed it has, my lord,’ Lumsden replied gravely. ‘Everyone is deeply saddened by the deaths of Lord Jamie and Lord Edward.’
‘Yes, I am sure they are. My sister will be here shortly. I rode on ahead in order to get a clear view of the place.’
‘You will see the fabric of Castonbury is as it was before you left—although in this present financial climate, you will observe unavoidable signs of wear and tear here and there.’
‘I think we have the wars to blame for that, Lumsden.’ Ross entered the large hall. It was an impressive room with sixteen columns supporting the weight of those in the magnificent marble hall immediately above. A small army of footmen and housemaids seemed to be lurking about, ostensibly going about their work. As Ross looked around him they stole long, lingering looks at him, then turned to exchange swift, gratified smiles. With his mind on getting cleaned up before his meeting with his uncle, Ross was oblivious to the searching scrutiny he was receiving, but he was dimly aware as he walked through the hall that a few servants were hastily dabbing at their eyes and noses with handkerchiefs.
Seeing a tall man with dark hair coming towards him he quickened his stride. It was his cousin Giles. They were the same age and of a similar height. Smiling, he held out his hand and the two hugged each other warmly. So much had happened to them both and the family as a whole since their parting five years earlier.
‘Giles! It’s good to see you.’
‘You too, Ross. Damn good, in fact.’
Ross stood back, anxiously studying the deeply etched lines of strain at his cousin’s eyes and mouth, but he looked better than he’d expected. ‘You look like hell.’
‘Thank you, Cousin,’ Giles said drily. ‘I’m delighted to see you too.’
Ross laughed and slapped his back good-humouredly. ‘And I you. You have no idea how much—but I would like to see you looking better.’
‘You can put it down to hard work. It’s backbreaking work running an estate the size of Castonbury—and don’t think that now you’re back you’re going to be allowed to escape,’ Giles threatened light-heartedly. ‘I’ll have you hard at it first thing.’
‘I’ll be glad to be of help in any way I can.’ Ross laughed. Dismissing the subject with a casual wave of his hand, he drew him towards the stairs off to the right. ‘Let’s go up to the library. You can pour me a drink before I
Being home again made Ross feel uncharacteristically nostalgic. It was five years since he had been to Castonbury but of his welcome he had not a doubt. His uncle, Crispin Montague, the Duke of Rothermere, was well-bred and well set up, and he presided over the gargantuan Castonbury Park.
Drawing Bengal to a halt in front of the house, before he’d had time to dismount at the basement door, which was the everyday entrance to the central block, it was already being opened by Lumsden, clad in his usual black. Lumsden had been the butler at Castonbury Park from time immemorial and had always possessed uncanny timing. Leaving Blackstock to attend to the horses, Ross looked at this old retainer and smiled. It was Lumsden who’d found him sampling a bottle of his uncle’s French brandy when he’d been nine years old. It was also Lumsden—who was not averse to sampling a drop of His Lordship’s liquor himself—who took the blame for the missing bottle, explaining that he’d accidentally dropped it.
At the moment Lumsden’s eyes were passing fondly over Ross’s face. ‘Good afternoon, my lord,’ he intoned formally. ‘And may I say how good it is to have you home at Castonbury.’
‘Good afternoon, Lumsden. It’s good to be back. It’s been a long time and sadly much has changed in my absence.’
‘Indeed it has, my lord,’ Lumsden replied gravely. ‘Everyone is deeply saddened by the deaths of Lord Jamie and Lord Edward.’
‘Yes, I am sure they are. My sister will be here shortly. I rode on ahead in order to get a clear view of the place.’
‘You will see the fabric of Castonbury is as it was before you left—although in this present financial climate, you will observe unavoidable signs of wear and tear here and there.’
‘I think we have the wars to blame for that, Lumsden.’ Ross entered the large hall. It was an impressive room with sixteen columns supporting the weight of those in the magnificent marble hall immediately above. A small army of footmen and housemaids seemed to be lurking about, ostensibly going about their work. As Ross looked around him they stole long, lingering looks at him, then turned to exchange swift, gratified smiles. With his mind on getting cleaned up before his meeting with his uncle, Ross was oblivious to the searching scrutiny he was receiving, but he was dimly aware as he walked through the hall that a few servants were hastily dabbing at their eyes and noses with handkerchiefs.
Seeing a tall man with dark hair coming towards him he quickened his stride. It was his cousin Giles. They were the same age and of a similar height. Smiling, he held out his hand and the two hugged each other warmly. So much had happened to them both and the family as a whole since their parting five years earlier.
‘Giles! It’s good to see you.’
‘You too, Ross. Damn good, in fact.’
Ross stood back, anxiously studying the deeply etched lines of strain at his cousin’s eyes and mouth, but he looked better than he’d expected. ‘You look like hell.’
‘Thank you, Cousin,’ Giles said drily. ‘I’m delighted to see you too.’
Ross laughed and slapped his back good-humouredly. ‘And I you. You have no idea how much—but I would like to see you looking better.’
‘You can put it down to hard work. It’s backbreaking work running an estate the size of Castonbury—and don’t think that now you’re back you’re going to be allowed to escape,’ Giles threatened light-heartedly. ‘I’ll have you hard at it first thing.’
‘I’ll be glad to be of help in any way I can.’ Ross laughed. Dismissing the subject with a casual wave of his hand, he drew him towards the stairs off to the right. ‘Let’s go up to the library. You can pour me a drink before I
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