The paper on her chamber’s wall was sprigged with soft rouge-coloured roses, the colour matching that on the draperies and bedcovering. She wanted to take in every detail of this beautiful room but must follow her husband as he was taking her to see the mistress’s study in the adjacent chamber.
She paused in the study’s doorway and gaped. “This room is just for me?” Centered upon a pale pink Aubusson carpet stood a fine gilt escritoire, and all the writing implements awaited her.
“Indeed.”
She sighed. “I shall spend a great deal of time here.”
“You know that many people with whom to correspond?”
“I love the idea of having my own writing room so much, I shall have to write letters to everyone I’ve ever known.” She giggled. “Be assured I shall sign them all Mrs. Birmingham. I do fancy that name.” She did not know what possessed her, but she turned and eyed him. “As I fancy you.”
Her words obviously embarrassed him. “Heigh ho, it’s time to show you your dressing room. You will, of course, need a lady’s maid.”
She started to protest. She’d gotten along very well dressing herself for twenty years. But she did not want to be an embarrassment to him. Nor did she want to embarrass herself by admitting to the deficiencies in her toilette. “How does one go about selecting a lady’s maid?”
“We’ll ask Lady Sophia. She knows everyone. She’ll be able to select one for you.”
Her gaze fanned over the feminine dressing room. Two pieces of furniture dominated it: a gilt and ivory clothes press and a gilded settee covered in more of the rose-coloured silk, this a brocade. “It’s lovely.”
“Well there, now that you’ve seen your chambers, I suppose you should find that letter of your uncle’s.”
She went back to the bedchamber, suddenly conscious of the huge bed with each of its four posters anchoring thick velvet curtains of the same rose. Being in the chamber with him and realizing that most married couples would share a bed brought heat to her cheeks. Her cheeks weren’t the only part of her reacting to the thought. A strange stirring settled low in her torso. It made her feel breathless and lightheaded.
Was something wrong with her? She had never experienced anything like it before.
In her portmanteau she found Uncle’s letter and handed it to Adam.
He unfolded it and began to read.
My Dear Niece,
As I am now in my sixth decade, I lament that I've never married, that I have no children of my own to carry on my life's work. But I am satisfied that my brother's only child, my dear niece, being of a moldable age, can be groomed to continue all that I've begun, now and long after I've departed this earth.
I wouldn't be so presumptuous had you not repeatedly conveyed to me how much you are lured by the Capital. Also, your great aunt has so kindly and frequently written to me, praising your abilities. She has consistently boasted upon your intelligence and remarked on your maturity that exceeds your chronological years. Those are qualities your father —may my dear brother rest in peace—possessed in abundance. Here at the Ceylon Tea Company I am surrounded by those of lesser intelligence and will look forward to being in your good company. A pity your father could not live to see you. I did promise him I would look after you. And now the time has come.
The remainder of the letter dealt with making travel arrangements for her journey to London. Adam handed it back to her. “Something’s rotten in Denmark.”
She scrunched up her nose. “At the Ceylon Tea Company, more likely.”
He proffered his arm. “I suggest we investigate, Mrs. Birmingham.”
* * *
Twenty minutes into their coach ride she spotted the familiar George inn. She had, after all, spent more non-sleeping hours there than anywhere in London. How different it looked in the mid-day sun than it had looked the day she’d spent hours waiting there for her poor uncle.
Her breath caught when just a short distance away she spotted the green and gold sign of the Ceylon Tea Company. A strange, morbid emptiness gnawed at her when she realized how very close Uncle Simon would have been to the posting inn where she’d arrived. If he’d been alive. He could have walked to greet her when she disembarked. If he’d been alive. Seeing the short distance between the two awakened her to her uncle’s thought processes, to his (she hoped) happy anticipation of her visit.
Such a little thing to make her so vastly melancholy. Such a little thing to emphasize his loss more even than seeing his last will and testament.