“We went by way of Bassenthwaite and Lorton,” Max answered, casting a look over his shoulder to her. “And the Skiddaws.”
Gillie’s brow rose as she turned her hazelnut-colored eyes toward Clara. “He took you the scenic route, did he?”
Clara’s attention flipped to Max’s retreating form as he disappeared into the house. He’d taken her a special way?
“Of course, most places in Cumbria are scenic, but a drive through the national park is especially so.” Gillie linked Clara’s arm through hers and tugged her forward. “I feel as though I know you already, Clara, with your mother and I hitting it off so well. What a pleasure to have you join us here at Camden House.”
They stepped over the threshold onto a stone floor that led to a large room tinged with untouched history. A double fireplace with a darkly ornate mantel stood on the far left wall of the room and various large portraits and landscape paintings dotted the sage green walls. Persian rugs ran the distance of the stone, leading to a wood-paneled staircase disappearing out of view.
“This is the Day Room, where guests check in or seek assistance.” Gillie waved toward a desk on the far side of the room. “There are pamphlets about the sites in the general area, should you should choose to explore.”
Clara’s gaze lingered on the colorful pamphlets but she quelled the curiosity. Deed, first. Exploration, later.
“The library is through there.” Gillie gestured down an adjoining corridor where the corner of a book-laden room came into view. “But few people visit it, I’m afraid. Not with digital books and the vast outdoors as competition.”
Clara bit back her delight and ignored the overwhelming desire to detour down the carpeted hallway and befriend some of the neglected books. An arched entry opened to a room on the right, its windowed walls framed by various tables, all covered with white cloths and lanterns decorated with festive holly.
“The dining room.”
“It’s lovely.” With crimson walls complementing the striking white trim, the room gave off Biltmore vibes. “And you have so much room for guests.”
“Oh yes.” Gillie continued up the stairs. “We have seven rooms in this house, two on the ground floor and five on the first, along with our carriage house to hire for larger groups, plus two more rooms we’re renovating on the second floor as well.” They continued rounding the stairs as the windows showcased the magnificent view of trees, lakes, mountains, and sky. On the third turn, the ceiling narrowed to lead onto the “second” floor, which Americans called the third. Floor-toceiling windows opened for a view over the high-walled back garden and the emerald countryside.
Scenes from Burnett’s The Secret Garden tickled in the back of Clara’s mind and she leaned toward the windows to examine the space below. A lone figure moved among the greenery, a melody rising to greet them.
“That’s Max’s special place,” Gillie said, joining Clara at the window. “The garden. He took the tangled disaster the previous owners left behind and completely transformed it.”
A gardener? Well, she hadn’t expected that. Her gaze followed his easy movements, attempting to pair the uncommunicative airport driver with the whistling gardener below.
“It looks beautiful.”
“You’ll have to visit it when you’re not searching through our rubbish.” Her laugh lightened Clara’s musings. “But for now, let me show you your room and your…” Her blond brows offered a playful wiggle. “Your place of possible discovery.”
Chapter 13
Irushed through the forest from Biltmore Village, moving as fast as my skirts allowed, along the trail toward the main house. Darkness hovered on the edge of sunset, lengthening shadows into crisscrossed patterns against the forest floor. I pulled my coat more tightly about my simple cotton dress and increased my pace.
I’d stayed too long at my aunt’s house, holding on to each extra minute I could spend with Lark. Minutes which had been few and far between since she’d returned from her honeymoon.
I’d wanted to leave the house as soon as Aunt had given me a package from Oliver. Everything within me ached to read more of the words he’d penned so faithfully over the past two months of our separation. Sometimes I’d receive as many as two letters a week, each deepening this unfathomable bond only God could have designed. He wrote of school and books and silly things happening, and of war and the many empty seats in his classrooms. Though he wanted to join his comrades on the front lines, his mother had, as Oliver stated, “fallen into an emotional tirade” to persuade him to remain in school since his older brother already represented his family in the fight. I rarely appreciated what he shared about his mother, as she presented as a controlling, unhappy sort of woman, and someone from whom Oliver wished to create distance, but in this case, I was grateful for her persuasion. What news we received of the war always came with large numbers of casualties attached.
I had stayed for an early Christmas supper at Aunt’s, hoping to curb the growing concern I had for my sister, to no avail. I’d seen Lark only three times since she’d returned from her honeymoon, but subtle shifts in her behavior put me on edge. Yes, marriage changed people, of course, but some undefined foreboding grew with her bright smiles and forced enthusiasm. With every shifting of the conversation away from Ralph Wolfe and back to simpler things. A careless comment here or there, such as “business has been overly taxing the past few weeks” and “everyone loses their temper sometimes” took on veiled meaning.
She couldn’t veil her eyes, and those spoke volumes.
The entire meal had been a practice in avoidance.
Lark averted details about her marriage and I dodged any particulars about Oliver except to say “a friendly correspondence about books.”
Even as we’d parted ways, Lark in her elegant burgundy walking suit and cloak and I in my simple cotton dress and
