health, ma’am,’ he replied.
He reached for Genna’s hand next and grinned. ‘Miss Genna.’
She jumped out and gave him a quick hug. Who cared if it was improper to hug a servant? She’d known him all her life.
‘I have missed you!’ she cried.
His eyes glistened with tears. ‘The house is not the same without you.’
He collected himself and led Lorene and Genna through one of the archways and up the stairs to the main entrance. A guidebook had once described the house:
Summerfield House was built by John Carr, a contemporary of Robert Adam, in the Italianate style, with the entrance to the house on the first floor.
Genna loved that word. Italianate.
The door opened as they reached it.
‘Jeffers!’ Genna ran into the hall and hugged their old butler, a man who had been more present in her life than her own father.
‘Miss Genna, a treat to see you.’ He hugged her back, but quickly released her and bowed to Lorene. ‘My lady, how good to have you back.’
Lorene extended her hand and clasped Mr Jeffers’s hand in a warm gesture. ‘I am happy to see you, Jeffers. How are matters here? Is all well? Are you well?’
He nodded. ‘The new master has had much needed work done, but it is quiet here without you girls.’
Genna supposed Jeffers still saw them in their pinafores. She touched his arm. ‘We were never going to be able to stay, you know.’
Jeffers smiled sadly. ‘That is true, but, still...’ He blinked and turned towards the door. ‘Are we not expecting Lord Tinmore?’
‘He sends his regrets,’ Lorene explained. ‘He is ill.’
‘I am sorry to hear it. Nothing serious, I hope?’ he asked.
‘Not serious.’ Lorene glanced away. ‘You should announce us to Lord Penford, I think.’
How very sad. Lorene acted as if Lord Tinmore was looking over her shoulder, ready to chastise her for performing below her station with servants. These were servants they’d known their whole lives, the people who had truly looked out for their welfare, and, even though Tinmore was nowhere near, Lorene could not feel free to converse with them.
Jeffers looked abashed. ‘Certainly. They are in the octagon drawing room.’
He and Lorene started to cross the hall.
‘Wait!’ Genna cried.
She stood in the centre of the hall and gazed up at the plasterwork ceiling. There was the familiar pattern, the rosettes, the gold gilt, the griffins that hearkened back to her grandfather’s days in India. Why had she never drawn the ceiling’s design? Why had she not copied its pale cream, green and white?
‘Come,’ Lorene said impatiently. ‘They are waiting for us.’
Genna took one more look, then joined her sister. As they walked to the drawing room, though, she fell back, memorising each detail. The matching marble stairs with their bright blue balustrades, the small tables and chairs still in the same places, the familiar paintings on the walls.
They reached the door to the drawing room. Would it be changed? she wondered.
Jeffers opened the door and announced. ‘Lady Tinmore and Miss Summerfield.’
Two young gentlemen stood. One, of course, was Lord Rossdale, dressed in formal dinner attire, which made him look even more like a duke’s heir. The other man was an inch or two shorter than Rossdale and fairer, with brown hair and blue eyes.
Jeffers continued the introductions. ‘My lady, Miss Summerfield, allow me to present Lord Rossdale—’
The Marquess bowed.
‘And Lord Penford.’
But Penford was so young!
He approached them. ‘My cousins. How delightful to meet you at last.’ His voice lacked any enthusiasm, however. He blinked at Lorene as if in surprise and stiffly offered his hand. ‘Where is Lord Tinmore, ma’am?’
Lorene blushed, which was not like her. She might be reserved, but never sheepish. Unless Tinmore had cowed her into feeling insecure in company. Or perhaps she was as surprised as Genna that Penford was not their father’s age.
‘Lord Tinmore is ill.’ Lorene put her hand in Penford’s. ‘A trifling illness, but he thought it best to remain at home.’
Penford quickly drew his hand away. ‘I am delighted you accepted my invitation.’ He glanced past Lorene and looked at Genna with a distinct lack of interest. ‘And your sister.’ He perfunctorily shook Genna’s. ‘Miss Summerfield.’
The stiff boor. Genna made certain to smile at him. ‘Call me Genna. It seems silly to stand on ceremony when we are family.’
‘Genna,’ he repeated automatically. He glanced back to Lorene.
‘You may address me as Lorene, if you wish,’ she murmured.
‘Lorene,’ he murmured. ‘My friends call me Dell.’
Which was not quite permission for Lorene and Genna to do so.
Rossdale stepped forward.
‘Oh.’ Penford seemed to have forgotten him. ‘My friend Ross here is visiting with me over Christmas.’
‘Ma’am.’ Ross bowed to Lorene. When he turned to Genna, he winked. ‘Miss Summerfield.’
She felt like giggling.
‘Come sit.’ Penford offered Lorene his arm and led her to a sitting area, with its pale pink brocade sofa and matching chairs that their mother had selected for this room. He placed her in one of the chairs and he sat in the other.
The Marquess gestured to Genna to sit, as well.
She hesitated. ‘May I look at the room first?’
‘By all means,’ Penford responded.
‘You lived here, I believe,’ Rossdale said, remaining at her side.
‘I did, sir,’ she said too brightly.
So far he was not divulging the fact they’d met before. He stood politely while she gazed at another familiar plasterwork ceiling, its design mimicked in the octagon carpet below. Again, nothing was changed, not one stick of furniture out of place, not one vase moved to a different table, nor any porcelain figurines rearranged. She gazed at her grandmother’s portrait above the fireplace, powdered hair and silk gown, seated in an idyllic garden.
Rossdale said, ‘A magnificent painting.’
‘Our grandmother.’
