Page 42 of The Scarred Lyon

“Do you think it is necessary? I am sending Patrick and a few men to load the wagon and carriage. In essence, there will not be room. The journey will include an overnight stay at an inn. I would have thought you had had enough of traveling.” Duncan paused. “Do you mean prepare them for me?”

“To an extent. I know you will be wearing a mask at first, but I would like to explain to Reese.”

Duncan kissed her forehead. “If you wish to go, I will not refuse. But I had hoped you would want to oversee the preparations for Reese and Miss Barry’s accommodations—the nursery, schoolroom, and bedchambers.”

“Good heavens, I hadn’t thought of that. I would like that very much.”

“Patrick can explain it as he did with the Tobeys. He had become quite skilled at it. The nursery and schoolroom haven’t been used since Jon was a small boy. But everything is in storage, awaiting your deft hand.”

Augusta nestled in closer. “Then I will stay. And you have the right of it. I am done with carriage journeys for a time.”

Duncan laughed. “Let’s try to rest.”

Augusta pointed at the window. “Look, there is less snow here. We were caught in the worst of the storm.” She sighed contentedly and closed her eyes.

In what seemed like only a few minutes, Duncan gently shook her awake. “We are here.”

Augusta sat upright, eyes blinking. “Where is the manor house?”

“It is a few miles away as yet.”

Augusta stared at the rolling hills and the dense forest of leafless trees. “This is all yours?”

“Miles and miles of it. Over that hill lie some of the tenant farms. There are thirty-five in total.”

“T-t-thirty-five? Good heavens. I never dreamed. My parents’ country home has twelve small farms, but then, my father is only a viscount. Listen to me, acting the duchess already.”

“Watch as we round this corner of the forest.”

Augusta stared out the window. Then it appeared. A gray brick manor house sat majestically on a hill, with a large, still lake below that reflected the residence perfectly. Formal gardens surrounded the property, though dormant because of the cold late-autumn air. Two red deer were drinking from the lake. The scene could have been a pastoral painting hung above a fireplace.

“Do you like it?” Duncan asked softly.

“I like it very much, indeed,” Augusta replied. “It is beautiful.”

“Wait until summer, and even early autumn. Beautiful does not even begin to describe it. I should tell you, I do not have a full staff, but we will rectify that as soon as possible.” They turned onto the tree-lined road toward the residence. “You look a little nervous.”

“I am rather, especially to meet your stepmother.”

“Laura is honest, forthright, and generously warmhearted. You are very much alike and will get on well. Of that, I have no doubt. She will adore you. How could she not?”

Augusta could see servants gathering by the front entrance. Not a full staff? There were quite a few standing about. The carriage came to a stop, and someone opened the door. Duncan stepped outside, then held his hand to assist her.

“Welcome home, Your Grace,” an older man said.

“Thank you, Turner.” Augusta took Duncan’s hand. “This is the Duchess of Allenby. Turner, our venerable butler.”

Augusta was introduced to the servants, and the names passed in a blur. Housekeeper, maids, cook, footmen. Well, she would learn the names eventually.

“I have an announcement,” Duncan said gravely. “We ran into a rather vicious snowstorm, and there was an accident. Briggs was killed.”

Shocked gasps rose from the servants as their gazes swung toward the rear of the carriage, where the coffin was secured. The cook, Mrs. Dorsett, pulled a handkerchief from her apron and dabbed her eyes. “The poor lad,” she said, sniffling.

“It was Briggs’s skill as a coachman and his abundance of courage that saved our lives,” Duncan continued. “We would all have perished without his quick thinking. Many of you have known him since my uncle brought him to Bamford Park to work at age eleven. The only family Jonas Briggs has known is all of us here. We will see him properly buried in the family cemetery. May God speed him on his final journey.”

There was open weeping now, and Augusta felt a lump rise in her throat. How tragic. Mr. Briggs was well-loved and respected.

Duncan motioned for the butler. “Yes, Your Grace?”