Page 95 of The Music of Love

Daisy took the hair pins she’d held clamped between her teeth and laid them on the dresser’s glossy surface.

“I believe there will be nine couples and four singles.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “There is quite a bit of worry about Lady and Lord Kenwich. They had a mad row the last time they visited and threw the entire contents of a tea tray at one another.”

Portia laughed. “Goodness. A passionate pair, are they?”

“Aye, but not about one another.” Daisy’s eyebrows were near her hairline.

It was a little after twelve by the time Daisy had her dressed and ready for the world. Portia arrived in the breakfast room and found only Rowena eating.

“Good morning, my lady.” Portia smiled at her sister-in-law and then turned to one of the numerous footmen. “Could I have a glass of milk, please?”

“Milk?” Rowena repeated once the footman had gone, her expression scandalized, as though Portia had ordered a floating island and a magnum of champagne. Predictably, the viscountess was sipping black tea and eating dry toast, which no doubt was how she maintained her trim figure. “I don’t believe I have ever seen an adult drink milk.”

“My husband is a bit of a tyrant and says the proper diet for a woman in my condition includes milk. Lots of milk.”

The viscountess frowned at that information, and then chose to ignore it. “Are you ready to see Thurlstone today?”

“I am looking forward to it. Frances tells me you are quite the expert on the castle. Did you grow up in a house like this?”

“There is no other house like Thurlstone.” Her voice held an odd, almost fierce, intensity. “My father’s seat is Bent Park, not far from Chelmsford. It is a Tudor structure.” She set down her empty cup and motioned for a footman to remove it before she stood. “I’m afraid I must leave you now. Shall we meet in the long gallery at one?”

Portia watched her stiff figure disappear, grateful the woman was gone. No matter what subject she raised with the viscountess it always felt awkward and hostile. She felt genuine sympathy for her brother-in-law—not to mention the three sisters who would need to live on her bounty when Lady Pendleton eventually became mistress of Thurlstone.

Portia dawdled over her breakfast and read the paper. When she finished eating it was time to make her way to the long gallery, where she perused portraits of long-dead Harringtons while she waited. The room had been designed to awe visitors and descendants alike. Sun filtered through the stained glass of massive mullioned windows, which allowed in light to illuminate the room but not enough to damage the precious paintings that covered every square inch of the wood-paneled walls. Portia had grown up in Rome, where buildings far grander than this had been common when the Harringtons’ ancestors had still been painting themselves blue and fighting with sticks. Even so, it was one thing to view such opulence in a public setting but quite another to realize you’d married into it.

Portia was examining a pair of young girls dressed in the fashion of the early seventeenth century when she heard footsteps behind her.

She turned to find Frances and gave her sister-in-law a genuine smile. “What a pleasant surprise.” Portia gestured to the identical girls. “Do you know who these young ladies are?”

“Those were the twin sisters of Charles Harrington, the fifth earl. I believe their names were Constance and Faith, two family names. They never married,” she added. “I will find you a book my great uncle James Harrington wrote on the history of the family.” She smiled fondly. “He was still alive and living here when I was a young girl. He never married and spent his entire life in the east wing. After he died, we found hundreds of bundles of foolscap, all the books he’d worked on during his lifetime but never showed to anyone. I had his book about the family portraits bound.” Her pale cheeks stained, as if she was embarrassed by her enthusiasm on the subject. “I came to see if you wished to go to the summer pergola. This is not the best year for it, but there will be some beautiful foliage.”

“Could we could go a little later? I’m meeting Lady Rowena in a few minutes for a tour of the castle.”

Frances’s mouth tightened at the sound of her sister-in-law’s name. “I daresay you’ve only seen the wing in which you are staying and this addition?”

“When was this added?” Portia gazed up at the soaring ceiling and ornate crossbeams.

“This is late gothic, I believe 1537. The oldest part of the building dates to the eleventh century, and then there are ruins that run down to the cliff closest to the sea. That collection of tumbled down masonry is what is left of the Saxon stronghold.”

The sound of clapping made Portia jump.

“Brava, Frances.” Rowena’s voice came from the far end of the hall. “You really are an expert on this house and everything Harrington. I do believe you must know all the family secrets.” Rowena’s smile was mocking as she turned to Portia. “Are you ready for your tour, Mrs. Harrington?” The viscountess’s hard green eyes made Portia regret promising to spend more time than necessary in her presence.

She glanced at Frances; her face looked as though it were carved from stone. “Shall we meet after my tour, Frances?”

“I believe I shall tag along,” Frances spoke to Portia but her eyes were on Rowena. “It has been a long time since I’ve looked at the old north wing. Perhaps Rowena will be able to teach me something about the castle as she’s been working toward its restoration.”

Rowena inclined her head. “As you wish.”

An hour into Rowena’s tour Portia was grateful to have eaten such a large breakfast. The rambling house was comprised of endless warrens and dark hallways, many of which smelled of damp and decay.

“I’ve lost track of the rooms,” she said as they looked at a third set of state apartments. This one occupied by Queen Elizabeth for two weeks in 1559, with her alleged lover, Robert Dudley, staying only two doors away.

“We are some thirty rooms shy of being a ‘calendar house,’” Frances said, frowning while examining the corner of a rotting tapestry that hung behind the bed where Elizabeth had slept.

“Calendar house?”

“Yes, like Knole House, in Kent, or the Duke of Plimpton’s family seat, Whitcomb House—a house that has a room for every day of the year.”