When I open my eyes again, the car is easing up a long, brick-paved drive. I’m completely unprepared for my first glimpse of Anson’s childhood home. It’s a sprawling sort of edifice, three stories of cream-and-gray stone with diamond-paned windows on the upper floors and more gables and chimneys than I can count from the moving car. I run my eyes over the highest windows, the small panes turned to mirrors in the chilly morning light, wondering if Owen Purcell is standing behind one of them, awaiting my arrival.
I’m still fumbling with my box when Stanton opens the car door. I slide out, acutely aware of my shabbiness. Everything is so large and immaculate. The car, the house, even Stanton, towering over me in his somber black serge. He points me toward a set of double glass doors decorated with iron scrollwork, stoic as he steps past me.
The door swings back before I can ring the bell. Suddenly Owen Purcell is there, impeccable in a charcoal-gray three-piece that’s almost certainly tailor-made. He’s tall like Anson, with thick shoulders, a broad chest, and a middle that’s just starting to go soft. He has a head full of silver-gold waves, and his eyes are the same liquid blue-green as Anson’s. They miss nothing as they sweep over me, coming to linger briefly on my scuffed black shoes.
“Miss Roussel, here at last.”
I manage a wobbly smile. “Good morning, Monsieur Purcell.”
His eyes touch mine with no hint of a smile. “He said you were French.” He looks past me then, out to the drive. “Stanton, please bring in Miss Roussel’s things.”
“She hasn’t any things, sir. Only the box.”
Mr. Purcell eyes me again, brows lowered as he examines the dress box dangling from my hand. “Very well, then. Come in.”
I wipe my feet once, twice, three times before stepping over the threshold into a large entryway. The polished parquet floor makes the space feel more like a ballroom than a foyer. The walls are a soft, creamy yellow, the ceilings high and decorated with ornate plasterwork. A chandelier dripping with crystal pendants splashes small droplets of light on the walls and floor, and my head whirls as the lights dance around me. For a moment, I’m afraid I will crumple into a heap at my future father-in-law’s feet.
“Are you unwell?”
I swallow the thick sensation in my mouth and try to shake my head. “I’m just . . . I’ve been traveling rather a long time.”
“Yes, of course. Perhaps you should rest before lunch. I’ll show you to your room.”
There isn’t time to protest. He’s already heading for the staircase, not bothering to check that I’m following. He has a slight limp, a straight-legged gait that hinders his progress—likely the result of the war wound Anson told me about.
At the top of the stairs, a broad gallery lined with English hunting prints stretches in both directions. When I hesitate, he glances back briefly. “This way, please. The last door on the right.” At the end of the hall, he pushes the door open and stands aside. “I’ve had the room aired and the bed made up. You have your own bath, just through there, if you care to freshen up before luncheon.”
The drapes are drawn, the interior dim as I step inside. It’s a small room with a double bed, a nightstand and lamp, a bare bureau, and a long oval mirror. The walls are papered with enormous cabbage roses on a background of dull green. The pattern is too loud for such a small room, making it feel faintly oppressive.
“Thank you,” I say with all the politeness I can muster. “It’s lovely.”
He bows his head, clearly all the response I am to receive, and I find myself trying to make him out. He’s handsome for a man in his fifties, high cheeks, broad forehead, a bit of a bump at the bridge of his nose—as if it might have been broken. But it’s his mouth, full and yet hard somehow, that holds my attention—a mouth unused to smiling.
“Luncheon is served at twelve thirty. Someone will come to take you down.”
He pulls the door closed then, leaving me alone. Like a lodger, I have been shown to my room and left to my own devices. I put my box on the bureau and slip off my shoes, then lie down fully dressed and close my eyes. Not once has Owen Purcell mentioned his son’s name.
I’ve barely drifted off when I jolt awake again. The door is open a crack, an eye peering through, wide, watching. I sit up quickly, my head still muzzy. “Vous pouvez entrer,” I call thickly, then remember my English. “Come in.”
The door creaks open a few inches. A face appears, broad cheeks, blue-green eyes, a thick sheaf of wheat-colored hair. A younger version of Anson—and female.