Edenbrooke by Julianne Donaldson Page B

out of cream-colored stone and surrounded by beautifully manicured gardens. Giant trees dotted the expanse of grass, the green so brilliant in the sunlight that I had to squint to look at it. A river ran through the estate, behind the house, and I saw a beautifully arched stone bridge spanning the water. Farmland spread out beyond it like a peacock’s tail, with neat fences and hedges and productive fields stretching as far as the eye could see.
    “Oh,” I heard Betsy sigh with pleasure, and then she was silent. For Betsy to be silenced by beauty meant a great deal, and I smiled in agreement. Edenbrooke appeared to be everything one would want in an estate.
    “It is a beauty, to be sure,” the coachman said. “Best farmland in the county.”
    I thought of my own home in Surrey. It was very modest by comparison, with only two floors and eighteen rooms. My father owned a few hundred acres of land, which was worked by tenant farmers, but his holding looked like child’s play in comparison to the grand estate of Edenbrooke. It surely took a competent hand to manage all of this. My estimation of my host rose considerably. Cecily had certainly chosen well for herself. What a privilege to be able to stay here for any length of time.
    I climbed back inside the carriage, even more eager to arrive. As we rode down the hill and approached the house, I experienced a sense of coming home after being gone for a long time. It was a nonsensical feeling, for this elegant place bore no resemblance to my home. But still, I felt as if I already loved every blade of grass, every tree, every neat hedge and wild rose.
    I shook my head in an effort to clear it. I was, no doubt, still suffering from shock due to the horrific events of last night. My mind was coming unhinged because of fatigue. I was only imagining this sense of homecoming—this urgency to be here at last.
    The large front door opened as the coach pulled through the curving drive and came to a halt. A footman emerged from the house and opened the carriage door, offering a gloved hand to help me descend. I had no sooner touched ground than I heard a feminine voice greet me. I looked up, expecting to see Cecily’s golden hair and bright blue eyes. But the lady approaching me with outstretched hands could be no one but Lady Caroline. She was tall and slim. Her brown hair was lightly shadowed with gray, and her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled at me.
    “I should have invited you long ago,” she said. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’ve come. May I call you Marianne?”
    “Y-yes, of course you may,” I stammered, surprised by her familiar air. But then, she and my mother had been close friends for much of their lives—almost like sisters. I felt, in her request, that she was inviting me not just into her home, but into her family. I found that I liked the idea very well.
    “I have been so anxious about your safety since learning of your mishap last night. I could hardly believe it!” She put an arm around my shoulders and walked me toward the door. “A highwayman, in this area? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
    So Philip had evidently written more in his letter than simply my expected time of arrival. This seemed the perfect opportunity to ask his identity, but it struck me that it would seem very strange to admit that I had dined alone with a man last night without even knowing who he was. I hesitated, afraid Lady Caroline might think less of me if she found out, and then I lost my opportunity, for we entered the house.
    As soon as I stepped inside, I had to stop and stare. The entryway was three stories high, light and airy, with windows letting in slants of sunlight that fell on white marble floors. I tipped my head back to take in the paintings that stretched up to the high ceiling. A butler and a housekeeper stood at attention, and several footmen lined up before the grand staircase.
    I gulped, feeling quite small and inexperienced in the