noticed the dower house tucked in the shade of Moreland's large trees. She started toward the house as if drawn there by magnets, then stopped and looked toward the road again. I must hurry, she thought, even as she continued until she stood on the front steps of the two-story house.
It was of honey-colored stone, too, and more shabby than the manor, with crumbling mortar, and rain gutters stuffed with debris. She noticed several broken windows as she walked around the house, wishing for a box to stand on so she could peer into the rooms. She found a wooden bucket with the handle missing, and turned it over to balance on it and peer into the front room. She rubbed at the glass with her sleeve until she cleared a small spot and then raised herself up on tiptoe.
"Mrs. Drew, if ye overbalance yourself, I'll be blaming myself."
Roxanna gasped and dumped herself off the bucket and into the arms of an old man scarcely taller than she. With a chuckle, he set her on her feet again.
"And barefoot, too? Beware of broken glass."
She did not know him, even as she held out her hand and allowed him to shake it. "You seem to know me, sir."
He released her hand and after sweeping off a winter's accumulation of rotting leaves, motioned for her to sit on the edge of the porch. "I'd feel better if you put on your shoes, ma'am," he said. "My name is Tibbie Winslow, Lord Winn's bailiff. And I've seen you walking about the place before, Mrs. Drew."
"I hope you do not mind," she said as she pulled on her stockings as discreetly as she could and pushed her feet back into her shoes. "I am not really one to cause alarm."
He chuckled again and looked carefully as she tugged her stockings to her knees. "I belong to St. Catherine's parish, ma'am, and let me tell you we were as sorry to hear about your husband's death as the folks in Whitcomb parish."
"Thank you, Mr. Winslow," she said quietly, touched by his matter-of-fact words.
When her shoes were tied, he stood up and patted his pocket. "Now then, Mrs. Drew, would you like to look inside?"
It was ridiculous, she told herself as she smiled into his face and nodded, her eyes bright. "If you please, sir," she said. "I like old houses." And I am desperate to find a place, she did not say.
He opened the door, leaning his shoulder into it when the key was not enough to allow entrance. "Warped," he grumbled, and then stepped aside to let her in.
There was a parlor, dining room, kitchen, and library on the main level, with floors buckled by rain from broken windows. She skirted carefully around a gaping hole of burned timbers in the parlor floor.
"Gypsies," Winslow muttered, and motioned toward the second level, where she found three bedrooms and a modest dressing room. The roof leaked in all these rooms and the wallpaper hung in sorrowful tatters, dismal evidence of neglect. As she gazed about her with growing interest, Roxanna could see what twenty-five years of off and on war with France and absentee landlords had done.
Then she did what she never should have done, but what all women did in a deserted house. As she walked from empty room to empty room, she began to put her furniture in each place, imagining the girls' bed next to that window, and Helen sitting on that floor with her dolls and a cozy fire in the rusty grate. She would take the front bedroom, with its view of the park behind Moreland. She could pull up her chair to the window on cold days and watch winter birds at the feeder she would hang right under the eaves.
"I wonder how many fine old homes have been ruined because too many men have been too busy fighting Napoleon?" she mused out loud as she mentally rearranged her furniture and put curtains at each bare window. Broken glass crunched underfoot as she folded clothes into imaginary bureaus and placed flowers in phantom vases.
"More than I care to mention," Winslow stated and closed the bedroom door behind them. "Mind yourself on them stairs, now then, Mrs. Drew." He
It was of honey-colored stone, too, and more shabby than the manor, with crumbling mortar, and rain gutters stuffed with debris. She noticed several broken windows as she walked around the house, wishing for a box to stand on so she could peer into the rooms. She found a wooden bucket with the handle missing, and turned it over to balance on it and peer into the front room. She rubbed at the glass with her sleeve until she cleared a small spot and then raised herself up on tiptoe.
"Mrs. Drew, if ye overbalance yourself, I'll be blaming myself."
Roxanna gasped and dumped herself off the bucket and into the arms of an old man scarcely taller than she. With a chuckle, he set her on her feet again.
"And barefoot, too? Beware of broken glass."
She did not know him, even as she held out her hand and allowed him to shake it. "You seem to know me, sir."
He released her hand and after sweeping off a winter's accumulation of rotting leaves, motioned for her to sit on the edge of the porch. "I'd feel better if you put on your shoes, ma'am," he said. "My name is Tibbie Winslow, Lord Winn's bailiff. And I've seen you walking about the place before, Mrs. Drew."
"I hope you do not mind," she said as she pulled on her stockings as discreetly as she could and pushed her feet back into her shoes. "I am not really one to cause alarm."
He chuckled again and looked carefully as she tugged her stockings to her knees. "I belong to St. Catherine's parish, ma'am, and let me tell you we were as sorry to hear about your husband's death as the folks in Whitcomb parish."
"Thank you, Mr. Winslow," she said quietly, touched by his matter-of-fact words.
When her shoes were tied, he stood up and patted his pocket. "Now then, Mrs. Drew, would you like to look inside?"
It was ridiculous, she told herself as she smiled into his face and nodded, her eyes bright. "If you please, sir," she said. "I like old houses." And I am desperate to find a place, she did not say.
He opened the door, leaning his shoulder into it when the key was not enough to allow entrance. "Warped," he grumbled, and then stepped aside to let her in.
There was a parlor, dining room, kitchen, and library on the main level, with floors buckled by rain from broken windows. She skirted carefully around a gaping hole of burned timbers in the parlor floor.
"Gypsies," Winslow muttered, and motioned toward the second level, where she found three bedrooms and a modest dressing room. The roof leaked in all these rooms and the wallpaper hung in sorrowful tatters, dismal evidence of neglect. As she gazed about her with growing interest, Roxanna could see what twenty-five years of off and on war with France and absentee landlords had done.
Then she did what she never should have done, but what all women did in a deserted house. As she walked from empty room to empty room, she began to put her furniture in each place, imagining the girls' bed next to that window, and Helen sitting on that floor with her dolls and a cozy fire in the rusty grate. She would take the front bedroom, with its view of the park behind Moreland. She could pull up her chair to the window on cold days and watch winter birds at the feeder she would hang right under the eaves.
"I wonder how many fine old homes have been ruined because too many men have been too busy fighting Napoleon?" she mused out loud as she mentally rearranged her furniture and put curtains at each bare window. Broken glass crunched underfoot as she folded clothes into imaginary bureaus and placed flowers in phantom vases.
"More than I care to mention," Winslow stated and closed the bedroom door behind them. "Mind yourself on them stairs, now then, Mrs. Drew." He
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