The Sixth Henry by Caroline Warfield

Author:Caroline Warfield [Warfield, Caroline]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, romance, Historical
Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.
Published: 2023-12-15T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

Disappointment thickened in Margaret’s throat. Did you really think he would come to Dove Abbey on the basis of an informal invitation? His family would have his head.

Neither one of them had much to say after that. Wrapped up in her own emotions and conscious of the sensations flowing from her hand wrapped in his, she paid little attention to their direction until he led her past the mounded snow of the gardens to a path through trees, skeletal in their winter sleep. The well-trodden ground told her this path led somewhere important. Her heart quickened.

Roseleigh was situated on the north side of a slope. He led her south, through a walled garden she assumed to be the kitchen garden, and over the rise, and there it was, Roseleigh’s magnificent glasshouse glittering in the sun.

There he paused, his gaze filled with pride, and she couldn’t fault him. The central block rose two stories high, long wings stretched east and west, a shorter one south. The center and long wings were made of glass from the foot-high foundation, a palace of crystal. The south wing was brick halfway up. Taken as a whole, it made Dove Abbey’s modest glasshouse look like a potting shed.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s get warm.”

Snow disappeared as they neared the place, revealing paving stones all along the glasshouse. When he opened the door, the same stones continued to form the floor of the central conservatory. It was, as she expected, more orangery than palm house, filled as it was with fruit trees. A tall apple tree sat in the middle, surrounded by small ones she thought were apricot, pear, and orange. Berry bushes lined the walls.

“The west wing grows pineapples, herbs, and vegetables for our table. Would you care to take a look?” he asked.

Margaret couldn’t reply. She stared up at the gracefully arching glass ceiling and the bountiful trees. “Miraculous,” she murmured.

As she circled the conservatory, she could feel his eyes following her. He stood patiently by the door to the west wing, arms folded. When she approached, he held out his hand, and she gave him hers. He searched her face with tender concentration. He had promised warmth, and Margaret felt the heat of his eyes and hand.

“You’re flushed,” he said without breaking eye contact. “You must be too warm.”

She took back her hand and unwrapped her scarf. Her fingers went up to unbutton her cloak, but he got there first, removing it and folding it over his arm. “There is a coal-fired steam heater at the far east end. You’ll have noticed the iron grillwork along the floor. It isn’t there for decoration.”

She hadn’t. She studied it now, peering along the length of the west wing. The grill work ran the entire way down the center. It circled the central conservatory. She leaned over and gasped when she felt the warmth rising from it. “A modern marvel,” she said.

“It is that. Grandpapa was always fascinated by progress. And of course, updates came to the glasshouse first before the manor.

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