It was now nearly a month later. Lenox had grown accustomed to living in Lenox House again and felt happy, pottering about during the days and sleeping well during the cold nights, back in the heart of his family, back in his childhood home, reading quietly and eating well and resting his mind. He had made a bargain with himself that he would only begin to think about Barnard when he went back to London, which wouldn’t be for some time.
One Sunday at midafternoon, he had just come back from a long walk through the grounds. He had taken to doing this every day. He would walk past the thickets of old trees at the end of the park, which he greeted like friends, and then across the stream that divided the park from the wild acres of the property, where he and Edmund had played as children. After perhaps three miles, he would reach several large rented farms at the south end of the estate, which buzzed with activity even through winter. Horses grazing, vets examining the pregnant cows and dogs herding the rest of them, rows of chicken coops where the farmer’s wife went every afternoon to find a new batch of eggs. It was a life he loved. He would watch for a while and then turn around and head for home.
Back now, he paused briefly in the parlor to warm his face and hands at the great hearth. His feet, of course, were quite warm enough, thanks to Mr. Linehan.
It was a large solid house, divided into two wings and shaped like an L. In the older wing were the great hall, where the family portraits were, and the chapel where the family had been that very morning. But the bedrooms there, because they were small and medieval, went unused. They all slept in the new wing.
Lenox was staying in his old room, which Sir Edmund reserved for his use alone. It was attached to a good-sized study, where he kept a few duplicates of his favorite books, histories of the Roman Empire and journals on English archaeology, plus pictures and papers from university, which he sifted through now and again. It also had a desk and a small fireplace, and he had his morning tea there, writing letters in his robe and slippers before joining the family for breakfast.
Warmer now, he leaned his walking stick against a wall before going off to search for his brother. He would probably be in his library, where he usually stayed when his family was gone, and Molly had taken the boys over to town to see a play. The two brothers were alone in the house.
Strange to think of it as Edmund’s library; it had always been their father’s, where the young Edmund and Charles had gone, in season, to be chided, praised, or punished, from their earliest years to their time at Harrow and then Oxford. But now it was cluttered with the things of the ninth baronet, blue books from Parliament, letters, and a portrait of Molly. All that really seemed the same were the old desk, the family books, and the small diamond-shaped windows at the back of the room.
Lenox and his brother had always been affectionate and spent a good deal of time together. But during this visit, sitting here together late at night, they had talked much more deeply than ever before. They discussed their family; they were the only people who remembered their parents as they did, and it was nice to talk about them together. They talked, at last, about Edmund’s real role in Parliament, which his modesty had concealed for so long. Lenox told his brother about old cases, which he had never bothered to mention, and they conspired over small matters of the estate.
Now, when Charles knocked, Edmund was there and invited him to sit down.
“I’ve just been for a walk. I was wondering, do the Adamses still rent Darrow Farm?”
“Yes, indeed. Do you remember old Adams?”
“Remember him? He terrified us both for years.”
The brothers laughed. “Yes,” said Edmund. “I’m afraid he’s dead, but his son keeps the farm up. He makes a very good living out of it, too.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Do you remember-?”
They launched into a nostalgic conversation about the former tenants of the farms, which spread into a discussion of the masters at their grammar school, and it was nearly time for dinner when they had stopped.
“Are Molly and the boys coming back?” asked Lenox.
“I shouldn’t think so. They’re bound to go over to the Lenox Arms, which the boys think is the most thrilling thing they do. And Molly, truth be told, likes it herself. I’m afraid she’s quite lenient about it. But old Jos. Turner runs it, and he’s a good man. He’s in charge of nearly all the politics down at Markethouse, these days.”
This inaugurated another conversation, about Jos. Turner and his father, also called Jos. Turner.
They decided to eat in the library. It was dark by now, because the winter nights began early. Edmund lit some lamps and the two ate in front of the warm fire, on small trays, while snow began to fall outside.
Sunday had been a quiet day, but by Monday the house was again in full swing. Molly had invited a friend of hers to stay, a rather pompous but good-natured old woman named Lady Milton, and the boys went to school in the old wing of the house with several of the local boys. Edmund rode out with the land’s steward to look at the fields he had taken for himself, after an older childless tenant’s death, and Charles, who kept a three-year-old mare in the country, rode out with them.
The entire household had a lively lunch together with the local curate, who had just married a bashful young girl, and Lady Milton, who acted as a sort of godmother to Molly.
After lunch Lenox retreated to his small study, where he sat by the fire and read one of the books that his bookseller had shipped out the other day, at his request that anything new be forwarded to the country. It was a study of the Italian artists with color plates, and he was enjoying it quite a lot.
But he laid it aside after a few moments, to write down several thoughts he had had about Barnard, and made a note to ask McConnell for his opinion before picking the book up again.
He looked out the window. Yes, he thought, he was very comfortable-very happy here, among his family. But he would only stay for another ten days, not another three weeks as planned. And though he smiled at the prospect of the ten days, he smiled, too, at the prospect of being back on Hampden Lane, where any ring at the door could mean a new case.
His thoughts were interrupted, though, when he saw a single figure on the skyline. It occurred to him that he had been waiting all day to see such a thing, for it was the day when Lady Jane had said she would come up from the city to visit her brother, who had only recently become the next earl, after their father’s death.
He had been keeping an eye out for a carriage-but of course, he realized, she would ride. She was an excellent rider, even in winter, and had been since they were children and rode all across the county together. It was typical of her, Lenox thought, his feet up on his desk and his back to the fire-a singular strand of strength, beyond most women, ran through her, even when she seemed weak. So very few women rode.
A few minutes later the reunion was complete. She had kissed Molly and Edmund, given the boys (who had been permitted to leave their schoolroom) a small present, and said hello to Lady Milton. And lastly, she had given Charles a kiss on the cheek and looked into his eyes happily, while her hat brushed against his hair, and said she was very glad to see him again, and London had been lonely without him.
Chance had it that it was nearly , and all of the party consented, graciously, to stay, though Lady Milton said that she had really better be going afterward.
One thing Charles could say for Molly was that she served an excellent generous tea, almost as good as his mother’s. There were hot muffins and biscuits, and there were a few sandwiches for the boys, who gulped them down as Charles and Edmund once had. Then there was a slice of cake all round, and after half an hour Lenox and Lady Jane had fallen into easy, happy conversation together while the group broke into smaller parts and everybody helped themselves to a third cup of tea.
Soon, unfortunately, Lady Milton would be obliged to go, and Sir Edmund returned to his office to look over a new report on the French alliance, and the boys went outside to play a complex ongoing game, which nobody but them could understand. Molly and her friend went upstairs to have a little time to themselves before Lady Milton’s departure, and the two neighbors were left alone.
“I should be going, I’m afraid,” said Lady Jane, “before it becomes dark.”
Charles looked through the window. “It’s started to already,” he said. “May I ride back with you?”
“Oh, you needn’t-it’s awfully cold, you know.”
“Ah, but I’ve been to get new boots, and I never get too cold, anyway.”
“Well, then,” she said, “yes, thank you,” and they took their coats from the butler and walked out to the parkway, where they only had to wait a moment for their horses.
“You shall have to come over for supper tomorrow,” said Lady Jane, while they waited. “Stephen”-her brother-“wanted me to ask.”
“Of course,” said Charles. “How long do you plan to stay?”
“Oh, two weeks or so.”
“Well, we shall see a lot of each other, I daresay.”
“Yes,” she said, and smiled.
The air was cool, but it was a beautiful night, and they rode off in tandem, galloping out of the park and into the countryside. They rode briskly to the west, talking and laughing together, until some minutes later Edmund, glancing up by chance in his library, could only see their twinned figure against the pale darkness of early evening, blurred together into one, far off in the distance.