Henrietta crossed to stand beside her aunt's chair. It was illogical to be annoyed at his punctilious behaviour. Despite the range of windows down its length the gallery was darkened by heavy brocade hangings and old oak panelling and as she listening politely to her aunt's enquiries about the journey, she became aware of a figure waiting in the shadows at the far end of the long room.
‘You have a new clerk with you, sir?’ The man did not look like her old acquaintance Adam Thomas.
‘Not mine.’ Lawyer Stone nodded in Matthew's direction. ‘He's Sheridan's man.’
‘There is refreshment in the kitchen for him,’ Aunt Susan offered hospitably.
‘Thank you, madam, l prefer he stays here.’ Sheridan was almost brusque, but Henrietta noted how the green eyes sought out the half-hidden figure, sending what seemed to her a silent message.
Intrigued, she longed to ask why Lawyer Stone had brought these two strangers to Winterbourne. Too well-mannered to ask directly, she waited, one hand on the carved back-rest of her aunt's chair, and listened to the conversation. No doubt the reason would emerge in time.
‘Fetch a footstool, Mary.’ Mistress Clifford ordered, as the older lawyer winced and rubbed his knee. ‘Why do you travel in that old carriage if it only serves to aggravate your gout, sir?’ she scolded with the familiarity of long acquaintance.
He groaned as he lifted his foot on to the stool, but replied with a chuckle, ‘It's not the draughts in my carriage, madam, it's age and good living.’
Aunt Susan sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Your housekeeper should look after you better.’
‘She tries, but what I really need, madam, is a good wife.’
Unaccountably Aunt Susan blushed deeply, but replied with spirit, ‘You have been too long a bachelor, sir, to settle to the married state.’
‘I know.’ The lawyer sighed deeply. ‘And where would I find a wife to take me with all my manifold faults?’
Glancing between the two of them, Henrietta was suddenly struck with a startling new idea. Was that how the wind was blowing? Aunt Susan and Lawyer
Stone? How had she been so blind not to see it before?
She suppressed a smile of satisfaction at the thought of her gentle aunt finding happiness after all these years of widowhood and looked up to find Matthew Sheridan's eyes on her again.
Flustered, she broke into the conversation. ‘Is this your promised visit to read my brother Francis's will, sir?’
‘Henrietta,’ her aunt protested. ‘You are too hasty. Let the gentlemen at least finish their wine before you press business upon them.’ She had never approved of the role Henrietta had been forced to assume in the absence of male relatives, and she was constantly expressing shock at her niece's unwomanly interest in the business of the estate.
‘I am sorry, Aunt.’ How could she explain that the presence of this silent stranger was making an already painful occasion even more of an ordeal? ‘I want this matter behind me. I do not relish the discussing of it, but it cannot be postponed. I must know how matters stand with Winterbourne.’
Both men seemed to recognise the distress in her tone, but it seemed only to sharpen her aunt's annoyance at her bad manners. ‘It can certainly be postponed until the gentlemen have rested from their journey.’ Henrietta might be head of the household, but Aunt Clifford had been her guardian since her mother died, and, although a gentle woman, never forgot her duty to bring up her niece as a lady.
Stung, Henrietta dropped her aunt a small curtsy and moved in a rustle of silk to the window seat in the central bay window. She stood and stared blankly at the glass, her eyes unfocused on her own image. She must not disgrace herself with any loss of control, not in front of this austere stranger whose silent presence was unnerving her enough to deserve her aunt's reprimand. Was she so unused to the company of mature men that she was robbed of conversation? No, it was Matthew Sheridan himself, he was the cause of her unease.
A second image appeared in the glass, a tall black reflection overlaying her own. As if her thinking about him had conjured him up, Matthew Sheridan stood
behind her, a glass in either hand. ‘You are upset. Take this, drink it slowly.’ It was an instruction, not a suggestion.
Their fingertips brushed as she took the glass and she was very aware of the warmth of his hand, the scent of leathe
r, warm linen and, not unpleasantly, well-exercised man. She sank down on the window-seat and gestured to him to sit beside her. That was better, she didn't need to look at him now.
Sipping the sweet wine, she gathered her composure, once more mistress of herself. ‘Have you come from Hertford this day, sir?’
Matthew Sheridan crossed one booted leg over the other and half turned to survey the view from the long window. ‘From London yesterday, then overnight at Stone's house.’
He was obviously uninterested in discussing his journey. Piqued that he would not make an effort at conversation, Henrietta cast round for another neutral topic but failed to find one. Nor was the silent presence of the clerk watching her from the shadows a help.
‘Mr Stone introduced you as his colleague.’
‘A courtesy only. We are both lawyers,’ he responded indifferently, his attention apparently still on the view outside.
It was like pulling teeth. Henrietta gritted hers. She was used to more attention than this from gentlemen. Had the man no conversation, or was he deliberately trying to unsettle her? No such constraints afflicted her aunt and Lawyer Stone, who were talking animatedly at the other end of the room. Her aunt seemed almost flirtatious.