“So they must,” she shouted back and left him to it.
It was quite ungentlemanly of him to be performing manual labor. But come to think of it, his days at Eton had been heavily driven by sports—association football in the Michaelmas Half, field game during the Easter Half, and come the Summer Half, cricket. The sedentary nature of married life must contribute to the ennui of it. And the demolition of the north wing, besides the satisfaction of literally destroying the house that had derailed his life, provided an outlet for a young man’s pent-up energy.
It also gave them something to talk about at dinner, the only time of the day they spent in each other’s company and not much time at that, as he had no use for protracted dinners—in fact he still ate like a student, with a speed she found difficult to match.
So it was during the taking down of the north wing that she learned about the nest of bats in the attic, the mold that had been growing inside the plaster, the fact that the oldest man in the demolition party had fought in the Crimean War in his youth. She told him of her plans to build an electrical plant on-site, wire the house with electricity, and modernize the plumbing.
“You would not believe the flush commodes that the man in London tried to sell me. They had the queen’s face painted in the bowl.”
Lord Fitzhugh choked on his lamb. “You are making this up.”
“I am not. I was aghast, while the man tried to reassure me that it was all perfectly proper.”
“I hope you did not buy any. I don’t think I can—” They stared at each other for a moment and both burst out laughing.
“No, neither can I—ever!” she declared emphatically, still laughing. “No, our new commodes will be blue enamel, with white daisies.”
He choked again. “Daisies?”
“Believe me, I tried to find a more masculine commode—something with maybe a hunt scene or a dragon painted inside—but such a thing apparently does not exist.”
“Daisies,” he still sounded dazed. “My friends will never stop laughing.”
It was the first time he ever alluded to the possible presence of his friends at his home. For a moment her imagination ran away and she saw a crowded drawing room, full of laughter and high spirits. And she saw the two of them at the center of all that cheerful goodwill, Lord and Lady Fitzhugh. And someone raising his glass, crying, “To our delightful hosts.”
“Good thing I’m not inviting anyone here,” said the real-life Lord Fitzhugh.
She bent her face to her plate, so he would not see her disappointment.
She accepted this marriage for the alliance of convenience it was. But when they worked toward a common purpose, when they conspired to keep the secret of the house’s “repairs” from the rest of the world, and when he sat across from the table from her and laughed, it was nearly impossible to believe that they were not building something together.
They were: a better house.
And nothing else.
Lord Fitzhugh left Henley Park frequently. Most of the time he left in the morning and returned at night—he’d stop by Oxford to see both Helena and Lord Hastings, and then call on Venetia, whose house was not too far from the university. But occasionally, he stayed away for longer.
When he told Millie he’d be gone a week, she issued an invitation to her mother to come stay with her—her father would be indignant about the north wing, but Mrs. Graves would understand their choice to not burden themselves and their heirs with a house that could never be adequately maintained.
Mrs. Graves, when she came, was more than a little shocked at the architectural skeleton of what had once been the north wing. “Whose decision was this?” she asked, her jaw slack.
“It was a joint decision,” answered Millie. She could not help the note of pride seeping into her voice. “Our thoughts are exactly aligned on this matter.”
Mrs. Graves considered the remnants of the north wing for another minute. Then, she smiled and gave Millie’s hand a squeeze. “Very good, my love. Keep on making these joint decisions. They will give you a foundation upon which to build a life.”
It was late November, the days cold and damp. Millie and Mrs. Graves spent most of their time inside, drinking hot cocoa and discussing the manor’s many pressing needs. But on the day of Mrs. Graves’s departure, the sky cleared to a glorious blue and they took a walk on the grounds of Henley Park.
Millie showed Mrs. Graves the walled kitchen garden. She’d been busy hiring more staff for the estate. They were still shorthanded, but work had begun on clearing the kitchen garden.