She shrugged. “I am an expert at solving problems.”
“That you are. Let me solve yours now and tuck you back into the carriage, safe and sound.” Teague was a strapping gentleman, thankfully. He handedly replaced Isleen and Fiona back into the carriage before carefully coming in again himself, taking one of the warm blankets and wrapping it around his legs in a way that would prevent so much as a fleck of mud from leaving his boots and trousers for the ladies’ skirts.
Fiona pressed her nose against the carriage window, straining to look upward as the carriage shifted to begin a steeper climb. “Do you think this castle will be like the Tower of London?” she asked. “Or more like the Rock of Cashel?”
“Both of those buildings are terribly old, m’dear,” Teague said with his head tilted against the back of the carriage. “This castle is newly built upon old foundations. I imagine it will feel modern in all the most important ways.”
“You mean there will be water closets?” Fiona asked, rather indelicately.
“Fiona,” their mother warned, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “A lady only asks about water closets when she needs one.”
“I will certainly need one when we finally arrive,” Fiona stated with a grim slant to her eyebrows. “We have been in this carriage all day, bumping along the roads like apples in a cart. What lady wouldn’t need a water closet on arrival at a castle with roads like these?”
Isleen had to fight against a laugh as her mother raised her eyes to the heavens, as though beseeching them for patience. Fiona was eighteen years younger than Teague and fifteen younger than Isleen. She’d been a late addition to their family, bringing great joy to their parents, but she’d also been spoiled rather more than was good for her. Thankfully, she had a kind nature overall. The long journey could be blamed for putting her out of sorts.
“We are nearly there, and once you have rested and had something to eat, I think you will perk right up.” Isleen gave her mother’s hand a gentle squeeze. “We all will.”
The carriage’s tilt changed as they moved to level ground. Isleen and Fiona moved as one to the windows and looked out. Isleen ignored her brother’s amused chuckle; they had arrived at last. The carriage turned, and neatly trimmed hedges came into view. And then, a tower soaring above them, then several smaller turrets, all of them with walls of bright yellow-gold stone. The modern castle, despite its recent build, appeared quite medieval.
What had she heard her brother call the style? Gothic revival. With the blue sky bright behind it, and the green lawns stretching away from the stone walls, she’d never seen a castle look more cheerful. Indeed, it made her think of summer and warmth, even though she wore gloves to protect her fingers from the December air.
“It looks like a fairy tale,” Fiona whispered with reverence.
The carriage horses walked with lighter steps up the gravel and stone drive and into a part of the castle itself. They entered a portico that offered protection from the elements for weary travelers. The sounds of the horses’ hooves echoed in the open stone chamber as the vehicle came to a gentle stop.
Suddenly, Isleen felt quite small. Their family home in the country was nothing like this, and the house where they spent most of their time in Dublin could likely fit inside the main tower of Castle Clairvoir with room to spare.
From the outside, the Duke of Montfort’s seat of power was as imposing as it was beautiful. What would she find within? Hopefully just enough adventure to keep Fiona entertained but not so much that she traded in being a respectable young woman to be a piratical maiden.
A servant dressed in the duke’s livery opened the carriage door and bowed, allowing her brother to step out first and then take each of the women by the hand and assist them down to the ground. Isleen looked up at the long corridor before them, with windows high and bright, shields and tapestries hanging on the walls, along with rows and rows of swords. At the end of the hall, a cannon pointed their way.
Not the most welcoming sight, but certainly a statement of power,she thought, then allowed herself to count the number of liveried footmen and starched-aproned housemaids standing along the corridor. There had to be at least twenty of each, the women wearing dresses that seemed to indicate different statuses among them, and the men all dressed as though they had stepped out of the previous century rather than wearing sensible clothing from their current time. The servants at the farthest end from where they entered were the best dressed, for certain, which marked them high in the household pecking order.
Isleen couldn’t help sorting out what she knew of the Duke of Montfort and what this display of wealth might mean. Her brother wasn’t a high-ranking member of the peerage. A baron put him nearly at the level of the untitled. There was no need, therefore, to impress or intimidate someone of his status. Add to that his Irishness, and most Englishmen of rank would snub him.
This wasn’t a snub. Or a show of power.
Servants at the end of the long walkway came forward to take their wraps, overcoats, hats, and gloves, and Isleen’s fingers immediately felt chilled.
It occurred to her as they passed from the sword-covered and servant-lined corridor that the duke and his duchess were putting on this show for an entirely different reason. The only thing that made sense was that they wished to showhonorto their guests.
At the same moment of her realization, a deep voice boomed through the large room where the corridor had spilled the Irish guests.
“Welcome, Lord Dunmore, Lady Dunmore, to our home.”
The duke stood on the red carpet, a tall man with dark hair turning gray at the temples, dressed in a deep green coat and gold waistcoat that made his eyes blaze as green as the Emerald Isle itself. Despite his age, he cut a commanding figure. The floor around the carpet looked like a giant chessboard, black and white marble squares stretched in all directions, and two hearths large enough to roast a pair of boars blazed on either side of the room. The fires kept the room from falling to the low temperatures outside, but they wouldn’t warm Isleen’s hands from their respective places in the room.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Teague hadn’t stopped walking, nor had her mother. Fiona had to give her a poke to the small of her back before she realized she had fallen three steps behind.
Someone giggled, only to be immediately shushed. Isleen kept her chin high and a smile on her lips. Her gaze immediately found the source of the giggle. A boy near Fiona’s age stood at the end of the duke’s family line. The girl next to him had shushed him, and she smiled kindly when Isleen’s gaze met hers.
The duke spoke again, and Isleen forced herself to stop gawking at the finery like a country bumpkin and pay attention to a man with nearly as much power as the Regent himself.
“I am honored by your acceptance of our invitation, Lord Dunmore. It cannot be an easy thing to spend your Christmastide with near-strangers, though my son assures me he counts you as a friend. Will you introduce your family?”
“With pleasure, Your Grace. We are honored to be welcomed into your home. This is my mother, Lady Dunmore.”
“An honor, Your Grace.” Máthair’s polished curtsy left nothing to be desired.