The Secrets Of Wiscombe Chase. Christine Merrill

One could entertain both ladies and gentlemen here, without fear of embarrassment.

      But no room he’d seen so far had been so totally transformed as his own bedroom. The dusty velvet chairs had been replaced with benches and stools covered in saddle leather. The heavy green baize on the walls had been exchanged for a cream-coloured, watered silk. The hangings over the bed were no longer maroon brocade. They were now a blue sarsenet shot through with silver. To stare up at the canopy would be like staring into a night sky full of stars.

      The table at the side of the bed held the two volumes of the Théorie Analytique des Probabilités and a fine wooden version of Roget’s new slide rule. He’d heard about the advances in mathematics since he’d been away and had been eager to return to his books. If he wished, he could take up his studies this very night.

      Best of all, he could do it without the distractions of dozens of glass eyes. All evidence of his father’s skill as a hunter had been removed. The walls were decorated with watercolour landscapes. He stepped closer to admire the work and started in surprise.

      He knew the place in the picture. He had been there himself. It was Talavera de la Reina in Spain. But the picture was of the sleepy village and not the backdrop for battle. The next was of the Nive flowing through France. And here was Waterloo. Beautiful places all, not that he’d had the time to enjoy the scenery when he was there. But this was how he wanted to think of them. The land had healed. The blood he had shed was not muddying the dust. It had soaked into the ground and left only grass and wildflowers as memorial to the dead.

      As he admired the work, he felt relaxed and at peace, as though he had finally come home. This was his room, totally and completely. If he had written his wishes out and sent them ahead, he could not have been more pleased with the results. The years of sacrifice had been rewarded with a haven of tranquillity. He could leave the war behind and become the man he had once intended to be.

      This must have been Lillian’s doing. No mere servant would have dared to take such liberties. Hadn’t Mrs Fitz said it had been his wife’s orders to keep the place locked until his return? But how had she known what he would like? How had she managed this without consulting him?

      Most importantly, why had she done it?