When I inquire as to her whereabouts, I am told that she has gone for a walk. I don’t blame her for wanting one. The day is gorgeous, the temperature perfect, and I would have stayed out much longer on my ride if I weren’t so keen to see her again. An hour later, in the midst of a conversation with my bailiff, I look up to see a carriage draw up to the front of the manor. A Larkspear carriage, which I have decidedly not ordered. But I am no longer the only person in this manor with the authority to order such a carriage. “You will have the funds for the ditches, Mr. Carroll,” I tell my bailiff. “We will save the discussion of new fences for another day.” I do not, as a rule, truncate meetings with my agents, my solicitors, or my estate managers. Mr. Carroll tries his best to hide his astonishment. Then again, I am a man on my honeymoon and really ought not to be involved at all in discussions concerning fences or drainage ditches. I go up to my bride’s rooms. She is not there, but her maid is, carefully packing her dresses into a large trunk.
