One Bride Required!. Emma Richmond

and which ran on either side to the front of the house, and ambled aimlessly through the warren of bedrooms and one antiquated bathroom. He took a brief look into the east wing to make sure no further damage had occurred, then found the small back staircase that went down to the rabbit warren of rooms that had once presumably housed the scullery, dairy and kitchen, and which would definitely need major remodification.

      Returning to the top of the staircase, he headed in the opposite direction, into rooms that interconnected. Perhaps they’d once been the nursery. One room for Nanny, one for the child and one for playing in, or taking tea in front of a roaring fire. No sign of it now, of course—even the fire surround had been removed. By whom? he wondered. But it was only an absent thought because his mind was still on Phoenix.

      As he walked into the room at the front, a small smile tugged at his mouth as he stared up at the ornate cornice. ‘Behold,’ he murmured softly, ‘one entablature. I probably have several others, of course... And talking to yourself is the first sign of madness. Or is it the second?’ But then, he was mad, wasn’t he? To take on this monstrosity. Some of the rooms were damp. Most were inhabitable... He should have sold. It was going to cost an absolute fortune to restore. But the view had to be almost worth it, he decided as he stared from the window. Open fields, hedgerows, coppices, and, in the foreground, the quaint and rather delightful village of Mincott Oddly. Crooked cottages around an ancient green.

      What was she doing now? He could hear no sounds from the rest of the house. Was she thinking about him? A small conceit, he thought wryly; she might not be thinking about him at all. But he wanted her to be. Wanted her to feel as he was feeling. An ache in the loins, a heady feeling of adventure.

      Fool, he scolded himself. But wasn’t it allowed to be a fool just once in your life? Twice, he mentally corrected. He’d been a fool ten years ago.

      Shaking off his introspection, because thinking about it did him absolutely no good at all, and intending to go and look for Mike, he was momentarily distracted by the sight of a small door on his right. He’d always assumed it was a cupboard, but, opening it, he found a short flight of stairs, which of course had to be investigated. Climbing carefully, on treads that felt decidedly rickety beneath his weight, he opened the door at the top and peered into the cavernous space beneath the roof. Too dark to see anything clearly, and probably infested by spiders. He carefully retreated and made his way back to the landing.

      Hearing minuscule scratching sounds, he looked over the banister and saw Phoenix, delicately picking plaster from his walls. For a long, long moment he watched her, unobserved. Her face was intent, but rather sad, he thought.

      ‘What are you doing?’ he asked softly.

      Startled, she looked up guiltily, and, cursing himself for a fool, knowing what was about to happen, he swung himself over the railing, dropped lightly down to the half-landing, and was just in time to prevent her stumbling backwards down the staircase.

      ‘Sorry,’ he apologised, his breathing barely altered. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

      ‘No. I mean, it’s all right. No damage done.’

      ‘Except to the plaster,’ he said drily. ‘I thought the whole idea was to put plaster on the walls, not take it off.’

      ‘Yes. It was already cracked,’ she excused hastily. ‘I mean, I didn’t... You could have broken your neck jumping like that.’

      ‘Nonsense, I’m incredibly fit,’ he boasted mockingly. ‘So, what were you doing?’

      With a sigh that sounded despairing, she murmured, ‘I just wanted to see what was underneath.’

      Eyes gentle, he asked, ‘And what is?’

      ‘I don’t know, but...’

      ‘Then look.’ Inserting his fingernail beneath a flake of plaster, he pulled it free. ‘Looks like an old window.’

      When she didn’t immediately answer, he turned to look at her, and was astonished to see shock, almost awed bewilderment on her lovely face as she stared at what he had exposed.

      ‘Oh, my,’ she whispered reverently as she reached out to pull off another, larger piece of plaster. ‘It can’t be.’

      Amused, he asked, ‘What can’t?’

      ‘Bar tracery.’

      ‘Why can’t it?’ he asked, with absolutely no idea what bar tracery was.

      ‘Because it can’t.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Sorry?’

      Lips twitching, he queried, ‘What is bar tracery?’

      ‘This. I need to look outside.’ With an abrupt movement that took him by surprise, she began haring down the stairs, and nearly mowed down a tall, thin gentleman, who was just crossing the hall at the bottom.

      ‘Whoa,’ he laughed.

      ‘Sorry,’ she apologised hastily. With a fleeting smile, she continued out through the front door.

      ‘Who was that?’ Mike exclaimed in astonished appreciation.

      Face bland, Nash murmured, ‘My house detective. I have bar tracery.’ With a muffled laugh, and not waiting for any further comment, he continued after Phoenix, but, if he didn’t miss his guess, his architect would be following close behind.

      ‘Don’t you want to know who that was?’ he teased gently as he caught her up.

      She halted so suddenly that he nearly knocked her over. ‘What?’ she asked blankly.

      ‘The man in the hall.’

      ‘Oh. Who was it?’ she asked obediently.

      ‘My architect.’

      ‘Well, I wouldn’t let him make recommendations until the house has been investigated properly.’

      ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘He’s just looking.’

      She nodded, halted at the back of the house, and looked up.

      Following her gaze, not at all sure what he was supposed to be looking at, he finally proffered, ‘A bricked-up window?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And is that good?’ he asked as he turned to smile at the architect, who had followed them.

      A reciprocal smile on his thin, humorous face, Mike also glanced upwards.

      ‘Good?’ she queried. ‘Good? It’s Decorated Gothic!’

      ‘Ah.’

      ‘It’s the most... I can’t believe it. Oh, I can’t believe it,’ she whispered, her eyes still fixed on the window.

      ‘Does that mean you’ll stay?’

      But she wasn’t listening. ‘Hardly any of them have survived,’ she breathed. ‘Or only in cathedrals. Lincoln and Carlisle, Melrose Abbey, York Minster. You’ll need to hack the interior plaster off very, very carefully, of course, but you can see from here that the stonework is much narrower, and in “bars”. See how the window area is much larger and wider, and encompassed by an equilateral arch?’

      ‘Yes,’ he agreed, his eyes on her beautiful profile.

      ‘Divided vertically by stone mullions, it gives five, seven or even nine lights. Mid-fourteenth century.’ Turning, only to find him staring at her instead of the window, she looked hastily away. ‘You haven’t instructed any builders...?’

      ‘No,’ he denied. ‘I don’t, as yet, have any builders.’

      ‘Good. Only it’s very important...’

      ‘Not to disturb anything?’ he said.

      ‘Yes.’ Looking anywhere but at him, she murmured, ‘Perhaps you ought to think about getting the Manor listed.’

      ‘No,’