Free Rapture Becomes Her by Shirlee Busbee

original castle massive turrets rose up to meet the sullen gray skies. Woodland of birch, white willow, oak and beech planted by a Joslyn over two centuries ago fanned out around the massive stone, wood and brick house. Large, gray slabs of Horsham stone covered the multi-leveled roof; mullioned windows gleamed and numerous brick chimneys speared skyward.
    Barnaby gaped like a bumpkin at a fair seeing a two-headed pig for the first time. He’d always been proud of his stately home in Virginia with its flowing verandas, tall windows and graceful lines. The three-storied house at Green Hill was considered one of the largest and most elegant houses in the surrounding area, but this! Barnaby swallowed. Good God! He’d wager that Green Hill and three or four houses of that ilk could be swallowed up within the walls of Windmere as if they’d never been.
    Lamb chuckled beside him, saying teasingly, “And to think that a simple planter from Virginia is now lord of all of this.”
    “Christ! No wonder you didn’t want to tell me about the place,” Barnaby said, a note of awe lingering in his voice. He shook his head, bemused. “I never expected anything like this. It’s magnificent! But I’m going to need a guide to find my way from the bedroom to the dining room.”
    “You’ll have that—I think the staff numbers around thirty.” Lamb grinned. “And that’s not counting your stablemen and shepherds and bailiff and—”
    “Stop! My head is spinning.” He shot Lamb a pitiful look. “You forget the night I just passed and that I am a wounded man. Remember my poor head.”
    Lamb guffawed. “You are too hard-headed to be slowed by that little bump you took last night.” His laughter fled and he said softly, “Whether you like it or not, this is your destiny . . . unless you intend to run like a coward back to Virginia.”
    Barnaby shot him a glance almost of dislike. “You just had to say it, didn’t you?”
    “Been waiting for just the right moment.”
     
    Dismounting in front of the arched and pedimented three-story porch in the middle of the building, Barnaby was unprepared for the commotion his arrival caused. The pair of molded and paneled oak doors, dark with age, swung open the moment his foot touched the bricked driveway and a half-dozen servants, some wearing dark green livery, spilled out to greet him. Like arriving majesty he was gently wafted through the doors, and upon entering the house, to his stunned gaze, it appeared as if the grand hallway was filled with a crowd of people, bobbing and bowing, all of them seeming eager to meet him. Or catch their first sight of the American, he thought dryly.
    The house steward down to the smallest, shiest scullery maid came forth to be introduced to the new master and most passed in a blur before Barnaby. Raised as the son of an aristocratic wealthy planter in Virginia, he was used to servants and elegant surroundings, but he was still a bit startled at the size of the staff. Did he really need six scullery maids?
    The introductions over, leaving word with the butler to bring up a tray, Lamb hustled Barnaby upstairs to the quiet of his suite of rooms. When the door shut behind him, Barnaby looked at Lamb and muttered, “And that was just the house servants?”
    “Most of them—there were probably a half dozen you might have missed, and I thought I recognized one or two of the gardeners and a few stable folk that had finessed their way inside.”
    “Good God! It’s like a small city.” He glanced around the sitting room in which they were standing. Taking in the bronze damask upholstered sofas, leather-covered chairs and satinwood tables, the large mahogany desk near the bow window and the long sideboard against the far wall, he estimated that the room was large enough to hold a ball. An equally large bedroom decorated in the same shades lay beyond. His gaze was met with the same luxurious gold and tobacco silk-covered walls, and similar rugs in shades of