Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Anna
I could taste the sea.
Salty, humid air filled my lungs as I drew in one last deep, sullen breath before taking the few stairs up to Graham’s front door. Highcliffe House, modest in size and painted a creamy white, stood against a speckling of trees in every direction. Weather-roughed potted bushes trimmed into spheres stood on either side of the door where his man waited.
Never had I imagined where Graham lived or what such a place would look like, feel like. From the front drive to the front door, the house was simple and plain, but also clean and tidy and somehow elegant. The latter I’d attribute to his mother’s hand.
Most importantly, Highcliffe House was far removed from Society’s eye. Far enough that anyone looking to appease their curiosity regarding my current state after what Mr. Lennox had done would be hard-pressed to find me. Perhaps, by the time Papa and I returned to London, something or someone else would have already overshadowed his transgression.
I caught Graham’s eyes watching me as I stepped inside the house. Though he tried to hide his thoughts behind a firm mask of polite manners and amiability, Graham disliked me as much as I disliked him. As per usual, his efforts were made strictly to win more of my father’s money. I was merely a pawn in his game.
“... such a happy surprise.” A woman’s greeting echoed from the hall.
“My mother, Mrs. Julia Everett,” Graham said as a petite woman strode toward us. Her light-brown hair was pinned into a simple knot atop her head, a more casual look that reminded me I hadn’t been expected as a guest. I held steady, firm against the awkwardness that swelled in my chest, to keep my nerves from overcoming me as Graham said, “Mother, Mr. Lane’s daughter, Miss Anna Lane.”
“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Everett,” I said with a curtsey. “I cannot thank you enough for hosting me on such short notice, and for so long.”
“Thank you, Miss Lane. How kind of you,” she replied, reaching out to squeeze my arm. “May I introduce my daughter, Genevieve.”
A girl a few years younger than I stepped forward. She was a mirror image of her mother, but all sharp edges. “How do you do, Miss Lane?”
I gauged from her piercing gaze and clever, pursed smile that she was not impressed with me. What had Graham told her about me? She was pretty, well-dressed in a wispy muslin, with a forced politeness she’d no doubt learned from her brother.
“I’ll admit, the Brighton Road is not an easy one to travel, all twists and turns and hills, but I am happy to be away from London for a time,” I said.
Miss Everett harrumphed a smile, and Graham shot her a weighted glance; then, as though on cue, his sister clasped her hands together and turned her gaze to mine. “You must be in want of tea, Miss Lane. Shall I ring for some?”
“I would dearly love a cup,” I said.
Miss Everett nodded stiffly, then turned on a heel. I noticed a stack of papers half-scribbled on and creased on the desk just outside the drawing room, and as though he’d been watching my line of sight, Graham swept a hand across them and shoved them inside the drawer.
“Please don’t let me interrupt your day,” he said to his mother. “I have a mountain of paperwork to see to.”
“But you’ve only just arrived,” his mother protested, a look of longing aimed at her son that I understood all too well. She missed him. Like I missed Papa. Men like ours were never around long enough.
Graham cleared his throat and gave his mother a warm smile. So warm, I almost did not recognize him. “I have a busy week, and I must prepare.”
I wanted to laugh. He could prepare for a lifetime, and my answer would still—would always—be no.
“But you will join us for dinner, won’t you?” his mother asked.
He leaned in and kissed his mother’s temple. “Of course. I shall be in my study if you need me.” Then he turned to me, and there was a decided lack of warmth. “You as well, Miss Lane. You are the object of my attention this week. If there is anything you need—”
“Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Everett,” I said blandly. We both knew his good manners were only for show. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself.” I briefly met his gaze, then turned, angling away from him. By the looks of things, his family was eager to have him home. I’d be doing us all a service by rejecting his investment offer.
He frowned, then bowed before stalking down the hall to some shadowed room.
His mother took my arm and laced it through her own as she led me toward the drawing room. “Forgive my son, Miss Lane. His mood comes and goes depending on the load he carries. After a good night’s rest, he shall be back to his cheery self.”
Cheery? I squeezed her arm tightly. Her son was a beast, but she was delightful.
The Everetts’ drawing room was quaint, well-kept, and clean. It was very simply furnished, save for the back corner, where stood the most exquisite and ornately carved harp. Lovely, but almost out of place against the dated carpets and the settee with its wooden arm chipped with age. None of it seemed to bother Mrs. Everett, though. Indeed, she seemed genuinely happy to receive me, and I was surprised by how instantly comfortable I felt in her presence.
Miss Everett took a seat beside me on the settee just as a servant came in with the tray, and Mrs. Everett, satisfied that we were settled, slipped out of the room.
Back straight, poised and purposeful, Miss Everett would not meet my eye as she poured the tea. “Do not feel obligated to eat, but our cook prepared a small service.”
“Thank you,” I said, helping myself to a little cake. My stomach rumbled; between my rushed morning and that horrible road, I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. “My father tells me you’ve not been in Brighton long. How do you find it?”
“We’ve lived here for almost a year,” she said, handing me a cup, then serving herself.
I got the distinct impression she would rather be somewhere else. Probably because of something Graham had told her about me. “Your home is very comfortable. Last I remember, you lived just outside of London. Did your brother drag you all the way out here?” I tried for humor, then took a sip and smiled warmly at her.
She patted her lips with a napkin, then stared at me with thinly veiled scrutiny. “My brother led us here. He has worked tirelessly to make Highcliffe House what it is. Indeed, I daresay every book, every blanket, every flower is evidence of his effort and care. We are not among those who are given anything and everything they desire, so we are very grateful for our modest and comfortable home.”
Oof. I’d offended her. I swallowed, then set my cake down. She did not like me. Not at all. “I see,” I said.
“Do you?” she said with a wry smile. Again, she tilted her head and gave me such a look, I almost thought I was in a London ballroom vying against her for the most eligible bachelor.
I set my tea and plate aside. Best to get straight to the point. “Miss Everett. I am not sure what your brother has told you about me—”
“My brother’s happiness and success mean a great deal to me. He works exceptionally hard—ten times as hard as other men—to get the same result. Whether you approve of him or not, his home is more than sufficient for the likes of you.”
My eyes widened, then hers did too, as though she just realized how forward and rude she’d been. I could have taken offense, were I not easily able to respect and discern her intention to defend her brother at all costs. He’d likely whined about me, told his entire family how horrible I was. But why on earth would she care if I approved of her brother? Disliked him, yes, but my approval of him did not matter. And I’d complimented his house! The girl rebounded my every word as though I’d smeared her brother’s name among the ton. My dislike of him was no secret, but hersof me seemed entirely unfounded.
Mrs. Everett strode into the room, replacing her initial look of exhaustion with one of happy ease. “How do you find your tea, Miss Lane?”
“Perfectly warm,” I said amiably, then met Miss Everett’s tight smile and muttered, “Though a touch bitter.”
“Sugar?” Miss Everett showed her teeth, spooning a healthy portion into my cup.
Her mother did not notice; she was glancing about the room as though expecting to find something out of place.
A door closed hard from the floor above. Feet stomped, and voices carried loudly. I angled my ear, but I could not make out the words. A woman’s voice, and someone much younger.
“Ginny, darling, why don’t you play the harp for Miss Lane?” Mrs. Everett raised her brows. We’d only just met, but I wondered if her tone was a bit frantic.
Miss Everett—Ginny—tensed. “Must I?”
“The harp. Forte.” Mrs. Everett muttered the last word. “Miss Lane, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my youngest daughter.”
I started to stand, to offer to join her and save myself from the thrashing of Ginny’s hot and cold temperament, but Mrs. Everett was already at the door. “Dinner will be set around six. Ginny can show you your room whenever you are ready. Do rest, and please enjoy our home as if it were your own.” She waved a hand and was gone.
Ginny was placing pages on a little stand in the back corner of the room beside her exquisite instrument. Her eyes focused, her elbows comfortably tucked as she positioned her fingers upon the harp’s strings to play.
Then the most beautiful sounds infused the air. Ginny’s fingers drew the strings into a melody of soft, moving music. Was I more surprised that she was so proficient or that such an angry person could make such beautiful sound? Either way, her music captivated me, and I found myself with plate and cup back in hand.
My shoulders started to relax. My stomach settled. I’d always assumed Graham’s lifestyle was akin to Papa’s, but his home was nothing like ours. A harp instead of a pianoforte. Bare walls save for a few amateur paintings. A sister whose temper gave way to free speech, and another hidden away upstairs. So much to write down in my notebook.
After a few songs, and a few too many sweets, Ginny’s voice broke my peace. “Shall I show you to your room?” She swiped up her music pages and set them on a nearby table in a swift movement, then strode toward the door without a backward glance.
I set down my plate and cup and hurried to follow.
“We’ve two additional floors,” she said, leading the way up the polished wooden staircase from the foyer. “The first is our library with beautiful windows overlooking the sea, designed and reconstructed by Graham. There are two other rooms for studying, and a smaller guest room. And the second floor is our rooms. Mama wanted you to have the balcony room with the best view.” She emphasized the word as though her mother was indeed the only one so generous.
I’d be near the family. The walls were not that thick. Would we hear each other? At the top of the staircase, to the left, was a set of double doors that opened to a wide wall of windows, though I could not make out the view. A brief glance revealed shelves of books with a few comfortable-looking chairs facing them. A scarce selection, perhaps, but enticing. We climbed the second, shorter staircase to the right of the library, up to the top floor.
“Mama sleeps here,” Ginny said, pointing to the only room on our right, set apart from the others. “I am here.” She pointed to the room in front of us. We walked a few paces to the left. “Graham here.”
I paused, staring at the dark door, following the patterns of wood grain down to the bronze knob. Sunlight stretched from under his door, and I imagined the curtains pulled back. I wondered what Graham Everett kept inside his room. Was he tidy? Did he sleep with a ledger book under his pillow? Perhaps he stuffed bank notes under his mattress.
“And this is my little sister Tabitha’s room,” Ginny said, pointing to the next door. “Though she often sneaks into Graham’s room to sleep. You might hear her fretting at night.”
“Does she often have bad dreams?” I asked, still half glancing back at Graham’s door.
“Almost every night.” Ginny walked to the end of the hall, where a door stood ajar. “This is yours.”
Ginny opened the door wide, and instantly the dark hall filled with sunlight. The room was generously sized, considering the entire size of the second floor. Wispy curtains framed the double doors that led to a balcony straight ahead. We stepped inside the room, and I turned in a slow circle. A small bed was situated against the right wall, with a little writing desk beside it, and an armoire on the opposite wall. Beside the hearth was a small table with a white washbasin.
Ginny waited at the door, arms crossed. “To your standards, it might be plain, but—”
“It is perfect,” I said, noting my hairbrush beside the washbasin. Mariah had already unpacked my things. My notebook was likely inside the writing desk.
Ginny, for once, seemed pleased. Proud. “As my brother said, if there is anything you need, please tell us. We want your stay to be as comfortable as possible.”
I raised a brow, and she smirked. Clearly. They’d likely given me the best room in the house. What had felt comfortable turned sour. Graham’s family weregenerous hosts, but not because they wanted to befriend me. They wanted my money. Well, my father’s money. They wanted this investment as badly as Graham did, even if just to please him. And I did not blame them.
I always had the best. The front and center placement at every function. Why? Because I had Papa’s name and money to back me. We were not titled, but we were old money, and Papa had acquired many holdings. Mamas like Mrs. Everett wanted me to be friends with their daughters and to be courted by their sons, but not because they particularly liked me.
They liked what I could offer.
“Take your time preparing for dinner,” Ginny said. “We shall meet in the drawing room.”
I nodded my thanks, and she shut the door behind her.
Finally, a breath.
I’d survived the drive. Survived tea. And now all I had to do was survive dinner at Graham’s table and I’d be one day closer to the other side of this disastrous Season.
Papa would help me fashion a life for myself. Help me choose a suitable husband I could be happy with, be myself with, build a life with.
Most girls had a mother to fret over such things, and while I sometimes longed for one, I did not truly know what having one felt like. I did not feel the need for a mother, because I’d always had Papa.
He had always been enough.
I took the little key sitting atop the writing desk and unlocked the drawer. My notebook waited for me there, alongside a quill and inkpot.
Inside my armoire was a pretty green silk dress that Mariah had set aside for me for dinner, which I approved. I stepped out onto the balcony into a light, salty breeze. A smooth stone balustrade had blocked the view, but Highcliffe House was closer to the sea than I had realized. Greens, blues, and browns colored the water that crested on a rocky shore not far below. The water was endless, moving with life as it met the marvelously blue sky above.
I leaned my elbows on the balustrade, admiring the view and enjoying the sounds of birds chirping overhead. For a moment, I thought of Lyme. A memory flooded in of Papa sitting beside me on a wide, smooth rock. He, with his book, and me with my bucket of treasures, cuddled up beside him to watch the sea.
At nearly one-and-twenty, I still needed him. Of late, more so than ever. I could not afford to make another mistake like Alexander Lennox.
If Papa meant to invest his time with anyone, it would be with me.
And nothing Graham could say or do would change my mind.