Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Sebastian lay very still, listening to… silence.
He screwed his eyes tighter shut. In the dark of his fever, Inez had come to him, her long hair falling around her shoulders like dark satin, and her brown eyes full of love.
He had begged her to come back to him, and she had replied in English, ‘I am here’.
He knew it had been a dream. Inez lay buried in the brown earth of her native Portugal, her death forever on his conscience, and he was… where?
Surely if he opened his eyes, he would find himself back in the fetid ward of the hospital with no beautiful ladies spinning strange stories, but the fine linen and soft bolsters beneath his head told a different story.
Hardly daring to breathe, he opened his eyes and found himself looking up at an embroidered bed hanging.
He picked out a myriad of brightly coloured flowers jostling together in a heavenly cluster above him.
When he turned his head, he saw an elegant tallboy standing against richly patterned wallpaper beside a heavy, mahogany door.
Perhaps he had died and this was heaven?
The sound of familiar whistling from outside the door caused a smile to catch at the corners of his mouth.
No.
Heaven would never admit Corporal Bennet.
‘Oh, so you’re awake?’ Bennet entered the room carrying a tray. ‘Doctors said now the fever’s broken, you’d be hungry, so I took the liberty of bringing up some broth for you.’
He whipped the cloth from a steaming bowl. The scent of chicken broth rose into the air. Sebastian’s stomach growled in anticipation, and he tried to pull himself up in bed, realising that his efforts were as pathetic as those of a newborn lamb.
Without fuss, Bennet was there to assist. A custard of some nondescript appearance and taste followed the broth.
Invalid pap.
He told Bennet that next time he wanted real food. Bennet just clicked his tongue and shook his head.
‘Doctor’s orders, Cap’n,’ he said. ‘We nearly lost you and it’s goin’ to take some time to build up your strength again.’
‘It will if you keep feeding me that swill,’ Sebastian observed. He looked around the room, noting the expensive furniture and thick rugs on the floor. ‘Where am I?’
‘You’re at Somerton House in Hanover Square, and very grand it is too. I’ve counted twenty bedrooms.’
‘Why am I here?’
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘Some strange woman with a tale about me being Lord Somerton?’
‘Aye, that’s right. Seems like she’s right too. You are Lord Somerton.’
Sebastian lay back on his pillows and looked up at the bed hangings again.
‘I cannot possibly be Lord Somerton. I’ve never even heard of Lord Somerton.’
Bennet shrugged. ‘Well, her ladyship’s got the proof. So you’d better start getting used to it... m’lord.’
Bennet swept him a deep bow and, had he been stronger, Sebastian would have thrown a pillow at him. As it was, he could do nothing except suggest in strident terms that Bennet leave him in peace.
A few minutes later, the door opened again. Sebastian gathered his strength to snarl at Bennet, but subsided when he saw his visitor was a woman—a woman who looked vaguely familiar.
‘Good morning, my lord,’ she said.
He managed a smile. ‘Good morning, madam. You will forgive me not standing but I fear I would fall over.’
‘As you undoubtedly would. You have been very ill, Captain Alder... my lord... but it seems you are now on the mend and as soon as your strength is sufficiently recovered, you will travel to the Somerton estate at Brantstone in Lincolnshire.’
Somerton estate?
Oh yes, he remembered her now. The woman from the hospital.
He pulled himself up in the bed, flinching as the wound caught.
‘Ah, so I didn’t dream it. Please remind me—who are you, madam?’
She advanced and stood at the end of the bed.
‘I am the dowager Lady Somerton, the widow of your cousin, Anthony, who died in an accident just before Christmas.’
Sebastian looked away, absently pleating the heavy linen sheet between his fingers.
‘I recall you mentioned that at the hospital. My father...’ his voice cracked as he corrected himself, ‘my stepfather was the late Reverend Alder of Little Benning. My mother never...’
His mother had never breathed a word about the identity of his real father. When he was old enough to understand these things, he had asked, but she had turned away, tears in her eyes and he had never asked again.
Your father is dead, Bas. That is all you need to know.
He had assumed himself to be a bastard, and she had taken the knowledge of his father’s identity with her to the grave. He swallowed, remembering how he would pass men in the streets and wonder if any of them could be his real father.
He squared his shoulders and looked up at Lady Somerton, embarrassed to see she had been watching him.
‘So tell me, Lady Somerton, as you seem remarkably well informed on my antecedents: who, then, was my true father?’
‘James Kingsley, the younger son of the late Lord Somerton, my husband’s grandfather.
He eloped with your mother and was cut off by his father.
I believe he died shortly after your birth.
I have the necessary proof that the marriage was legal.
You and my husband, Anthony, are... were.
.. legitimate first cousins.’ She paused and seemed to clear her throat before continuing, ‘Anthony and I were not blessed with children, and, as the closest male in the direct lineage, you are the heir to my husband’s estate. It is quite simple.’
Sebastian passed a weary hand over his eyes. ‘Simple for you, perhaps, Lady Somerton, but I swear to you this is the first I have heard of the Somertons. My mother never thought fit to mention any such connection. Even on her deathbed.’
‘It’s not for me to gainsay your mother’s reasons for withholding that knowledge from you.
’ Her tone held a sharp edge as if she were losing patience with him.
‘If you still doubt me, I have the evidence of the marriage, Captain Alder, and of your birth and your father’s death.
It has all been duly notarised. Nothing more is needed. ’
She folded her hands in front of her, and the import of what she had said finally sank in. He, plain Sebastian Alder, son of a parson, an officer in the Fortieth Regiment of Foot, was now a viscount and the inheritor, he presumed, of some vast estate.
‘I knew that the Reverend Alder was not my father,’ he hastened to reassure her. ‘He took us both in when my mother was in dire need. He was a good man and I could not have asked for a better father.’
He glanced at the ironbound box that stood in a corner of the room with the name Alder stencilled in chipped and fading letters on the lid.
The sum total of his possessions fitted in that pathetic box.
Surely this had to be some sort of cruel jest, and someone would appear to tell him that it had all been a mistake and he was still plain Captain Sebastian Alder, a wounded officer of His Majesty, now on half pay.
‘I believe you have a brother and sister still living in Little Benning?’ Lady Somerton enquired with an arch to her eyebrows.
He nodded. ‘You are well informed, Lady Somerton. Matthew and Constance are the children of my mother’s marriage to the Reverend Alder.’ He frowned. ‘Do they know of my... change in fortune?’
‘I believe that should be a task for you, not I,’ Isabel said.
‘I will write to them.’ He gave a hollow, unwise laugh that made his wound catch. ‘I doubt they’ll believe me.’ He shook his head, imagining Connie and Matt reading the letter in the parlour of the little cottage. ‘I don’t believe it myself.’
‘You will find all you need in the desk.’ Lady Somerton indicated a mahogany desk in the window embrasure. ‘I will leave you to rest. Is there anything you need?’
Sebastian looked around the sumptuous bedchamber and then returned his gaze to Isabel with a rueful half smile. ‘Some decent food?’
Lady Somerton unbent enough to smile, softening the severe effect of her sombre clothes and hideous matron’s cap, and he wondered if he could lure more smiles from her on better acquaintance.
‘I’m not sure Doctor Sandler will approve, but I will see what can be done. You’re tired. I will leave you in peace.’
He sank back against the feather bolsters that threatened to engulf him in their downy depths and lifted a hand to detain her.
‘One last thing: would it be possible to see the London broadsheets?’
He wanted to see the casualty lists. So many friends lay dead on that bloody field.
He thought of Major Heyland and the letter his friend had written to his wife on that last night.
She would be a grieving widow now, his last words clutched in her hand.
He prayed that Waterloo had ended the carnage.
She nodded. ‘Of course. You are Lord Somerton. Whatever you wish, you just have to ask.’
With that, she closed the door behind her.
He closed his eyes and considered that statement. Whatever he wished, he just had to ask.