Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Sebastian waited with mounting impatience for the footmen to set down the steps of the coach before descending. He knew this moment would set the tone for whatever his life would be from now on and if he exited the Somerton coach without a proper degree of dignity all respect would be lost.
The soles of his new boots crunched on the fine gravel, and he looked up at the Palladian mansion with its portico supported by tall columns that soared above him.
He hoped his face did not betray the apprehension he felt.
From the coach box, he heard Bennet’s muttered ‘Cor blimey’ and smiled. His thoughts exactly.
Lady Somerton waited on the top step, her hands clasped in front of her severe black skirt, her hair concealed within a cap of the type his mother had once favoured.
She looked as cold and forbidding as the columns that flanked the portico.
However, as he approached, a smile twitched at the corners of her lips.
‘Welcome to Brantstone, Lord Somerton,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Lady Somerton,’ he replied with an answering smile.
He leaned heavily on the ebony cane to catch his breath. He probably should have remained in London for another week, as the doctor advised, but he was anxious to pick up the reins of his new life.
‘Allow me to introduce you to the staff,’ Lady Somerton said.
She stood back and followed him into the house.
The front hall of the house in London was only an echo of this magnificent entranceway, around which the entire staff of the house had been assembled to meet their new master—everyone from the steward and the housekeeper to the lowliest kitchen hand.
A young girl stepped forward with a posy of flowers, which she presented to him with a shy curtsey. Sebastian stooped to the girl’s level. He took the flowers and asked her name.
‘Matilda, my lord,’ she said in a small voice, her wide, surprised eyes meeting his as if she couldn’t believe he would deign to address her.
‘Where do you work?’ He asked.
‘In’t kitchen, m’lord.’
He straightened and smiled at the child. ‘Thank you, Matilda.’
He went around the circle, making a point of greeting every staff member, asking their name and position, and hoping he would remember.
He had always made it a point to know the name of every man in his company, and he did not consider a household staff much different.
He had thought the matter through in the tedious hours in the coach and decided that if he thought of the task ahead as being akin to a sudden promotion to colonel of a regiment, it did not seem so daunting.
The greetings done, the staff dispersed, leaving only the housekeeper, introduced as Mrs. Fletcher, and a footman who helped him off with his travelling coat and new hat.
‘Would you care to take a cup of tea?’ Lady Somerton enquired, indicating a door to her left.
Sebastian thought longingly of a comfortable bed and a tankard of beer.
Instead, he ignored his body’s protests and mustered a smile.
A tankard of beer would probably be thought indelicate, and rest could wait.
He had dispatched Bennet to the bookshops of London to seek out some books of instruction in etiquette.
Although he had found these most instructive, he had so much to learn.
He was not a complete stranger to the ways of the upper echelons of society.
As the Reverend Alder’s eldest son, he had been a frequent visitor to the ‘big house’ at Little Benning, being deemed a suitable companion to Sir Richard’s sickly son.
The boy had not lived to adulthood, and, to ease his grief, perhaps, Sir Richard had been kind to the young Sebastian, even purchasing his commission as an ensign.
But Sir Richard, too, had followed his son to the grave, and with him went his patronage.
From that moment, Sebastian had been on his own.
The old, rambling home of a baronet bore no comparison to this mansion. Money, and plenty of it, had built Brantstone. He wondered what nefarious practices his forebears had indulged in to allow the purchase of such an ostentatious building.
He followed Isabel across the black and white tiles towards a heavy door.
Before he could reach for the door knob, a footman sprang forward and opened the door admitting Sebastian and Isabel into a pleasant parlour, the windows hung with blue velvet curtains.
As he crossed the threshold, a young man, who had been sitting on a well-upholstered chair, sprang to his feet.
A heavy lock of bright fair hair fell across his face in his haste, and he brushed it back with a delicate hand as he advanced to greet Sebastian.
‘Lord Somerton... cousin... if I might make so bold.’ He thrust out a hand. ‘Welcome, welcome, welcome.’
In the face of this effusive greeting, and more out of reflex than politeness, Sebastian took the proffered hand and shook it.
‘Thank you, er ...’ He glanced at Isabel.
‘My apologies, Lord Somerton. I mentioned Mister Lynch and his sister, who are guests here at Brantstone,’ she said.
‘Frederick Lynch, your servant, sir.’ The young man bowed. ‘And may I present my sister, Frances. But please, as we are kin, Fanny and Freddy to your lordship.’
A young woman, who had been reclining on a brocaded daybed, rose to her feet and curtsied, holding out her hand.
Two eyes the colour of cornflowers looked up at him from a small, peaked face framed by ringlets the same shade as her brother’s hair. He could not take his eyes off the rosebud mouth, which his brother officers would have described as ‘eminently kissable’.
‘Please sit,’ Lady Somerton said, indicating a chair. ‘I will pour tea.’ As she handed Sebastian a bowl and saucer, she said, ‘As I explained to you in London, Mister and Miss Lynch are cousins of my late husband.’
The two Lynchs smiled at Sebastian. Frederick was one of those young men with classical looks who could be any age—high cheekbones and dark, soulful eyes with a full, soft mouth and a receding chin.
Sebastian had seen his sort in the army, often the younger sons of the aristocracy with purchased commissions and no idea of how to lead men.
More at home in a drawing room than on a battlefield, they generally died in their first action.
Fanny took a sip of tea. ‘Cousin Sebastian, I do hope you are recovered from your terrible wound?’
Sebastian made the mistake of looking at her and, once again, found himself drowning in a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen.
‘Er, yes, thank you,’ he stuttered.
‘We’ve been simply dying to meet you ever since we received word of your existence and then dear Isabel saw your name in the casualty lists and went flying off to London,’ Fanny continued, apparently oblivious of the effect she was having on him.
‘It’s just been too, too exciting. Now here you are. ’
‘Excellent,’ Freddy put in for good measure. ‘We despaired of ever finding an heir, didn’t we, Cousin Isabel?’
Sebastian glanced at Isabel. Her face, as appeared to be her custom, betrayed little, and he wondered if she kept everything so tightly contained that one day it would just burst from her.
‘We did indeed,’ she agreed, lifting the cup to her lips and taking a sip. As she set it back in the saucer, she said, ‘Tell me, Lord Somerton, what did your brother and sister make of the news?’
He smiled at the memory of Connie’s reply to his letter. It had been filled with scratching out and exclamation marks and demands to know when she and Matt could join him.
‘I don’t think they believe me. My sister’s letter was almost unintelligible.’
‘Oh, you have a brother and sister,’ Fanny declared. ‘How marvellous. Are they Kingsleys too?’
‘No. They are my half-siblings. My brother, Matthew, teaches at the local grammar school, and my sister, Constance, is an artist. She paints miniatures.’
Fanny blinked. ‘They work?’
The comment brought Sebastian up with a jolt.
Of course they worked. His captain’s pay alone was barely enough to support them.
As soon as Matt had been old enough, he had taken a teaching post at the village school.
Any thought of Oxford had been out of the question.
Connie’s choice of profession had been her own.
She had told him in no uncertain terms that she wished to contribute to the household, and her considerable artistic talent would be otherwise wasted.
For someone so young, she had already garnered several lucrative commissions.
‘When will they be arriving?’ Isabel cut in before Sebastian could respond.
Sebastian’s gaze drifted to the window and the wide expanse of parkland beyond. His land, he presumed.
‘I thought it best to wait a little while. At least until I’ve found my feet.’
Fanny gave a small cry of distress, her hand flying to a well-endowed bosom that threatened at any moment to burst free of the low-cut neckline of her dress.
‘Oh, but you simply can’t leave them to moulder in some dreary little corner.
You must bring them to Brantstone.’ She reached across and took her brother’s hand, looking up at him with a fond smile.
‘Freddy and I have been talking, and we think you should hold a ball. The neighbours must be simply dying to meet the new Lord Somerton and what better way than a ball?’
‘A ball?’ Isabel set her cup down, the cup rattling in the saucer.
‘Oh! With your agreement of course, Cousin Isabel,’ Fanny said. ‘Any earlier would have been quite improper, but you did say you would be moving to the dower house as soon as the new Lord Somerton was installed.’
‘The dower house is not quite ready and I am still officially in mourning,’ Isabel said. She paused and glanced at Sebastian, ‘Although for once, I must agree with you, Fanny. I think a ball would be an excellent way to introduce the new Lord Somerton to our society.’
Fanny clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, dear Isabel, I’m so glad you are in agreement.’
Sebastian glanced at Isabel, looking for rescue, but he seemed to be on his own.
‘I’m not sure a ball—’ he began.
‘Somerton,’ Freddy broke in. ‘A ball at Brantstone will launch you into society. It will be the talk of the county.’
‘I don’t need to be launched into society—’ Sebastian began to say, but Fanny had already moved ahead.
‘Freddy and I are set on the first week in September. Aren’t we, Freddy?’
‘Absolutely,’ Freddy concurred.
Sebastian cast another desperate look at Isabel. This time she returned a sympathetic smile.
‘That’s only six weeks, Fanny,’ Isabel observed.
‘Plenty of time. Please don’t concern yourself, Lady Somerton.
I know you will be quite busy enough with the dower house.
Freddy and I are happy to organise it all and it will be marvellous to be of some use.
’ Fanny shot Sebastian a smile of such incredible sweetness that his opposition to the very idea of a ball melted.
‘And of course, Lord Somerton, I hope that your brother and sister will be here by then. It will be a wonderful welcome to them and set you up in fine form for the season. You can’t say no, dear Cousin Sebastian. ’
They both returned his horrified look with hopeful smiles.
He cleared his throat and tugged at his neck cloth. ‘If you think that it is an appropriate way for me to start this new role, then so be it. But don’t expect me to dance, Miss Lynch.’
Fanny blinked. ‘Not dance? But why ever not, Cousin Sebastian? Oh dear, do you have a bad leg? Remember, Freddy, poor Miles Otterley could not dance because he had a French musket ball lodged in his knee.’
‘Oh yes, poor fellow, walked with a dreadful limp,’ her brother concurred.
Sebastian opened his mouth to protest that, while he did have a ‘bad leg’, he had his own reasons for not dancing that had nothing to do with a French musket ball, but Isabel cut across him with a comment about the weather.