Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
As the coach rolled out of Brantstone’s great gates, Isabel looked across at Sebastian, slumped in the diagonal corner, resting his head on his hand as he stared out of the window, his concern for his sister written in the downward turn of his mouth and the furrowed brow.
So long used to concealing all emotion, a forgotten place in her heart stirred and she reached out and laid her hand over his.
‘Sebastian,’ she said, using his first name without conscious thought, ‘we will be there by the morning. There is nothing you can do for her and worrying won’t help.’
He made no effort to withdraw his hand.
‘I should have been there... I shouldn’t have left them... I should have brought them with me.’ The words, heavy with responsibility and guilt, rolled out.
She tightened her fingers around his. ‘You did exactly the right thing. Even if you had been there, your presence would not have stopped Constance taking ill. It is probably nothing more than a fever. It will pass and you can bring them back to Brantstone with you when she is strong enough.’
He looked up at her, his face contorted with distress. ‘They are the world to me, Isabel. My mother passed away when Connie was born, and my stepfather died when they were still young. I am all they have and I have been neglectful of my duties to them.’
She smiled, trying to instil some confidence in him. ‘No brother could have done more. I look forward to meeting them.’
He looked down at her hand and his fingers tightened on hers. ‘Thank you for coming. You are a good friend, Lady Somerton—Isabel.’
Even through the soft kid of her gloves, she could feel the strength in his fingers. Her breath quickened as his gaze met hers, and he released her hand and returned to his contemplation of the passing countryside.
Isabel leaned back against the leather squabs and closed her eyes.
On one hand, it pleased her to be thought of as his friend, but, somewhere deep inside, did she seek more than friendship?
Is that why she had offered to come with him?
A selfish opportunity to spend time alone with him, away from the many eyes at Brantstone?
No, she told herself. Her concern was for Constance.
If she had a motive it was purely selfish.
She needed to ensure Sebastian’s sister was well and capable of taking on the responsibility of the house.
Bringing Constance to Brantstone had to be achieved before she would be free of the last of her duties.
‘Do you have any family, Isabel?’ Sebastian’s voice jerked her out of her reverie.
She opened her eyes and shook her head. ‘No. My parents are dead and none of my siblings survived their infancy. The climate in the West Indies is unforgiving for the weak.’
He turned away from the window to look at her. ‘The West Indies?’
‘My father made his fortune in sugar, and I was born in Jamaica. A tropical fever carried both my parents off when I was nine, and I was sent home to England to be brought up by my aunt and uncle.’
‘Where was that?’
‘Near Manchester. My uncle was a mill owner.’
‘And were they kind to you, your aunt and uncle?’
For a moment she didn’t answer—couldn’t answer. Memories of the beatings and the dark cupboard under the servants’ stairs, where she had been confined for real and imagined infractions against the iron rule of her aunt, still haunted her nightmares.
‘They were childless.’ She paused. ‘My uncle was kind but my aunt had her own ideas about how to bring up a child. When I was not at school I helped with the local charities she supported. I suppose I should be grateful to her. Through that work I saw how bleak the life of the working women could be.’ She bit her tongue before she added, Any woman’s life.
He studied her face for a long moment.
‘And how did you come to marry my cousin?’
‘My aunt sent me to London for a season and we were introduced. I imagined myself in love with him.’
Madly, deeply, wildly in love. She had begged her uncle to permit the marriage.
He had tried to warn her but she would not hear a word against him.
Anthony had offered for her, her aunt approved, and her uncle could only agree.
Like the smuggled romances she had read at school, she would marry Anthony and live happily ever after.
‘Anthony needed an heiress and he got what he wanted: a wealthy wife with a good dowry.’
‘And you?’
‘I escaped my aunt’s cold house for a gilded cage of another making.’ She could not keep the bitterness from her words.
When she raised her eyes to look at him, she saw the undisguised shock in his face and said with a hollow laugh, ‘That is how it is done, Lord Somerton, and if you have any sense you will do something similar. Find yourself a wealthy wife and restore the fortune of the Somertons. I think I know you well enough to know you will not squander the windfall the way Anthony did.’
She could hear the acrimony in her voice but felt powerless to prevent it.
He frowned, his gaze burning into hers through the gloom of the carriage as he said, ‘When I wed, Lady Somerton, it will not be for the sake of a convenient business arrangement.’
‘Then you are a romantic, Sebastian.’
Once she had been a romantic. At the school for young ladies she had been sent to, like the other girls, she had sighed over distant, unattainable young men and buried her nose in unsuitable novels, but after a few months of marriage, she had turned her thoughts to loftier ideals.
If there was nothing to be done about her marriage, perhaps in some small way, she could help other women.
Now she sat in a coach with a man who professed that he would only wed for love and wondered what real love was.
How did it feel? How did you know when you were in love?
She knew it had not been the breathtaking desperation she had felt when the devilishly handsome Anthony Kingsley sauntered into a room.
Had it been the happiness she had known in those months after William’s birth when Anthony had sloughed off his veneer of callousness and indifference and had been attentive to her every wish?
There had been no visits to London. He had stayed at Brantstone.
They had laughed together and, once again, her heart lifted when he walked into the room.
William’s death had ended all of that. When she had needed him the most he had withdrawn from her, retreated to London and his old life. On the few occasions he had returned to Brantstone, the visits were marked with deliberate cruelty and long visits to Lady Kendall.
‘Isabel?’ Sebastian’s voice jerked her out of her maudlin reverie. ‘Did I say something out of turn?’
She shook her head. ‘I was just thinking that love did not help your parents, Lord Somerton. Your father disinherited, and your mother cast out of her family.’
He rested a long finger against his cheek and leaned on his hand.
‘I cannot answer for my parents, Isabel. I never knew them together but I do know my mother found both love and happiness with the Reverend Alder. That was the pattern of my childhood, and that is all I ask for my children. To be brought up with two parents who both love and respect each other.’
‘You ask a lot, Sebastian.’ Isabel shook her head. ‘In my experience, romantic love is a foolish concept.’
He tilted his head to one side. ‘My cousin has a great deal to answer for, Isabel, to have left you so wounded and bitter.’
Was it so obvious?
She straightened her shoulders and shrugged.
‘No, Sebastian, you’re wrong. I have a title and status in society, even if I have no money to my name.
As for love, I’ve nothing to compare. Even when they lived, my parents spent little time in my company.
In Jamaica I was raised by the slaves and then an aunt and uncle who kept their distance.
That was my lot in life, and I accepted it.
Had Anthony not died when he did, I would have endured. ’
‘Endured? Endured is what I did on the Peninsula, Lady Somerton. It is not my idea of marriage.’
‘It is marriage in our class, Sebastian. And it is as well you learn that now or you will find yourself equally as cynical before long.’
His mouth tightened. ‘If that is indeed what I am to expect, it is a bleak outlook and it is as well that I was not raised of your class. I do know what it is to love and be loved. My wife—’ His voice caught and he looked away.
She looked up at him, remembering his fevered cry for Inez.
‘Your wife?’ she prompted, inviting his confidence.
He responded with a brusque, ‘She died.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
It seemed an inadequate response for what she took to be a deep and gnawing loss.
He took a deep breath and glanced back at her. ‘It was a long time ago.’
She let the silence stretch between them, wondering if he would venture any further information, but he remained staring out of the window.
‘Whatever the price, Lord Somerton, I have paid my dues,’ she ventured. ‘Anthony is dead and, whatever you may think, legally I am now free to do as I wish.’
He shifted, bringing his gaze back to her and relaxing a little as he leaned back against the plush upholstery. He crossed his arms and stretched out his long legs. Her gaze rested momentarily on the strong, well-muscled leg that now intruded on her space.
He regarded her for a long moment before he asked, ‘And what is it you wish to do now you have earned your freedom, Lady Somerton?’
She took a breath. ‘I know my jointure is gone but I intend to continue with my plans for the charity school.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘And how will you finance it?’
‘My friend, Lady Ainslie, has a modest income, so I cannot ask her for money, but I have thought about it and I believe if I start a school in the dower house...’
He sat up straight. ‘Start a school in the dower house? What sort of school?’
‘A school for young ladies. Daughters of men who can afford to pay for the things that a lady of quality can give them.’