The Legend Begins (Forevers in Fenwick #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

The carriage from Great Yarmouth rattled along the narrow coastal road with the unpredictable North Sea to its left, the wheels squelching through the mud formed by an unexpected bout of rain.

As the coach rambled past the Ipswich turnoff, the tightly packed passengers heaved a collective sigh of relief.

This leg of the journey was finally done.

They would soon arrive in Fenwick on Sea, where the promise of refreshment and a chance to stretch their legs awaited while the driver arranged for fresh horses.

The tired animals, no doubt recognizing that a bed of hay and a cool drink of water were now within reach, picked up their pace, ready to be rid of their burden.

Barnaby Ash, who had been fortunate enough to claim a seat beside the window, watched as two rows of humble cottages slipped by, one on either side of the road.

Behind them squatted the rocky foundations of homes long abandoned, their materials having been used to patch up the dwellings that remained.

Barnaby took it all in. So, this was Fenwick on Sea.

He thought it a rather grandiose name for a village that appeared to be coming apart at the seams. From what he could tell, very few businesses eked out a living here.

Possibly the rest of the population, such as it was, lived as farmers or fisherman on the sliver of a peninsula beyond the small nucleus of the village.

But not the young men. No, they were at war.

Above the rumbling of the wheels, a small collection of voices now rose in excitement.

Cries of “It’s here!” and “Tell Mr. Brewster!” broke the facade of a lifeless street.

Footfalls drew nearer, and inquisitive faces appeared in Barnaby’s line of sight.

A groom stepped forward briskly to meet the carriage as it eased to a halt outside the Queen’s Barque Inn.

Barnaby shook his head. “Barque” indeed! The building was more akin to a salt-encrusted fishing boat than a great, three-masted ship. It was hard to believe that, only a mile away from this collective dilapidation, the Earl of Brathwaite had made his home.

Having seen what little the village had to offer, Barnaby was grateful to be staying at Hill House. Residing in the manor would also facilitate his work.

The thought of it lifted his mood at once. This was not the first time he had been asked to catalogue a gentleman’s library, yet each assignment held the thrill of novelty. He never knew what rare editions he might discover, or what treasured old volumes would reveal their fragile contents to him.

Despite his seat by the window, Barnaby did not descend the carriage steps when the door opened. His ruminations had left him seated, while hunger, thirst, and other calls of nature urged the rest of the passengers to push past him and forward toward the inn.

He followed half-heartedly.

By the time he reached the door of the inn, the staff were already briskly taking orders and collecting coin.

The only soul who’d remained to greet him was a rather shaggy mastiff, its plumed tail wagging hopefully.

Barnaby reached down and scratched the dog behind the ears.

The feathered banner picked up its pace, and a large pink tongue dropped into a smiling pant.

A serving girl stopped with a tray full of ale tankards and tilted her head toward the dog.

“Don’t mind ’m, sir. Find yerself a seat and I’ll be with ye in a moment.

” She shifted her young, lithe body between the crowd of customers, depositing ale and deftly avoiding another maid who was delivering soup and bread to hungry folk.

Watching and orchestrating the activities with the occasional agreeable nod, stood a man whom Barnaby assumed was the innkeeper.

He looked not much older than Barnaby’s own forty years, but his rich brown hair lacked any strands of grey except at the temples, and his laughing blue eyes suggested a very different personality to Barnaby’s serious, brown orbs.

Tall, cheerful, and slightly imposing, he was opposite in every way to Barnaby’s lean, scholarly frame and pale complexion.

His searching gaze lighted upon Barnaby in whom he must have recognized a customer in need, for he billowed through the throng with ease and clapped Barnaby on the back.

“First time in Fenwick?” He beamed. “I can see it in your face. You are surprised, yes? No one expects such excellent fare or service in a village of our size. But that will all change. Mark my words. When next you pass through, you will see every room renovated and filled to capacity by the many who will seek us out for our fine reputation. You will see we have already made work of repairing the entrance.” He hesitated, Barnaby’s stunned silence giving him pause.

“But where are my manners? I am Henry Brewster, esquire, owner of this fine establishment. Can I help you to an open seat?”

The innkeeper’s boast left Barnaby horrified and wordless.

He could imagine nothing worse than a space even more crowded than the Queen’s Barque in its current state.

He certainly did not intend to be in Fenwick on Sea when activity reached such proportions as Mr. Brewster hoped to achieve.

His was a quiet life of books and study and solitude.

Already he felt an uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades.

He needed to be gone from here. A walk would do him good.

Hill House was not far. If he set off now, he would arrive before the passengers had even bundled back onto the coach.

“Could you point me in the direction of Hill House?” Barnaby asked, raising his normally soft voice to be heard over the many others.

“Hill House, you say?” Mr. Brewster scratched the back of his head.

He looked Barnaby up and down as if seeing him properly for the first time.

“Tutor, are you? That poor boy is only, what…? Five? Six years old? Be gentle with the lad, will you? It’s hard enough shifting to a whole new neighborhood, even if it is within the same county.

But what with his mother being sickly and all, the child needs a distraction more than instruction. Just my opinion, of course.”

Barnaby stared at the man. Was everyone in the village this nosy?

He would certainly not be discussing the earl’s family matters—what little he knew of them—with strangers.

Nor would he be correcting their assumptions.

Instead, he gave a faint nod of acknowledgement and repeated his question. “Hill House, sir. How do I find it?”

Brewster’s hearty smile fell away. He was no doubt used to his sociable nature being well received. But Barnaby had no need of it. He was thorough, tenacious even, and had a curiosity for the hidden secrets of history. Idle chatter was not among his talents.

The innkeeper gathered himself and managed to salvage the echo of his earlier smile.

“The way is easy enough,” he answered. “Walk back along this road and turn to follow the inland route to Ipswich. You will pass Morphew Manor on your right. The very next property is Lord Brathwaite’s.

If you stay clear of the mud and don’t have too much luggage, you should reach it in half an hour. ”

With a solemn nod of thanks, Barnaby exited the unwanted conversation and returned to the carriage to collect his belongings.

These consisted of a large valise and a small travel case for his writing supplies.

Usually, his employer would provide paper and ink, but Barnaby knew the Brathwaites had not been in the Fenwick area long and would perhaps not yet have had the opportunity to order what he needed from London.

No matter. They would reimburse him for any expenses.

With his luggage in hand, Barnaby set off.

He stuck to the grassy verge and made good progress.

In almost no time he had passed what must be Morphew Manor.

He had expected to see only the drive, but the house itself was on a knoll and therefore visible from the road.

It was certainly grander than the homes within Fenwick.

But Barnaby had visited many fine estates when providing his services as historian and scholar.

They had been things of beauty, nestled among acres of manicured landscaping.

Morphew Manor, however, was rather humble by comparison.

Its grounds were smaller, the landscaping limited to a few neat beddings and a recently clipped lawn.

The building lacked all but the most urgent of care.

All in all, it gave the impression of having been ignored by its owner in favor of a better situated estate elsewhere.

Hill House, which soon came into view, was no more imposing in size, but its condition was less neglected, possibly because it had been occupied almost continuously in recent years.

As Barnaby understood it, Basil Kensington-Smythe, Earl of Brathwaite, had taken up residence here scarcely a month ago, in the hopes that his wife would benefit from the sea air.

The previous owner had passed away, and his heir had been too fond of London to waste his newly acquired money on the upkeep of Hill House.

The earl, who urgently sought to return his wife to good health, had been happy to purchase the home with all its furnishings so that they might establish themselves there with speed.

He had been surprised to find this arrangement included the books.

Apparently, the heir to Hill House had a great fondness for his hounds and hunting, and no use for reading.

Curious, then, to know if his new collection contained anything of worth, his lordship had sent for Barnaby.

And here Barnaby stood at last, his hand upon the knocker. Within, smart footfalls drew closer and the door swung open. A fellow whose attire suggested he was the butler gave Barnaby a stern appraisal.