Chapter 1 #2
Reaching the narrow footbridge, Rebecca crossed back over the river and continued through Fowler’s Wood, approaching the lodge from behind.
The thatched cottage had once been the underkeeper’s lodge, but the Wilfords employed only one gamekeeper these days and had let the lodge to John and Rebecca on very easy terms. She had lived there with her brother for a few years until financial and relational strain had spurred her to seek a position as a lady’s companion.
At her knock, the elderly cook-housekeeper, Rose Watts, met her at the door, the dear, sagging features lifting into a smile at the sight of her.
“Miss Rebecca! What a happy surprise. Thank the Lord.”
Uncertainty flickered. “Is it a surprise, Rose? I did write and asked John to let you know when I would be arriving. Perhaps he has not yet received my letter.”
The woman’s gaze shifted to a basket on the sideboard, overflowing with newspapers and correspondence. “Or perhaps it is still in that pile.” Rose looked back at her. “You did receive my letter?”
“Yes, that is why I am here. Is John home?”
“’Course he is. He’s always home.”
Rebecca glanced from the dining parlour into the sitting room and saw that both were empty.
Rose sighed. “He’s in his room. Still asleep, most likely.”
“Asleep? It’s after three in the afternoon!”
The housekeeper’s lined face creased into an odd expression, half apology, half long-suffering frown. “It’s as I told you. He stays up all hours, pacing back and forth and muttering to himself, then sleeps the day away. And when I try to talk to him about it, he becomes devilish angry.”
Rebecca went to knock on her brother’s bedchamber door.
“John? It’s Rebecca. I am back.”
No answer. She removed her hat and gloves and tried again. Still no response.
To distract herself from mounting alarm, Rebecca walked down the passage to the spare room where she usually slept, planning to stow her valise.
She opened the door and froze. The room was an utter disaster.
Between the door and bed, a small table haphazardly sat, piled high with sheaves of paper, as was the bed itself.
Twine hung with pages stretched across the room.
The side table and dressing chest were strewn with reference books, ink pots, spent candles, coffee cups, plates, piles of old clothes, and even John’s viola, which, as far as she knew, he had not played in years.
Rose stopped in the doorway behind her. “I am sorry, Miss Rebecca. He’s taken to using this room as an office and storeroom of sorts.
I would have asked him to clean it—or done it myself—had I known when you were coming.
What you must think of me! In my defense, John has kept me busy writing a clean copy of his new manuscript. ”
“I understand.”
Rebecca gestured toward the pages hanging on the line. “Why are those there?”
“I believe he spilled something and is drying them out.”
“I see. I shall . . . em, sleep on the sofa tonight, and we’ll sort it tomorrow.”
“Very well. Come with me to the kitchen. I have something else to tell you.”
She joined Rose for tea at the scarred wooden table.
The older woman said, “Since I wrote to you, I have learned that a certain author, and you will guess who I mean, wrote to reserve a room at the Swanford Abbey Hotel. I heard it from Cassie Somerton herself—she’s head housekeeper there.
He arrived last night, and word is spreading fast round the village. I worry what John might do.”
Rebecca nodded, a new wave of dread washing over her. Why was that man in Swanford?
As they were finishing their tea, the Wilfords’ steward arrived, and again Rebecca tried to rouse her brother. “John?” she hissed through the door. “Mr. Jones is here for the rent. John?”
In the entryway, the stoic man shifted from foot to foot. “That’s all right, miss. Don’t want to spoil your homecoming. I’ll return another time.”
Face hot with embarrassment, Rebecca replied, “Thank you, Mr. Jones. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
And later, when Rose began setting platters of food on the dining table, Rebecca tried again. “John? Dinner is almost ready. Please join us.”
No reply. She pressed her forehead to the solid wood and added on a plaintive note, “John? Do answer. You begin to worry me.”
Finally, she returned to the kitchen and said, “You have a key to his room, do you not?”
Rose nodded as she poured gravy into a sauceboat. “Used it once when he didn’t respond, but he flew into a rage and warned me never to use it again.”
Rebecca raised her chin. “Well, he has not warned me.”
Rose handed over the key from her chatelaine, worry lines on her brow. Rebecca didn’t blame her. She was worried too. Worried her brother might have done himself a harm.
Rebecca strode down the passage, took a deep breath, and inserted the key into the lock. Then she pushed the door open, the hinges creaking in protest.
There he lay, eyes closed, half-dressed, disheveled, lying amid jumbled bedclothes, wadded papers, teacups, empty whiskey bottles, smaller suspicious-looking brown bottles, and plates of half-eaten food. The air was foul with the cloying odor of sweat and spoiled meat.
She wrinkled her nose. “John?”
No reaction. Her heart banged hard.
“John!” she repeated sharply, slogging through the debris to the bed and shaking his shoulder.
His eyelids fluttered open. “What!” Displeasure and confusion puckered his face. “Becky? Why are you here? Leave me alone.”
What’s wrong with you? She wanted to shout, but the lump in her throat stopped her.
She knew what was wrong—to some degree at least. He had never been quite right since that fall from the tree.
The resulting head injury had left him confused, lethargic, and moody.
A condition that had grown worse over recent years, exacerbated by a deep depression of spirits and too much drink.
And the cause?
She knew it all too well.
Frederick Wilford glanced around the Wickworth drawing room into the hall beyond. Everywhere he looked, the furniture, mirrors, and silent clocks lay shrouded under protective white Holland cloths—and had been for two years.
Will I never be able to put the past behind me? he asked himself. Forgive her . . . and myself?
The sound of hammering from upstairs seemed to pound right into his brain. He rubbed ineffectually at his throbbing temples.
The front door burst open, the caller not bothering to knock.
“Freddy? I’m here!”
Frederick stepped into the hall to greet his younger brother, who lived in London but visited every year at Christmas and Frederick’s birthday.
Dapper, fair-haired Thomas set down his valise and handed his greatcoat to the suddenly appearing footman.
Frederick looked past him, expecting to see his valet. “Your man not with you?”
“No. Went off and got himself married, poor fool.” Then his brother glanced around, eyes wide. “You still have everything covered? Really, Freddy, this place is like a mausoleum.”
“Good day to you too, Tom. Welcome home.”
Thomas shook his head. “Wickworth has not been my home in ages, thankfully. Who would want to live here? Ghosts? Certainly not living, breathing people.”
“You know why everything is covered. We are renovating.”
“Are you? I thought you stopped all that after Marina died. The refurbishments were her idea, after all.”
“I have put off the plans for this floor. The men are working upstairs for the present, finishing the guest rooms.” He gestured behind himself. “But I can’t leave that gaping hole open between the library and drawing room forever.”
His brother’s eyes glinted. “Like a wound refusing to heal?”
Frederick frowned.
“Look, I can’t stay here again,” Thomas announced. “Not with these paint fumes and all this dust flying about. I left here with a rattling cough after Christmas. Let’s stay at the abbey—a birthday treat for you and a little holiday for us both. What do you say?”
Hammering started up again from above, making Frederick’s headache all the worse.
“Come on,” Thomas wheedled. “You are holding the canal meeting there anyway. Besides, when is the last time you’ve spent a few nights away from this place?”
And from all the memories it holds . . . Frederick silently added. “Very well. Assuming they have rooms.”
Thomas beamed. “Excellent. You won’t regret it. We shall have a merry time.”
Frederick highly doubted it.
In the morning, while Rebecca was still asleep on the sitting-room sofa, her brother burst from his room with a stack of pages in hand.
“It’s fate you’re here now, Becky.”
Startled awake, Rebecca surveyed her brother’s unkempt appearance and fevered gaze. “Have you even slept?”
He shook his head, greasy dark hair flopping over his forehead. “Up working and thinking all night, and I’ve decided. You are the perfect person to place my new manuscript into his hands.”
Confusion pinched. “What?”
“I’ve tried sending it to other publishers directly, and they all rejected it. Most without reading it. ‘Declined by Return of Post’! My only chance is if Oliver will recommend it to his publisher.”
Rebecca struggled up into a sitting position. “But would he? Considering your history with him?”
“Rose made a clean copy for me. He doesn’t have to know it’s my work until he passes it on to his publisher. We’ll use a pen name.”
Rebecca considered the plan and felt her brow furrow. “Will Mr. Edgecombe be at the hotel too? I met him that day, we—” She broke off, not wanting to remind John of that unhappy scene, and instead said, “Perhaps I might give the manuscript to him directly?”
John shook his head. “William Edgecombe died over a year ago. His brother, Thaddeus, has taken over, and he doesn’t accept unsolicited manuscripts either.”
“Then, might we not work on Mr. Oliver’s sympathies—remind him what he owes you?”
John sat on the sofa near her feet. “No, Becky. Do not mention me. You know it will put him on his guard. He’d probably burn it out of spite.”
“Or steal it,” Rebecca muttered.