Chapter Three #2
More people had gathered to listen, and there was laughter as Gascoyne’s face grew redder and redder. ‘They aren’t undone!’ he yelled at her. ‘You little cow, they aren’t!’
But already she and her companion were disappearing into the darkness of the woods, and Gascoyne was making a feeble effort at a laugh himself.
‘Well, Dan,’ he said. ‘You’d best get that boundary wall built soon, because I’d wager she’ll soon be back for another sneaky look at this house and its owner. ’
For a moment Dan was silent. Then he said, ‘You’re beginning to bore me, Gascoyne.’
‘Ha! Put you in a bad mood, has she? Then come and join the rest of us, because there’s still plenty of time for fun!’
‘Perhaps in a while.’
Gascoyne shrugged and returned to the party, where several men were attempting to dance Scottish reels.
But Dan went into the house and up to his bedchamber to pull on a dry shirt and change his breeches, guessing that his long-suffering valet, Hamley, would shudder with dismay when he saw the state of them.
Then he went downstairs and found his brother just where he thought he would be—reading, in the library.
Oliver was three years younger than Dan.
He had been in Wellington’s army, but two years ago he had taken a bullet through the shoulder at the Battle of Bussaco and infection had set in, leaving him with his left arm permanently in a sling.
Since active service was no longer an option, he’d been offered a desk job with the War Office but Dan, sensing his brother’s low spirits at the prospect, had urged him to come to Brighton for the summer first. Oliver’s reaction had been to look pointedly at his black sling.
‘I’m not much use for anything except maybe to keep an eye on you, brother,’ he’d said.
Dan had grinned. ‘Really? That sounds pretty useful to me.’
So Oliver had agreed to come, and he got on surprisingly well with Dan’s friends, because they respected him as a war hero.
But there were no wild revels for him. He dined with them all happily enough each evening but when the atmosphere started getting lively, he always headed off to the library with a glass of good port.
When Dan came in, Oliver looked up from the book he was studying and said, ‘Problems?’
Dan sprawled in a chair to face him. ‘Possibly. My new neighbour has turned up, and she’s objecting not only to the party, but to my presence here in general.’
A window was open, and from outside came the sound of cheering and the screech of a fiddle being played loudly and badly. Oliver waited a moment, then said, ‘I have no particular opinion about your neighbour, since I haven’t met her. But do you want to know what I think?’
‘I sense a lecture is on the way,’ said Dan.
Oliver put aside his book. ‘Perhaps. No one else is going to dare tell you, and I’ll only get away with it because I’m your brother and a wounded hero.
Or so they say. Here’s what I think. You’re going exactly the wrong way about everything with these parties of yours.
Are you intending to show everyone that you don’t care one jot about your break-up with Cecily? ’
‘It’s true that I don’t care in the least, and how better to show it than by thoroughly enjoying myself?’ Dan hadn’t told even Oliver, the person he trusted most of all, about Cecily’s infidelity.
Oliver shifted his position to ease his wounded shoulder. ‘Well, take my word for it—it appears to the world as if you’re drowning your sorrows. Missing her, in other words. I think your best tactic is to do exactly the opposite and make yourself respectable.’
‘Make myself respectable?’ Dan almost laughed, except he could see that his brother was deadly serious.
‘Laugh away,’ said Oliver, smiling. ‘I know I don’t participate in the kind of antics you and your companions devise, but as an outsider here, I’ve learned quite a lot, and I repeat—show Cecily and the rest of them back in London that you are having a calm and perfectly civilised time in your new house.
Come September, you can go back to London and start partying again.
’ He pointed a finger lightly. ‘There’s my advice, brother, but I don’t expect for one moment that you’ll follow it. ’
‘Perhaps not, but I’m listening.’ Dan suspected that his brother had more experience of love and loss than he was willing to share.
Oliver had never shown a strong interest in women; they liked him because he was kind, but there had never been any hints of romance.
In the army though, Dan was pretty sure there had been someone special, a fellow soldier who had died in the bloodshed at Bussaco, and Dan hoped his brother realised that he felt for him, profoundly.
Once Dan had been Oliver’s sole protector, because when their mother left and they were sent to boarding school, the whispers that their mother was a whore were followed by attempts at physical bullying.
But Dan, thanks to the secret boxing lessons a junior footman had regularly given him, had been able to silence even the oldest, biggest boys and the whole school ended up cheering him on.
Yes, he had saved Oliver back then—but as for healing Oliver’s loss and silent grief, Dan knew he was helpless.
The sound of that awful violin was still going on, so Dan went to close the window. Then he heard his brother say, ‘By the way. I saw a flock of oystercatchers further along the beach this morning. I made a few sketches. Do you want to see them?’
Dan turned to him and nodded. ‘Of course.’
The sketches were excellent. Dan asked what he hoped were intelligent questions about the birds, but he didn’t tell Oliver that his thoughts were occupied not by oystercatchers, not by Cecily even, but by Miss Kate Summerby, because his anger with her had returned.
He should have told her the truth—that her aunt was deeply in debt after paying for repairs to Clematis Villa and was desperate to sell some land.
But the only offer Jemima had received prior to his had involved a vast hotel being built with entertainments on a scale to rival London’s Vauxhall Gardens, and Jemima had viewed Dan as her saviour when he came up with his offer.
Jemima’s niece, though, had assumed he was a villain—so why should he stoop to explain the details?
He realised Oliver was closing his sketchbook and checking the time on the clock over the fireplace. ‘I’m off to my bed,’ Oliver said cheerfully. ‘Goodnight, Dan.’
Dan blurted it out. ‘Oliver. Don’t you sometimes grow tired of being alone?’
Oliver looked at him in that way of his. ‘I’ve found that it’s possible to be lonely even when you’re surrounded by so-called friends. Haven’t you learned that yet?’
Dan watched his brother go. Then he poured himself a stiff drink, downed it in one and headed outside to join the revellers once more.
All the way back to Clematis Villa, Kate was thinking, That odious man cannot have spoken the truth. My aunt adored her property and would never have parted willingly with any of it. How had the Earl of Rivington persuaded Jemima to sell up?
Kate guessed that the Earl was capable of considerable charm, though he’d known better than to use it on her. But perhaps he had used his skills on Aunt Jemima. Maybe he had taken advantage of the fact that Jemima knew she was dying, which was unbelievably, horribly hateful…
She suddenly realised Harriet was struggling to keep up. ‘Miss Kate. Do, please, slow down!’
Kate obliged. ‘I’m sorry, Harriet. I always speed up when I’m angry.’ And I hobble, she muttered to herself, which is even more annoying.
‘You are angry, then?’
‘Yes. I’m very angry indeed.’
Kate marched on despite her limp. How could Jemima have made such an incredible decision? Surely she would have known that the Earl intended desecrating everything Jemima loved most around here—the wildlife, the natural beauty, the peace?
‘You were,’ Harriet was saying admiringly, ‘delightfully rude to that horrid friend of the Earl’s. Pretending to be thrilled by his attention—that was so funny! And when you told him his breeches were unbuttoned, did you see his face?’
‘The man needed putting in his place,’ said Kate, still pressing onwards even though it made her ankle ache. ‘Harriet, there is no way I can tolerate this. You do understand that, don’t you? The Earl of Rivington has to be opposed.’
‘But, Miss Kate, I’m not quite sure how you can achieve that.’
Neither am I, thought Kate miserably.
‘He is an Earl, after all,’ Harriet went on. ‘So he’s probably very rich, and you must have noticed that he is extraordinarily good-looking—’
Kate stopped so abruptly that Harriet nearly bumped into her. ‘Neither of those qualities says anything positive about the man’s character. In fact, it’s the opposite. He is a rogue, believe me!’
Harriet nodded fervently. ‘Yes. Of course, and I’m sure you are a far better judge of such things than I am.’ Then she added in a small voice, ‘You aren’t thinking of leaving Clematis Villa, are you?’
‘What, and go back to London to be unpaid nursemaid to Monica’s children? Never. I shall find an answer to this. I believe that wretched man must have deceived my aunt, somehow!’
‘Yes,’ said Harriet. ‘But can you prove it?’
‘I will find a way.’
Kate limped onwards. Her words were brave, but inside she feared that the Earl would be a formidable enemy. She hadn’t failed to notice the scorn in his blue gaze, and it chilled her to the bone, even on a warm night like this.
Of course she was used to scorn, ever since the illness that had permanently weakened her right leg.
At school she had hoped to be let off dancing lessons, but she was told they would be good for her, and her efforts at the cotillion and the contredanse had attracted many a withering comment from the French dancing master.
‘Mam’selle Katherine,’ he used to say, ‘I believe you must have two left feet!’
Then there was the humiliation of her Season and that wager.
She’d told no one about it, but afterwards she had refused to attend any more social functions, and during the years of living first with her father and then with her sister, Kate had desperately tried to think of ways to gain her independence.
Now the answer had arrived. It was clear now that her dear aunt had not forgotten her at all, and moving to Clematis Villa would mark, she’d believed, the start of the new life she’d dreamed of, based on independence and freedom.
But on her first night here, the Earl and his detestable friends had shattered that dream into pieces.
Kate reached the house in low spirits, but on entering she was heartened to see that a log fire was burning comfortably in the parlour, and on the kitchen table, someone had placed scones, a loaf of bread, some butter and a jug of milk.
‘Who—’ began Harriet.
Kate was already reading the note left beside the food. Tilly made the scones and the bread. I will see you in the morning. Joseph.
It was a reminder that she wasn’t alone after all. She showed the note to Harriet. ‘I told you about my aunt’s handyman, didn’t I? Joseph lives close by, and Tilly is his wife. He must have called while we were out!’
Eagerly Harriet buttered some scones and they sat in the cosy parlour to eat them.
Then Kate took Harriet upstairs to show her the little bedchamber that was to be hers, and Harriet was quite overcome.
‘I’ve never dreamed I could have such a lovely room.
Thank you.’ She hugged Kate tightly. ‘As for the Earl, everything will be all right, I’m sure.
You are so practical, you’ll know exactly how to cope with him! Anyway, he’ll be leaving before long.’
Kate was startled. ‘Will he?’
‘Why, yes! Don’t all the rich folk only come to Brighton for the summer? By September, Miss Kate, he and his friends will surely be returning to London.’
Kate nodded. ‘You’re right, Harriet. That is some comfort, at least. And please, do call me Kate! We’re friends, I hope, and I’m very glad you’re here with me. Goodnight. Sleep well!’
After that, Kate went downstairs again to damp down the fire in the parlour. Then she carried a candle up to her own room, where she sat on her bed and sighed, because really, Harriet’s words were of little comfort at all.
She just could not understand how all this had happened.
Why had Jemima parted with her land? She had always appeared quite comfortably off and happy with the company of just a few close friends, happy also to take a leisurely drive in the gig drawn by her pony, Rupert.
Jemima had shown Kate that it was entirely possible for a single woman to live an enjoyable life without any need for a man or his money, which led her back to the dratted Earl.
He, or one of his minions, must have spied out Jemima’s land as a suitable building plot, and then he had pounced—because who, among the ton, did not want a house in Brighton these days?
Not long ago, it had been a sleepy little fishing village, but the patronage of the Prince Regent had transformed the seaside town into just about the most popular destination in England.
Of course, the Earl would be accustomed to getting whatever he wanted in life, whether it was land, houses or women, and a little shiver ran down her spine when she thought of what might be going on now in the bedrooms of his big house.
She changed into her sensible nightgown and thankfully fell asleep, but in the early hours she had a dream.
In it, the Viscount’s son led her outside into a lamplit garden but too late, she realised that all around them were his friends, laughing and pointing at her.
Worst of all was the moment she saw that he wasn’t the Viscount’s son at all but the Earl of Rivington, who stood there in just his breeches and boots with his muscled torso gleaming in the light of those garden lamps.
‘Miss Summerby,’ he was saying, ‘you are making yourself ridiculous. You have no right to be here. No right. No right…’
She woke and she was trembling. Everything had gone wrong tonight. And the next day, she feared, was going to be even more difficult—because the Earl had said he would call.