Chapter 7 #2
“Come,” called a deep voice from inside.
Hetty hesitated, uncertain if it was Mr Bramwell’s voice, for it was muffled by the door and the noise of building work going on around them. She did not wish to enter the little hut and discover herself in company with a man she did not know.
“Is that you, Mr Bramwell?” she called.
A moment later and the door was snatched open.
Mr Bramwell filled the entrance, and Hetty’s breath caught. Somehow, she had forgotten how very imposing he was since the last time she’d seen him.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded, his expression incredulous.
Hetty, undaunted by this less than enthusiastic greeting, returned a bright smile. “I have it on good authority that you are burning the candle at both ends, Mr Bramwell, therefore, I have brought you something to eat and drink before you make a spectacle of yourself and swoon before your men.”
His eyes flicked from her to Jenkins, to the basket, and though it hardly seemed possible, grew several degrees frostier.
“Bloody little fool. Do you want the entire town talking about us?”
“Oh, don’t make such a fuss,” Hetty replied crossly. “I’m not staying. I am only bringing you this basket along with an invitation to take tea with me.”
“I am not—” he growled.
“Or I could bring tea to you,” she added, sending him a smile of such insincerity he’d have needed to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to have read the threat it contained.
There was a short, taut silence. Hetty swore she could hear his teeth grinding. “I’ll be there at four thirty.”
“Excellent. I shall see you then. Good day, Mr Bramwell,” she said cheerfully as Jenkins passed him the basket. Hetty left the site with her head held high.
Hatherley Hall, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 27th July 1816
Gideon shook his head as he walked down the long driveway that led to the imposing doors of Hatherley Hall. He could not believe he was here because of a headstrong, little chit of a girl, but she had outmanoeuvred him and there was no getting out of it.
He did not doubt that she would have brought tea to the blasted site hut if he’d refused her, complete with a china teapot and Ratafia biscuits. She was a menace to society, certainly to his peace of mind, and he needed to put her in place and ensure she stayed there.
Though he had refused to go home and wash and dress appropriately to call upon a lady, he had unbent enough to ensure his cravat was tied properly—or at least a tad neater than usual—and his hair brushed.
It was the only concession he would make for her, though.
He was here under duress, and he was going to make it abundantly clear he was a grown man and not to be trifled with by a spoiled society miss with too much time on her hands.
She would get on famously with Damian, he thought bitterly, who lived for such games of one-upmanship, where the goal was to manipulate their prey into doing exactly what one wished them to do, and nevermind the consequences.
The butler opened the door to him and took his hat and gloves. “Good day, Mr Bramwell. Lady Henrietta is on the south terrace. If you would follow me, please.”
Gideon nodded, following the man through the impressive building.
It reminded him somewhat of Rivington House, and he experienced an odd pang of nostalgia, though for what he could not say.
Certainly, the place held no fond memories for him, nor for Damian.
Perhaps for what might have been, if things had been different.
He shook the odd sensation off, feeling as though slumbering ghosts had woken and were following close behind him. Unnerved, he looked over his shoulder and then laughed inwardly at his own idiocy. But his stomach clenched all the same.
Howard led him out onto a shaded terrace that overlooked the garden, with a splendid view of the sea on the horizon between two stands of pine trees. For a moment he just stood and stared, transfixed by the symmetry and elegance before him.
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
Gideon turned then, belatedly realising Lady Henrietta was sitting on a little wrought iron settee, comfortably padded with colourful cushions. She smiled at him, lifting her hand for him to take.
She was dressed in cobalt blue, the soft fabric of the gown the same shade as the sea glinting on the vista laid before them.
Gideon shook himself and took her slender fingers in his, bowing over them with little grace and dropping them inelegantly.
He must remember why he was here and not get sidetracked by either the beauty of the view or that of the manipulative little minx smiling so guilelessly at him.
Hetty made a choked sound that might have been a laugh as he sat himself down.
“You may bring the drinks, Howard,” she told the butler with a smile.
Gideon frowned as the fellow took himself off. “Drinks? I thought I’d come for tea.”
Hetty sighed, reclining one slender arm along the back of the settee, entirely at her ease by all outward appearances.
“I did invite you for tea, as that is the proper thing for a young lady to do. But I suspected you might prefer something else. It’s so wretchedly humid this afternoon I suspect we may have a thunderstorm, but we must not complain about this rare burst of heat as it’s been so dreadfully cold and wet all year. ”
Gideon looked up as Howard reappeared bearing a tray with a bottle sweating in an ice bucket, glasses and a jug of what looked like lemonade.
He served Hetty a glass of lemonade before serving Gideon with the wine, set a pretty plate laden with macarons and ratafia biscuits on the table and looked enquiringly at Hetty.
“That will be all, thank you, Howard.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Hetty reached for her glass, lifting it in Gideon’s direction. “Your very good health, Mr Bramwell.”
With little alternative, Gideon lifted his own glass. It was a pale straw colour, glinting in the pretty engraved glass. He took a sip, and the fresh, slightly tart flavour filled his mouth, most welcome on one of the few warm days they'd had this year.
“That’s good,” he admitted.
“I know,” Hetty said with a sigh. “But I have promised to ride with Cilly this evening when it cools down and wine makes me sleepy. So, I shall enjoy it with my dinner later.”
Gideon took another sip, turning the delicate glass back and forth in his hands before looking up and meeting her eyes. “Why am I here?”
Hetty regarded her lemonade glass thoughtfully for a moment before she replied.
“You gave me every indication that you valued my opinion, Mr Bramwell, that you were glad of my help, yet I have not seen nor heard a word from you in a week. That aside, everyone seems to be aware that you are working yourself into exhaustion, but besides Gee-Gee, I am the only one foolish enough to brave your sharp tongue and point it out.”
There was a glint in her eyes, a challenging look that suggested he think twice before speaking sharply to her.
Still, Gideon could not help the acute surge of irritation and resentment towards her. Who the devil did she think she was, his mother? But no, his mother would have cheered if he’d set himself on fire, so that was a poor comparison. All the same, she had some nerve.
“Another man might believe such attention tantamount to pursuit, Lady Henrietta, that you were setting your cap at him.”
To his satisfaction, the colour rose in her cheeks. “But not you,” she replied coolly.
He snorted and shook his head. “No. I’m not so foolish. You just like provoking me, though I cannot fathom what you get out of it. You are correct, however, I am tired, so whatever clever game it is you are playing, I suggest you give it up.”
She sat up straighter, setting her drink down with a sharp little clack on the glass-topped table.
“Game? You think I brought you here for my amusement? Why, you…” She took a breath and swallowed whatever ill-advised name she’d been about to call him, which he was rather sorry for, as he was curious now.
“I brought you here because it seemed to be the only way I could force you to sit still and relax for a moment.”
Gideon regarded her suspiciously. “That’s all.”
“Yes, you ungrateful wretch. That’s all,” she said, folding her arms and glaring at him. They stared at each other for a long moment until she shook her head with a soft laugh. “Look at that, Mr Bramwell.”
She pointed at the view, where the sea glittered. The pine trees swayed gently, framing the view and the scent of roses drifted up from the beautiful gardens below the terrace. Despite himself, Gideon let out a breath.
“Drink your wine, Mr Bramwell, have a macaron, and admire that spectacular view. Just for a moment. I shan’t say a word.
When you are ready, you may leave with my blessing.
But just this once, just take a breath. If you are feeling dreadfully bold, I suggest you take your coat off too. You’ll be more comfortable.”
For a moment he fought a fruitless battle with indignation, but she was right—he was worn to a thread. So, rather to his surprise, Gideon complied.
A lovely climbing clematis shaded the terrace, the flowers of which bloomed like stars overhead as it scrambled over a pergola, but it was still hot.
It was not at all proper to sit in his shirtsleeves, but he had noticed her maid seated at the far end of the terrace, busy with needlework, and they were in full view of the garden, so no harm ought to be done.
He folded his coat and slung it over the back of the chair, glancing down at her and smiling ruefully as she passed him the plate of biscuits. “Take a few,” she said firmly.
Gideon took three macarons and sat down again, eating them one after the other, before leaning back against the cushions on his comfortable chair and gazing out at the horizon. Hetty was as good as her word and said nothing, and little by little, Gideon felt himself relax.