by Jude Bayton
“I hope so.”
He gave a long sigh and then looked at me with a strange expression on his face.
“Jillian. There is one more thing I must tell you before I leave you to yourself.” As he spoke, he loosened his cravat and began unbuttoning his shirt.
Instinctively, I shifted away from him. “Victor, what on earth are you doing?” I jumped to my feet.
He also stood up, never taking his eyes from mine. “When Dominic and I pulled you from the lake, your clothing was sodden, your dress gone, and what little you wore was torn.” He pulled open his shirt and there, on the left side of his chest was an oblong-shaped strawberry birthmark.
I stared, frozen to the spot as I looked at the same mark I bore on my body.
And then his green eyes met mine, and I realised through my tears, that I had been looking into a mirror every time I had looked at Victor’s face.
Victor LaVelle was my father.
Epilogue
IT WAS A GLORIOUS DAY FOR a wedding. There was not a cloud in the sky, nor a whisper on the breeze. I stood outside the church in my new apple-green dress, with Dominic by my side. I had not felt this happy since my mother had been alive.
As the bells chimed merrily, the married couple burst through the doors with beaming smiles across their faces. Everyone cheered and hurrahed, throwing handfuls of rice to sprinkle over the bride and groom. Uncle Jasper looked so handsome in his new grey suit, and his blushing bride, Miss Prunella Stackpoole, now Mrs Jasper Alexander, looked radiant in a lilac gown, a bouquet of violets in her hands.
They were helped into the LaVelles’ open carriage, which was festooned with garlands of flowers for the occasion, and set off for Hollyfield House, where a grand picnic awaited in their honour.
“Thank goodness Uncle Jasper has finally found something he likes even better than lichens,” I remarked to Dominic as we walked from the church down Lake Road. We were not alone, for most of the village had been invited to the festivities. Throngs of people headed in the same direction.
“He does look delighted,” Dominic said.
“Wait for me!” Came a voice from behind, and we slowed our gait until Billy caught up with us. He looked joyful, his eyes shining with the prospect of a picnic and no doubt some games. He took my free arm, and I walked between the two Wolfe brothers.
“I’m so hungry,” Billy complained. “Jilly, will there be cake?”
“Lots,” I said with a chuckle. “And mince pies, sausage rolls, all kinds of wonderful food.”
“She won’t be there, will she?” Billy asked, as he often did since he had come home from the gaol.
“No, Billy,” Dominic reassured him. “She won’t ever be there again, so there’s no need for you to be scared.”
Victor had done my uncle proud. The entire garden at the rear of Hollyfield House was filled with tables laden with pastries, fruits, ales, and all manner of delicacies. A maypole stood in the centre of the lawn, and a small group of musicians entertained the guests. There would be a dance after dusk. It was a wonderful gesture from the LaVelles and an excellent tonic for a village still healing from the tragedies of the past three months.
Dominic sent Billy off in search of cake and then asked if I would walk with him down to the water. It was not my first time back to the boathouse since my run-in with Evergreen. I had thought it wise to conquer that fear right away. Evergreen had made such a devastating impact on so many lives over the spring and early summer. I was loath to give her any power going forward. My future was to be my own.
We strolled down to the shore and then away from the boathouse until we came across a small bench. Without speaking, we both sat down, and a few seconds passed before Dominic broke the silence.
“Well, Jilly. Are you ready to start this new chapter of your life?” He referred to my uncle marrying Mrs Stackpoole.
I sighed. “Though it will be different, yes, I am ready. So much has changed since I moved here. It seems I have gained many relatives all at once.” I thought for a moment.
“Dominic, accepting Victor as my father is still challenging, and I wonder if I shall ever grow used to the idea of it?” My relationship with Victor in his new parental role was yet in its infancy. Victor was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he had been friends with my Uncle Jasper and somehow never realised their true connection. This was easily explained, for Uncle Jasper was my mother’s uncle, and they did not share the same surname. Not to mention that when Victor had stayed in Devon many years earlier, my uncle had long been gone from the county.
“You know, Victor really wants you to live at Hollyfield House,” said Dominic. “He has mentioned it to me on more than one occasion.”
I shook my head. “I can never do that. It is not my home, nor will it ever be.” And that was the truth. For in my heart, dear Thom Farraday would always be my true father. For he had nurtured me, cared for me and loved my mother with all his heart.
But my living arrangements were still unsettled. Uncle Jasper had insisted I would always have a place with him. He reminded me daily that I should take my time to get used to the new arrangement with Mrs Stackpoole, who I now called ‘Aunt Pru’, and my developing relationship with Victor. It was the right solution for now—at least until I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
Dominic chuckled. “Just think, Jilly. If I had been more forward with you, I would have guessed your true identity much sooner.”
He was right. Had Dominic ever seen me in my undergarments, he would have immediately recognised on me, the very same birthmark his brother Billy had on his chest. Apparently, Perry bore the same dominant marking as well. No wonder Evergreen had gaped at me when I tried on her gown prior to the Mountjoys’ dinner party. I had sealed my own fate without even knowing it.
“’Tis strange to gain a father, and two half-brothers at my age,” I remarked. I acknowledged Perry and Billy, but would never own Evergreen as a sister, not after what she had done.
“I do miss seeing Perry and Marik,” Dominic said. “Though I know their life will be far better in Florence. At least there, they will not be persecuted for loving one another.”
“Indeed. Perhaps one day they might even feel safe enough to come back and visit us,” I said wistfully.
Dominic put his arm around my shoulders and we both fell silent while lost in our own thoughts. The gentle sound of lake water lapping on the shore was calming, and faint threads of music wafted through the trees from the gardens.
I thought about my parents, and how much they would have liked Dominic, and Billy too. I thought of Victor—that he had lost a wife to mental illness and now a daughter as well. That his eldest son must live exiled in another country, while his youngest afflicted son could never join Victor in the family business. Which left Victor with me. It was ironic he would lose one daughter and gain another. How strange life could be—how fickle was destiny.
I was roused from my thoughts when Dominic raised a hand to gently cup my chin, turning my face towards his. His amber eyes burned into mine, and just looking at him took my breath away.
“You know, Jilly, the day I bumped into you at the Ambleside Post Office, I had a feeling you were going to be someone vital,” he said softly. “Though little did I know just how significant.”
I smiled.
His thumb brushed across my lips. “Thank you, Jillian Farraday. Thank you for coming into my life and staying there through all the turmoil. For keeping me from giving up and for saving my brother—our brother’s life. I can never repay you, not ever.” His eyes clouded with emotion. He took a deep breath. “Jilly, I am very much in love with you.”
Before I could respond, he bent his head to mine and kissed me. His lips were firm, yet tender. And the chaste yearning within me bloomed into a bud of passion, saturating each cell of my body until I was consumed with feeling, with love.
He ended the kiss and pulled back without moving too far away. I was powerless to speak. My mind s
till processed his declaration while my heart filled with longing.
“Jillian, there is one more favour I would request from you, though you have done so much for me already.”
I frowned. Then I saw him smile and I instantly relaxed. “Yes Dominic, what is it?”
“’Tis much to ask,” he said, his eyes shining with merriment.
I groaned. “I do not wish to have my portrait painted, Dominic.”
He laughed. “No Jilly. That is not the favour. It is much more adventurous than that. I have decided to travel to Italy, and I want you to come with me.”
I gasped. “Italy? Why, this is news to me. When did you decide to go away? How can you leave the farm?”
“Whoa,” he placed his finger against my mouth. “Slow down. You ask too many questions at once.”
I apologised but asked another anyway. “Will you go to Florence and see Marik and Perry?”
“Yes. I have long desired to see that fair city, for it boasts art collections unrivaled anywhere in the world. As for the farm, once the crops are harvested, there is no reason I could not be gone for a short time.”
I considered the offer. Why should I decline? I had never travelled, other than from Devon to Cumbria. The prospect of being abroad was both terrifying and wildly exciting.
“Well?” he asked. “What do you say? Will you go with me?”
“Of course!” I beamed. “’Tis an excellent notion. It will be good for Billy. After all he has endured he…”
“No, Jilly.” Dominic said sternly. “Billy will remain here with Victor. I do not want to go on this particular trip with our brother.”
I did not comprehend. “Dominic, that is unfair. How can you not take Billy?”
“Please be quiet for just for a moment,” Dominic said with a smile. Then he looked into my eyes with such love. “Jillian Farraday LaVelle, I ask you to travel to Italy with me, for our honeymoon.”
And as he waited for my answer, the sound of happiness surrounded us as the dancing at the wedding party began with merry music on the air.
I placed one hand over Dominic’s, the other around the moonstone where it rested against my neck, and I looked into his beautiful eyes.
“I love you, Dominic Wolfe,” I whispered. “And I will go anywhere in this big wide world, as long as it is with you.”
About the Author
Jude Bayton is a Londoner, who currently resides in the American midwest. An avid photographer and traveller, Jude enjoys writing about places close to her heart. To keep up with her latest releases and her monthly blog, subscribe to at judebayton.com
Find Jude Bayton at:
judebayton.com
Facebook: Jude Bayton
Twitter: @judebayton
Email: [email protected]
Other Books
By Jude Bayton
The Secret of Mowbray Manor
The Secret of
Mowbray Manor
By Jude Bayton
Sunday, November 9, 1890
Dorset, Southern England
COMPLETELY ALONE, I glanced about the deserted platform, grateful for a dim light from one solitary gas lamp. My grip tightened on my small valise and suitcase. Swanage Railway station appeared as devoid of life as a ghost ship on the English Channel. I hastened to find an exit while my eyes chased shadows from the flickering, weak lamp. My mind battled the impulse to bolt, but I steadied my nerves, though it took every ounce of my composure not to run.
Outside the station and engulfed in darkness, I saw no other buildings, which fed my growing sense of unease. My eyes scoured the area, hungry for the welcome sight of Mowbray Manor’s carriage. I had been assured someone would meet me. Discouraged, I set my bags down upon the sodden ground, pulled up the hood of my cloak to block the bite of November wind, and considered my predicament.
Wispy ribbons of fog floated like waifs through the dark canvas of night, while the moon sulked behind drab clouds like a child hiding in its mother’s skirts. I shivered and pulled my worn cloak tighter. What if no one came?
An owl hooted, its companionable call a welcome reprieve from my silent isolation. And on I waited, it seemed for an age. My back stiffened as I stood so erect and scared, and the blood in my veins turned frigid. I grew weary. Then a low rumble upon the ground broke the quiet, and a faint light materialized. As it swayed through the gloom, I felt immense relief. I was rescued.
The carriage creaked to a halt a few yards away, and the driver climbed down from his stoop and approached. An older man, stocky of build, his face coarse and bearded, inclined his head, yet avoided looking at me directly.
“Good evening, sir,” I stammered. “Are you come from Mowbray Manor?”
The man grunted a low, unintelligible response and reached down to take my belongings. They did not weigh much, for my possessions were few, and he tossed them into the cab with ease.
“Get you in then,” he mumbled gruffly and gestured for me to follow the course of my bags. I needed no further encouragement.
I quickly relaxed into the worn leather of the cab as the hackney traversed the road to Mowbray Manor. My body warmed slowly as my eyes grew heavy from a long day of travel, my healthy constitution no match for the torrent of uncertainty which plagued my mind.
After a time, our gait slowed, and we turned into a driveway. Although the dark windows of the carriage were closed tightly, a scent of saltwater permeated the atmosphere, and I inhaled deeply. Now wide-awake, I pressed my nose against the cold damp glass, and my eyes strained through the blanket of night to see my destination. Fortuitously, the clouds parted to allow a sliver of moonlight to shine down, and my breath caught in my throat. Mowbray Manor stood regal and imposing. Though wrapped in folds of gossamer fog, its austere mass pushed through the obscurity, as though even the elements could not veil its majesty.
With the same unfriendly manner he had displayed earlier, the coachman delivered me and my belongings unceremoniously before the front steps. I stood rooted to the spot. My gaze traveled upward, followed the grey rock of the building that rose before me like a monolithic stone giant. With trepidation, I picked up my bags, ascended the steps, and stopped at Mowbray’s gargantuan oak doors. My hand shook as I reached for the bell-pull, and its trill ring pierced the quiet of evening. Footsteps approached from within and my emotions became conflicted. I yearned to be inside a warm safe-haven, yet felt anxious that I had arrived at my destination where I knew not one soul.
The heavy door swung open to reveal an elderly man, white-haired and somberly dressed. His clothing was dapper enough to be a gentleman’s, but his diminutive bearing at once declared his status as servant. He did not ask me to come in, but I basked in the light which flowed invitingly behind him.
“Good evening, miss.” His voice, eloquent yet disdainful, conveyed a tone which intimated that I should be stood at the servants’ entrance. This impression was likely based upon my lack of finery. I looked as I was—poor.
I steeled myself. “Good evening. My name is Kathryn Westcott, and I am come to see Lady Clayton.” His eyes flickered momentarily. He was no doubt surprised by my accent. He had obviously expected my speech to be that of a common girl.
The old man nodded. “You are late,” he said without ceremony and gestured for me to enter. He closed the door behind me, and my relief was instantaneous now that I was out of the damp night air. I set my bags down and stared at the butler.
“Wait here,” he commanded and walked away through the foyer down a well-lit hallway. As soon as he departed, I quickly examined my surroundings.
Several gas lamps were affixed to the walls, their sconces radiating soft yellow light which illuminated the scene before me. The space was immense, the floors made of polished marble. Two large pieces of statuary stood sentry either side of a staircase wide enough for a small carriage to pass between its carved bannisters. A majestic crystal chandelier hung like a stalactite, suspended from the painted fresco ceiling which depicted the heaven
s and what surely were gods, though which beings I could not say. Its magnificence exceeded my expectations.
A low murmur of voices escaped as a door opened and closed in the distance. The returning footsteps of the butler drew near. He stopped and extended a gnarled hand.
“This way if you please, Miss Westcott.”
I glanced down at my valise and suitcase. The old man noticed my consternation and nodded to leave them where they stood. I took a deep breath and followed him down the hall.
As we entered the drawing room, its sudden warmth engulfed my cold bones, though my nerves still chattered. Inside the room, thick Aubusson carpets cushioned my step, and lavish fabrics and ornate furniture surrounded me. Yet I absorbed none of it in my present state of mind. The butler announced my name and, at once, a figure rose from a winged-back chair placed close to the blazing fire. As she approached, my eyes slaked across the woman’s face, the elegant arrangement of her white hair and the length of her silken-clad figure. My feeling of uncertainty now I finally saw her in the flesh completely consumed me. Until this precise moment, the woman had been surreal, a fictional character in a popular novelette. Yet here she stood, the woman I had come to loathe through the words of her daughter, my dearest friend, Aramintha.
In a flash, I absorbed her features. The harsh jaw, thin lips, aquiline nose. Her skin like pale chiffon, soft with delicate creases, which changed the topography of her face. A striking woman, even in her sixties, she must surely have been a beauty in her youth.
“Ah, there you are, Miss Westcott.” Lady Blanche Clayton inclined her head. “Good evening. I trust you had a pleasant journey?” She stood a few steps from me, and our gaze met evenly. She did not offer me a seat. I smiled and nodded, observing the cordial expression on her face, yet her eyes were cold and grey as stone.
“Thank you, my lady. I did indeed.” I willed my voice not to betray the depth of my discomfort. “I apologize for the lateness of the hour. The early train was canceled.”