‘I see,’ said Sebastian.
So the fine horses in the stable, which he was yet to inspect, and the elegant surroundings were courtesy of Isabel, and what had Anthony left her? A ‘comfortable jointure and use of the dower house’. It seemed like a poor exchange and now even that had gone.
‘What do you know of Anthony’s death?’ he enquired.
‘It was an accident,’ Freddy said with an expressive lift of his eyebrows. ‘Just between us chaps, Cousin Anthony was on his way home from visiting a certain lady. My guess is that he’d fuelled himself on a bit too much of the good lady’s late husband’s wine stock. Took a gate and came off. Snapped his neck. They found him in the morning, cold and stiff.’
‘So was Anthony unfaithful?’
Freddy looked genuinely startled. ‘I suppose…yes, of course he was. Got no comfort at home, if you know what I mean. Told you he liked the company of women with a bit of spirit to ‘em.’
Sebastian looked past Freddy, gazing out of the window. He tried to imagine Isabel’s lot in life, tied to a man who apparently had only married her for her money, preferring the company of light skirts. Their only child dead before his first birthday. No wonder she sought the peace and serenity of the dower house. Brantstone Hall could hold precious few happy memories for her.
Sebastian sat back in his chair and contemplated the elegant fop sitting across from him.
‘Forgive my curiosity, Lynch, but can you be a little more specific about your relationship to my cousin?’
Freddy blinked. ‘Have I been remiss in not informing you of my antecedents? Why my mother was second cousin to dear Anthony’s mother.‘
Sebastian found the relationship somewhat remote. ‘And how exactly did you come to be here at Brantstone?’
Freddy rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘My father was the very worst of gamblers. He lost everything on horses and then took his own life, leaving poor Fan and I quite on our own in the world. Dear Anthony offered us shelter and comfort when we needed it most. He promised, promised, to leave us provided for in his will, but, as you know, there was no such provision for us and the estate devolved to you.’ He paused, his fingers playing with the ribbon of his quizzing glass. ‘What a happy day that must have been for you, Sebastian.’
Sebastian regarded Freddy from over his steepled fingers.
He sighed. ‘Look, Lynch. Whatever my cousin’s intention towards you and your sister, I am conscious that I cannot, in all conscience, disregard an obligation, but until I can liquidate some more assets and have a better idea of the extent of the estate, I cannot make you any promises.’
Freddy fanned himself with his hand, an oddly irritating and effeminate gesture that Sebastian had noticed before.
‘That is very kind of you, and more than we deserve. Now we are friends again, perhaps I can divert you with a small game of cards?’
Sebastian rose to his feet. ‘You must excuse me, Lynch, but I am a little weary after my walk this morning.’
He shut the library door with a deep, thankful breath. He could have sworn the man was doused in some sort of fragrance. If Freddy haunted the library, he would have to find another room in the house to call his own.
As he passed the blue parlour he peered in through the half open door. Isabel sat at a desk, pen in hand. He knocked and entered.
She looked up and smiled. She seemed to be unbending a little in his presence and the smile softened her features.
‘Can I help you, my lord?’
Remembering the talk with his grandmother, his gaze swept the walls of the parlour. ‘One day you need to take me through the rogues’ gallery,’ he said.
Isabel smiled. ‘Well there are a couple of rogues here in this room that you may be quite interested in.’ She rose to her feet and walked over to a medium-sized portrait of two young men in powdered wigs lounging under a stylised oak tree. A dog and a hunting rifle completed the picture.
‘The younger man is your father,’ she said, ‘and the older his brother, George, Anthony’s father.’
Sebastian joined her, staring at the first likeness of his father he had ever seen.
‘Everyone I met this morning says I look like my father,’ he said. ‘I can’t see it myself.’
‘You’re at least ten years older than the James in the picture but, yes,’ Isabel considered him, ‘there is a strong resemblance.’
‘What about Anthony? Is there any likeness of him in the house?’
Isabel’s chest rose as she seemed to take a deep breath. ‘I have a small picture painted last year,’ she said. ‘Do you want to see it?’
He nodded. ‘It helps to be able to put a face to a name. I’m not good at just names.’
‘Wait here. I will fetch it.’
While he waited for her to return, Sebastian studied the bucolic painting of his father and uncle, searching for the character of the men in the stylised representation. James lacked the robust physique of his older brother and he thought he could sense a dreamy air in his father’s eyes, but perhaps that was just artistic licence.
He heard Isabel’s footsteps behind him and turned to face her. She handed him a portable leather-bound folio. He raised the little latch, opening it to reveal a small but exquisite portrait of a man standing behind a woman seated on a low chair. His hand rested lightly but possessively on her left shoulder. The woman held a baby in her arms.
He glanced up, noticing a line between Isabel’s eyebrows, a sure sign of the rigid self-control she imposed on herself.
‘I know about the child,’ he said quietly.
She let out a breath.
‘My aunt and grandmother let it slip,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘That was painted when William was three months old. It is a very good likeness of Anthony.’
And you, Sebastian thought.
There could be no mistaking Isabel, even dressed in a light blue gown with her dark hair worn in a soft, flattering style. In her painted smile and the ease with which she cradled the child in her right arm while her left hand was raised touching that of her husband, he saw genuine happiness. What had changed?
He turned his attention to Anthony. He looked very much as Sebastian had expected. The word ‘fop’ came first to his mind. Anthony wore his curled hair fashionably long with the long sideburns like those affected by Freddy Lynch. In further emulation of Freddy, his waistcoat appeared to be expensive brocade worn with a high starched collar and intricately tied neck cloth. He was no judge of male beauty but he guessed that a woman might consider Anthony, Lord Somerton, a handsome man with his high cheekbones and well shaped mouth. He scanned the face looking for something that might give some indication of character but he found nothing. It was as if the man’s handsome features were a mask.
What was he hiding?
‘Do you think we are much alike?’ Sebastian commented, handing the precious folder back to Isabel.
‘You mean in looks? There are moments when I think there is a superficial similarity but in all other respects you are as unlike as two men could possibly be.’ She looked down at the folder in her hands for a moment before raising her face, her expression grave. ‘Trust me, Lord Somerton, that is a good thing.’
For a moment they stood quite still, looking at each other. There was such unguarded pain in her eyes, he had to resist taking her in his arms. It was the death of her child, not her husband, which had robbed this woman of light and life. He wondered what it would take to bring her back.
Isabel glanced away, her shoulders lifting as if she remembered herself. When she looked back at him, the mask was back in place, calm and implacable.
‘Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?’
Sebastian cleared his throat. ‘Tomorrow is Sunday. What time is the church service?’
Isabel’s eyes widened. ‘Nine-thirty,’ she said.
‘Do you attend?’ he asked.
‘Of course, but…’
He frowned, ‘But?’
&
nbsp; ‘It’s just that Anthony rarely —’
‘I am not Anthony,’ he said in a tone that even to his ears sounded sharp.
She regarded him for a long moment. ‘Well then, if you care to accompany me, it is my custom to walk to the church directly after breakfast.’
He nodded. ‘Thank you. I would like to do that. Now I think I should go and rest or I will have to answer to Bennet.’
‘I will have dinner sent up to your room.’
He nodded and left her standing in the parlour, clutching the precious portrait to her chest.
***
Isabel waited until she heard Sebastian’s boots on the hall tiles before closing the door to the parlour. She opened the little portrait and set it on the escritoire. She kissed her forefinger and touched the painted face of the small baby in her lap.
This was all she had to remind her of that brief moment in time when she had been happy, completely and utterly happy, and she clung to the memory, taking it out, like the portrait, holding it in her hands, feeling its warmth sustain her for a little longer.
She wondered what it was about Sebastian Alder that had prompted her to show this likeness to him. He seemed to invite confidences and that thought unnerved her.
Taking a steadying breath, she picked up her pen, trying to concentrate on a letter to Lady Ainslie.
Lord Somerton’s heir had been found, saved from near death and installed at Brantstone. Her responsibility was done. The rest was up to him. She, Isabel, had other plans that did not involve him.
She picked up her pen and dipped it in the inkpot.
‘My dear Harriet,’ she wrote. ‘The new Lord Somerton is now at Brantstone and our plans for the school, so long delayed, can now proceed…’
She paused and looked out of the window, at the long sweep of the drive and the church spire rising above the trees. If she craned her neck to the right she could make out the chimneys of the dower house. Her heart leaped with excitement. Her own home, freedom and a chance to make something of her life.
‘…Lord Somerton is a contradiction. Of course, it is but his first days here but he is doing everything wrong, treating the servants and the tenants with too much familiarity, but yet it only seemed to make him more endearing. Even in the short time he has been here, I can see in their eyes for all his rough edges, the staff appear to have accepted him. I do not expect he will change. However simple his upbringing has been, the one thing the Reverend Alder seems to have instilled in him is a great trust and respect for his fellow human beings, however humble…’
She played with the feathers of the pen for a moment, remembering how he had stooped from his great height to ask a little kitchen maid her name. That had been the moment that had set the stamp on Lord Somerton’s heir.
‘When the opportunity presents, I am looking forward to talking to him at greater length about our plans for the daughters of the mill workers in Manchester. I expect a more sympathetic audience than my late husband would have given me.’
She put her elbows on her table and covered her ears with her hands as if she still heard Anthony’s mocking laughter.
‘My dear Isabel. You may as well throw money into the pigswill then try and educate the lower classes. Those girls who won’t go into the mills will end up on the streets. You are wasting your time and my money.’
She couldn’t save the world. She wasn’t trying to, but even if she could give half a dozen young girls a better start in life then she would have accomplished something.
No, Sebastian Alder wouldn’t laugh at her as Anthony had done. He would listen with grave, approving eyes. She looked down at what she had written, scrawled a few lines of general gossip and signed her name. As she sealed the letter, she smiled. She picked up the travelling folio and shut it, hooking it closed. That part of her life was over and a new life was beginning, filled with meaning and purpose.
Chapter 6
The bells of the village church chimed across the parkland, summoning the faithful from the estate. Isabel stood in the hall, pulling on her gloves. As she reached for her bonnet, held out by her maid, a clattering on the staircase made them both look up.
Sebastian had not been at breakfast and she wondered if he had slept late. He had, no doubt, left his bedroom immaculately dressed by Pierce but in the short distance to the bottom of the stairs, his neck cloth had come askew. Isabel wondered if he ever looked tidy and decided his charm lay in his insouciance. She hoped he would never learn how to wear a neck cloth with the same dash as Anthony.
‘Am I late?’ he enquired as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
‘For what, my lord?’ Isabel enquired.
‘Church.’
‘Church?’ Isabel stared at him.
‘I heard the bells…’
‘No…you’re not late.’
He carried his hat, cane and a small book, which he laid on the table as he tugged at the recalcitrant neck cloth. The effort only worsened it.
Isabel shook her head. ‘Let me,’ she said.
He obligingly stood still as she reached up and tucked the wayward ends of the cloth back where Pierce had intended. He smelt of fresh soap with a faint spicy tang to it. Her fingers brushed the freshly shaven skin of his neck and the muscles in his throat contracted. A warm flush rose to her face and she withdrew her hand, hastily pulling on her gloves.
He ran a finger around the edge of the neckcloth. ‘You don’t tie it as tightly as Pierce. Thank you, Lady Somerton. Where did I put my hat? Oh, thank you, Johnson.’
As the footman collected Sebastian’s hat and cane from the table and handed it to him, Isabel picked up the small, battered book, a copy of the Book of Common Prayer.
‘Your prayer book looks well worn,’ she remarked as she gave it to him.
He looked down at the book in his hand. ‘It was my father’s…my stepfather’s,’ he corrected himself. ‘I have nothing of my father’s except this.’ He raised his eyes to the painted dome. ‘The Reverend Alder gave the book to me when I joined the army.’
‘Can I see it?’ Isabel asked, holding out her hand.
He shrugged and held it out for her. She flicked through the dog-eared pages, covered in annotations written in pencil in a crabbed hand that she suspected had been that of the Reverend Alder.
On the end pages and crammed into the margins were tiny drawings, mostly caricatures or hasty sketches of people, a curious anomaly to find in such a book. She doubted the Reverend Alder had turned his prayer book into a sketchbook. She looked up at Sebastian and noticed a flush of colour in his face.
‘Did you do these sketches?’
‘Just something to pass a tedious sermon,’ Sebastian responded with a croak.
Isabel traced the caricature of a chaplain’s ruddy, self-satisfied face with her finger. ‘But it’s so good. I can almost hear him pontificating.’
Sebastian held out his hand and she gave the book back to him. He stuffed it unceremoniously into his pocket.
‘Connie’s the artist in the family. I just scribble.’ He glanced up at the stairs. ‘I take it we will not be joined by the Lynchs?’
Isabel shook her head. ‘I don’t think either of them have set foot in the church, except for funerals, in all the time they’ve been here.’
As they stepped out into the light of another glorious day, he swung his cane and turned his face to the sun. ‘I love this time of year.’
Isabel drew her shawl around her shoulders and tried to match her stride to his. He slowed with a rueful apology.
As they walked, he said, ‘I have written to my brother and sister and told them I will send the coach for them as soon as they are ready to leave.’
Isabel glanced up at him in time to see a flicker of yearning cross his eyes.
‘That’s good news. I look forward to meeting them. I am sure they will love their new home.’
He gave a rueful smile. ‘I don’t think I could restrain them from coming. I suspect Connie is already packed.
’ He clasped his hands behind his back and said in a wistful tone, ‘I still have trouble thinking of anywhere except Little Benning as home. It will be strange to have them here.’
‘I am sure they will accustom themselves quickly enough,’ Isabel said with certainty. Surely, the two young people would have no difficulty in accustoming themselves to such a comfortable life.
She had turned down a path that ran away from the driveway, a well-trodden shortcut that took them through the woods.
‘This is a much more pleasant route to the village,’ Sebastian remarked. ‘I took the road yesterday. Tell me about the incumbent of the parish. Is it my living?’
‘It is. Your grandfather only died four years ago after forty years in the parish. Poor Reverend Dunn is still referred to as the “new vicar”.‘
‘And he will probably always be referred to that way,‘ Sebastian observed, correctly.
Isabel glanced at him. ‘I forget you are, after all, the grandson and indeed the son of a parson.’
He squinted into the trees above them. ‘God and I have not always been on the best of terms. Indeed there was a time when I stood on the precipice of hell and considered it quite a viable alternative.’
She checked her stride and looked at him in consternation. It went against everything she thought she knew about this man.
‘No. I cannot credit that,’ she said.
‘There was a time in Spain —’ He stopped himself abruptly and began again. ‘I was wounded at Talavera and they sent me back to England. I…had seen some terrible things, Isabel. I stopped having hope.’
She looked up at him. ‘To lose hope is surely to lose the will to live, Sebastian. What changed?’
He looked down at her and his mouth quirked into a self-deprecating smile. ‘My father reminded me that there is still great goodness in this world.’
‘He sounds a remarkable man, the Reverend Alder,’ Isabel observed.
Lord Somerton’s Heir Page 7