by Lily Reynard
She patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.
With a herculean effort, Kit straightened up.
"I'm—I'm sorry," he said, hoarsely. "To make such a scene...you must be wondering why I—"
Her hand was still on his shoulder, and she gave a comforting squeeze.
"Do you not remember me, then, Kit? I'm Bess—Bessie Thornton then, Mrs. Robertson now." She smiled wanly at them both. "You look like you've had a long journey, the both of you. Please do come in for some milk and a bite of cake."
Kit followed her inside, his thoughts in turmoil as he tried to control his emotions.
He had spent his boyhood Sundays in church, squirming in humiliation at the sermons' frequent references to him as "a fruit of sin," and to his mother as a "fallen woman."
He had spent years trying to be a good lad so that someday his father would recognize him. But his mother had been ever mild and loving, proud of his accomplishments, and she had always shrugged off the scorn of the town's Puritan elders.
When he turned seventeen, Kit had left Thornsby-on-Stowre. He had finally accepted that the old man in the manor house would never bend, no matter how hard Kit tried to be worthy of him.
Kits' mother had cried when he told her that he intended to seek his fortune as a soldier on the Continent, but she had sent him forth with her blessing and a second-hand sword that had cost her what little savings she had.
She had been a skilled brewster, her beers and ales easily a match for any that Kit had later tasted in Germany and France. Kit had longed to tell her so, for he knew that the praise would please her immensely, even as she blushed and laughingly denied it.
Through slices of Bessie Thornton's currant cake and the obligatory relating of news and his adventures, Kit's mind kept working.
What am I going to do now?
All his plans had hinged on coming home and helping his mother with her brewing business, and perhaps convincing her to open a tavern with him, to serve food as well as her ale.
He had only little money left, no other family to fall back on, and a daughter showing worrisome of illness, possibly contracted on board the crowded ship that had carried them back to England.
Now there was really only one thing Kit could do, unpalatable as the prospect was.
But he had no choice. He had returned to England with no savings, no livelihood, and no connections. And so, he must humble himself, and ask for charity from his father's family.
He wondered what reception, if any, they would give him. His kinship to them had been an open secret in the village all throughout his childhood. He spent most of his adolescence and early manhood striving to prove that he did not need their connections to succeed in the world.
To return to Thornsby Hall now a supplicant was a bitter draught. It meant admitting he had failed in his quest to prove himself.
Not quite a complete failure, thought Kit, looking at his daughter, who was sipping fresh milk from a pewter mug. For I will prove myself a better father than ever the old man was.
A short while later, they took leave of Bess.
Margaret's too-hot hand in his, Kit trudged through the village and headed to Thornsby Hall. His stomach churned with dread.
For Margaret's sake, he would get down on his knees before the Earl of Thornsby and beg for help.
For Margaret's sake, he would do anything.
Chapter Three
"Marriage is the only evil that men pray for."—Greek proverb
9 April 1666:
To the Right Honorable Lord Thornsby, Thornsby Hall, Thornsby-on-Stowre, Kent
My Lord,
You asked me some time hence that if a rich widow happen to fall in the meantime, I should keep her in syrup for you.
I have news of Lady Cranbourne, the relict of the old earl, who is possessed of goodly Estate and who presently resides in the village of Long Cranbourne, near Ashford. Lady Cranbourne is Rumoured to have been greatly disfigured by the Smallpox, and indeed she is said never to leave her House but that her face is concealed by a Vizard. But her steward says she hath two Houses, one in the country and the other in London, and is worth 15000 Pounds per year, and so her charms are greatly Increased despite a ruined Complexion.
She is but lately come out of Mourning, and yet hath shown no favor to any suitor, but I advise you hasten your wooing for the King hath set his Eye upon her and invited her to Court, where she is intended to make a Match with one of His Majesty's favorites.
Yr. Ob't Svt,
Geo. Purbeck, Esq.
* * *
Julian Thomas Edmonton, the eighth Earl of Thornsby, paced through his study, fighting the urge to smash the ugly—but valuable—porcelain vases that stood waist-high near the hearth. He turned his back on the crumpled sheet of paper he had tossed on his desk, and tried to decide what to do next.
The Dowager Countess of Cranbourne's letter had been polite but cool, thanking him for his kind regards, and regretting that she was unable to permit him to call upon her.
She had also returned his presents: a pair of perfumed gloves and the portrait miniature he had commissioned with almost the last of his funds.
Thornsby flipped a long, jasmine-scented lock off his shoulder, and contemplated the task he had set for himself.
Not for him the periwigs of lesser-endowed men—the thick, curling mass was entirely his own. Coupled with golden-green hazel eyes and a lazy smile, his good looks had enabled him to cut a wide swath through the Court ladies, both married and maiden.
He had been confident his portrait would prove the key in approaching Lady Cranbourne. After all, she had been an old man's bride!
Six years ago, Thornsby had met the Earl of Cranbourne and his little merchant-girl bride at a ball in the city. He remembered that the new Lady Cranbourne had been very young and very pretty, with an enchanting smile, chestnut curls, and a fine white bosom.
If her face had been ruined by the smallpox as Purbeck claimed, that bosom would more than make up for it once he blew out the candles.
But how could he win her hand if she wouldn't even receive him?
And—more alarming—what if someone else managed to snatch away this prize before he had a chance to win her?
She was his last hope. He knew of no other suitable widows or heiresses to save him from financial ruin.
At the very least, he would be unable to return to his position as a Gentleman of the King's Bedchamber at court, and reduced to hiding in this huge, drafty tomb of a house, while creditors invaded his parlor and stood watch outside his gates.
Julian looked out the window at the sadly overgrown garden, and scowled.
His late brother George, the seventh earl, had spent most of the estate's funds transforming it into a formal monstrosity in the French style, with clipped hedges, plump statues lolling in fountains, and gravel paths.
But there had been no monies allocated to maintain it after the initial work was completed. The neglected garden made Thornsby Hall look shabby, like a maid wearing her mistress's castoffs.
An outspoken loyalty to the late king during the Civil War had nearly cost Father this Elizabethan manor house. Once Parliament proved victorious, they had executed Charles I and forced the queen and her children into exile on the Continent.
Julian supposed that his own family had been lucky to escape with only heavy fines, but those fines had all but ruined them.
In his brief tenure as the seventh Earl of Thornsby, George Edmonton had not been successful in petitioning the newly-restored king for redress.
Indeed, it appeared that he had done little in London except drink, gamble, and whore until a surfeit of French brandy had carried him away without wife or heir.
Which had left Julian, at age twenty-six, quite unexpectedly the eighth Earl of Thornsby and responsible for both his brother's debts and the family estates, the majority of which his great-grandfather had carefully entailed against sale.
The elder Thornsby's loyalty to the Crown
had won his three grown children—George, Julian, and Anne—positions at Court after the Restoration, but precious little financial recompense from a monarch perpetually in debt himself.
At the moment, Julian was living a precarious existence on winnings from games of chance and the bribes he accepted to pass along petitions to His Majesty.
His younger sister, Lady Anne, served as a maid-of-honor to the queen. But without a sufficient dowry; her marriage prospects looked mighty bleak at the moment.
Julian massaged his brow, hoping for inspiration. The Countess of Cranbourne had rejected his initial overture, but he was not ready to give up the chase.
It was vexing to think he might actually have to go in person to woo that Cranbourne creature, but he was in dire need of a rich wife, if even she was one of those detestable Puritans.
I can always banish her to the country after the wedding, he told himself, and visit her only when I wish to get heirs upon her.
Julian straightened up as he suddenly remembered how the Earl of Rochester had won his bride.
Encouraged by the king to court an heiress, Rochester had sought to ensure his success by kidnapping the wench and forcing a marriage.
Her outraged father had caught up with them on the western highway just outside London, and Rochester had been sent to the Tower.
Then, almost miraculously, he had managed to win the girl's heart and hand from his cell.
Rochester's bold plan fired Julian's imagination.
Let me but get Lady Cranbourne here to Thornsby Hall. I'll wed her, and then seduce her with sugared words and honeyed kisses until she grows great-bellied with my heir and she cannot demand an annulment.
Yes! I must find a way to do this. But how can I accomplish it without getting myself sent to the Tower?
* * *
As Kit and Margaret trudged wearily up the wide gravel drive leading to Thornsby Hall, Kit noticed that the grounds, once a pleasant expanse of lawns and trees, were now sadly neglected.
The pools and fountains were bright green and opaque with algae. The lawns had grown knee-high and the low hedges bristled with unclipped twigs like great furry caterpillars creeping alongside the graveled paths.
These signs of neglect worried him.
They rounded the last stand of trees, and Thornsby Hall appeared.
Built around three sides of a graveled courtyard, its red brick walls glittered with dozens of diamond-paned windows as the sun appeared between a break in the clouds.
"Oh," Margaret exclaimed, coming to a halt. "Are we going to live here, Papa?"
"No, sweetheart, I don't think so. But we may bide here a while," he added hastily, as her face fell. "Remember how I told you that your Uncle George is an earl, and much grander than we are?"
She nodded.
"Why don't we hope for dinner first, then see what happens?" Kit asked in his most encouraging tone.
"Yes, Papa," Margaret's thin shoulders slumped, as if her pack suddenly weighed a hundred pounds.
Kit looked at the house again, trying to see it through the eyes of a little girl who had only known the primitive world of summers in tents and winters in rented cottages.
He sighed, and pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve. "Come here, sweetheart."
She stood obediently while Kit dipped the handkerchief into a nearby fountain, this one mercifully free of green much. He used the damp cloth to remove the worst of the travel stains from her face.
As he did so, he noted with alarm how flushed her cheeks were. Was her fever rising?
Kit wished he could be certain of his welcome here. Bad enough that he intended to ask charity from the family that had never formally acknowledged his existence!
Please, let George be kind to my daughter, Kit prayed as he took Margaret's hand and continued towards the house.
* * *
A tap on the door roused Julian from composing his plans to abduct Lady Cranbourne.
Porter, the young butler Julian had hired in London, entered and bowed.
"My lord, there's a—person come to call upon you. He claims he's your brother." The very neutrality of Porter's tone indicated that he found this possibility unlikely.
"Did he give his name?" Julian demanded.
"Christopher Fitzgeorge, my lord," said Porter, and Julian's heart turned over. "And he has a little girl with him."
"You may show him in," Julian said, wondering why Kit had decided to return after all this time.
While he waited, he remembered the day his illegitimate half-brother, free of the restrictions that ruled Julian's life, had gone to Canterbury and enlisted in a company of mercenaries.
Julian had tried to follow Kit, but had been caught by Father and hauled home for a whipping.
The door opened again, and Julian inhaled with shock.
The golden older brother of his memory was a bearded, filthy stranger. His clothes showed the effects of hard wearing: the wool of his jacket and breeches, once a proud crimson, had faded to a dusty pink, and his wide linen cuffs were stained and blackened.
And yet, there was a presence to him, an indefinable air of command, which had not been there before.
Kit had a little girl by the hand, also thin and ragged, greasy blonde hair straggling from beneath a grimy cap sewn in the German style.
As they entered the room, she sneezed, then stared open-mouthed at a portrait of Julian's mother, resplendent in sky-colored satin and pearls.
"Look, Papa," she whispered, loudly. "A princess!"
"What, brother, did the soldiering bring you no glory?" Julian drawled sarcastically.
Given his present troubles, he could not afford any more dependents.
Kit glowered at him, and the years between them suddenly vanished. Then, with a visible effort, he pressed his palms flat against his ragged breeches.
"Glory enough," he said finally, his voice deeper than Julian remembered. "But little in the way of riches, though Europe is once more spared the incursion of the Turk." He gave a half-shrug, and his stubbled cheeks creased in a wry grimace. "And God give you good day, also, Julian."
Julian's face grew hot at the subtle reprimand, and he reminded himself that he was a titled peer now, and did not owe courtesy to a beggar, even one related to him by blood.
"Where is George—er, my lord Thornsby?" Kit asked. "I need to speak with him—to ask of him a favor, actually."
Kit had apparently not heard the news.
Julian drew himself up, and said, coldly, "I am Lord Thornsby, now. What do you wish of me?"
"Oh. My condolences...my lord, ah, Thornsby." Kit snatched his hat off his head and swept a hasty bow. "But George—when?"
Julian found that he relished the sound of my lord coming from the older brother he had once worshipped. And as bad as things were for Julian, they were apparently infinitely worse for Kit.
"Recently," Julian said. "I gave his funeral oration last week."
And damn him, for going wild after Father's death, for squandering what remained of the estate's money, thought Julian bitterly.
In less than six years, George had spent several thousand pounds on clothes, cards, strong drink, and the actress Penelope Merryfield.
"What happened?" Kit asked, finally, after Julian had stewed in silence for a while.
"Drank himself to death. He was ever the sot—" Julian broke off, feeling renewed rage at his brother's fecklessness.
"Ah," Kit said softly. "Poor George. He always bore the brunt of our father's beatings."
"He was a damned fool," Julian snapped. "And I never wanted to be the earl, to own this dreadful pile of a house." Nor these debts, he thought but did not say it. He did not want to expose any weaknesses. "And, my God, Kit, did you see what George did to the garden? Father must be rolling in his grave!"
He gave a snort and turned his attention to the girl. "Your daughter?"
Kit nodded, and beckoned to her. "Margaret, sweetheart, come and greet your uncle, Lord Thornsby."
> She came over shyly, dragging her worn, lumpy shoes a little on the polished parquet floor, and made Julian an awkward curtsey.
"God give you good day, Uncle Julian," she whispered dutifully after a gentle nudge from Kit.
"Call me Lord Thornsby." Julian bared his teeth at her, wondering if she had lice.
He picked up a silver handbell from a side-table and rang for Porter. "What say you, Kit, shall Mrs. Jones give her a bath and feed her supper?"
"Mrs. Jones?" Kit grinned, and looked suddenly a decade younger. "Never tell me that she's still the housekeeper!"
The door opened and a housemaid entered. Kit placed his hand on Margaret's shoulder.
"Go with..." He looked at the housemaid in inquiry.
"Ellen, sir," the pink-cheeked girl said.
"Go with Ellen, then, and be a good girl. Your uncle and I have much to discuss." He steered her towards Ellen, who extended her hand, somewhat gingerly.
"And either launder or burn the girl's clothes, Ellen," Julian said, wrinkling his nose.
"Do not burn them," Kit said in the tone that of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
Ellen, halfway into a bob of acknowledgment at Julian's order, stopped, and looked first at Kit, then, uncertainly, at Julian.
Julian scowled, unused to having his commands questioned, and Kit added a trifle apologetically, "She has no other clothes, just a change of linens. If you burn her gown, she will be reduced to her shift."
"Oh, that." Julian shrugged carelessly. "Burn everything, Ellen."
He turned to Kit. "There are chests filled with old children's clothes in the attic. Mother never could bear to throw anything away. Mrs. Jones can find and alter something."
Kit nodded warily.
Julian continued: "And, Ellen? Find something for Mr. Fitzgeorge as well. His present garments are hardly fit for a beggar."
Kit flushed under his dirt and stubble, but he said nothing.
"Yes, my lord," Ellen bobbed again, and left the room, taking Margaret with her.
Julian seated himself, and crossed his legs at the ankle. He deliberately did not offer the room's other chair to his brother, and Kit was forced to remain standing.