by Jane Steen
“—I’d be in Blanche’s position. But yes, I’m the sole owner of all that was Justin’s until I marry again. And yet Michael is still trying to wrest control of my life from my hands. And my husband’s barely—”
I had to stop and swallow hard. I could feel the emotion I’d been refusing to acknowledge all day building up inside of me, liquid and treacherous. My husband was barely cold in his grave, as the expression went. But he was cold, enclosed in the chilly clay of a Sussex autumn. My spouse had been my best friend, a warm and constant presence at my side, snugly encased in the countryman’s tweeds he wore whenever he could get away with it. He had smelled of the outdoors and wood smoke and sheep’s wool because he was a gentleman farmer who worked for the love of the work and not because he needed the money. He had been a vigorous man—twenty-two years older than me to be sure, but hale and healthy in almost every respect. And now—
“Are you all right, Auntie? You’re looking a bit green.”
“Yes.” I took a very deep breath. “I’m going to have to visit Justin’s grave tomorrow. The thought upsets me.” My voice sounded brusque to my ears. The threatening onslaught of tears altered its timbre, making my throat hurt again.
“Death puts everything else into perspective, doesn’t it? I’m s-sorry I bothered you with my petty jealousies.” Thomas looked contrite.
“Don’t mind me. I’m fighting the urge to howl and weep like a lunatic.” I dashed a furtive hand across my eyes. “Please talk to me about Petey and your father for as long as you like. Remind me that I’m rich and nominally independent. That, unlike you, I can legally and morally do what I jolly well please. I just have to get over this—this shock—and learn to find a way to stand on my own two feet for the first time in my life. It’s what Justin would have wanted.”
2
A pride of lions
In the time it took for Thomas and me to make our way up the grand approach to Hyrst, country seat of the Earls of Broadmere for the last hundred years, the rest of the family had entered the house. Scotty had abandoned me altogether, no doubt still romping with the children.
Our feet crunched on beechnut shells from the overarching allée of trees that marked the entrance to my family home. We passed into its formal courtyard garden under the eyes of the young lad who opened the tall iron gates. The boy’s clumsy words of condolence, accompanied by much tugging of his forelock, were kind but served to make the gray cloud over my head seem heavier. Still—Chin up. I had another problem to face.
“Come say hello to Grandmama,” I urged my nephew. “I don’t suppose they’ll bring her downstairs. I doubt they’ve even tried to explain Justin’s death to her.”
“Why do we let them behave this way?” Thomas asked as he made his laborious way upstairs. “It’s like living in a pride of lions. The moment anyone in this family weakens, they’re shoved to the margins and forced to feed on the scraps of attention the rest deign to throw their way.”
“Probably a legacy of our warrior ancestors.” I tried to force a note of cheerfulness into my voice. “The Scott-De Quincy tradition of heroic aggression. All those effigies on tombs and grand paintings of men on rearing stallions are a terrible burden to carry, even given the loss of two castles and a mountain of debt. I’ve certainly never tried to carry this family’s glory on my back.”
“Haven’t you?” Thomas looked curious. “You used to be quite d-different. I remember the year you were presented at court, you know. Mama said you were so sought after as a d-debutante you could have married a duke. She was quite cross with you for insisting you were going to be an herbalist like G-Grandmama and rushing back to the country earlier than you needed to. You were only forgiven because of your understanding with Cousin D-Daniel. Everyone seemed to approve of the m-match.”
I felt the heat rise to my face, and a spark of anger mingled with my grief. “I allowed myself to become arrogant and headstrong because my first Season went to my head. And I was very much influenced by Mama. She was so insistent on the importance of a vocation, however fulfilling one might find being a wife and mother. And much good her teaching did me.”
“But you only lost interest in it because Daniel d-died,” Thomas said softly. “I’m sorry but I can’t help remembering, today of all days, that this is the second love you’ve lost. It isn’t fair.”
“Perhaps there’s no such thing as ‘fair.’” I forced the words out through a tight jaw and turned away from Thomas, dismissing the painful subject.
We had reached Mama’s rooms, which were at the end of a particularly musty corridor. I breathed deeper as I turned the door handle, taking in the mingled scents of lavender and furniture polish. Fresh, salty air dominated, rising from the marsh to the wooded promontory on which Hyrst stood. Belming, Mama’s attendant, believed in fresh air and cleanliness.
It was Belming who greeted us as we entered, her pleasant, sensible face lighting up as she rose from her sewing. I waved her back into her seat with a murmured greeting and looked around for my mother.
“Have you sent for the gardener?” My mother, Alix, Dowager Countess of Broadmere, announced her arrival with her usual question. She wore a nightgown and robe, but Belming had managed to twist her long white hair into a becoming bun. She shuffled toward us with the peculiar, hesitant gait she’d adopted of late, almost as if she were imitating Thomas. Her faded blue eyes took in each of us in turn with the odd blank stare that seemed to hold anger as well as puzzlement.
She and my father had been third cousins, and Mama had the Scott-De Quincy looks. Once, she had been tall and well-built, with a crowning mane of thick dark blond hair and piercing blue eyes that made people quail before her gaze. Now the long bones of her arms and legs were thin and fragile-looking, her back curved between shoulders that seemed so much narrower now, the strength gone from her face and figure. When I held out my arms, her own frail limbs lifted in response, and she allowed me to hug her.
I closed my eyes for a second, trying to recapture the mother who had dominated my early years. She had seemed to tower over me before her illness. Now it felt as though we were almost of equal height, small as I was. I kissed her cheek, the skin of which was as soft as velvet yet somehow a little clammy, not quite alive.
“Have you sent for the gardener?” she asked again. Nowadays it took all Belming’s powers of persuasion to induce Mama to take a five-minute stroll in Hyrst’s formal gardens. She completely refused to visit the herb garden that had once been her pride and joy, but she never stopped asking to see the gardener. We’d tried bringing the head gardener and even some of the under-gardeners to see her, but she invariably told them to leave immediately—so we had just resigned ourselves to her strange obsession.
“Of course I’ve sent for the gardener, Mama,” I reassured her, wishing I could see one tiny spark of the mother I’d known in this woman’s eyes. “He’ll be here directly.”
“Be sure to tell him to tie in the dahlias.” Her expression shifted to one of deep anxiety. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Helena, your youngest daughter. And this is Thomas, your oldest grandson.”
Thomas bent down to salute Mama’s cheek with a quick peck of a kiss. He was the only one of Gerry’s children who would visit his grandmother. Lydia and Maryanne found the experience “too trying.” Petey looked so scared whenever a visit to Grandmama was suggested that we’d stopped asking.
“I don’t have any grandchildren.” My mother paused for a moment to break wind loudly and then looked at Thomas again. “What’s wrong with his arm?”
“It doesn’t work, Grandmama.” Thomas grinned. “Never has.”
For a moment, the clouds in Mama’s mind appeared to part, and an answering grin spread across her face, almost sly. “I’ve become a silly old woman, haven’t I?”
“No, Mama.” I led my mother to her favorite armchair and seated myself nearby. I felt Thomas lower himself a little awkwardly onto the sofa next to me. “You’ve never been silly, and
you’re not silly now.”
“Where’s the other one? The one—him—the one who goes with you. That nice man.”
“Justin?” I felt my throat constrict. Today of all days Mama would remember I had a husband. “He died, Mama. We buried him today.”
My mother’s brow creased. “You must be very sad.”
“I am.” To my consternation, my voice broke on the last word. It was no good—all the grief I’d held at bay during the day overwhelmed me afresh. I slid to the floor, buried my face in my mother’s lap, and howled like an infant for a full five minutes.
I came to my senses to find Thomas offering me a clean handkerchief.
“Belming’s gone to make tea,” he said.
I took the handkerchief with a nod of thanks, blew my nose, and wiped my face. I breathed deeply until the urge to cry some more had passed.
“Better now,” Mama said.
“Much better. Sorry, Thomas.”
“Cry all you like, Auntie. I don’t see why we all have to go around pretending nothing important’s happened. Widows should be allowed to scream and wail, rend their clothing, and wear ashes on their heads.”
“Steady on there.” I felt the ghost of a smile twitch at my lips. “Think of the county.”
“Damn the county. Kill them all.”
Thomas and I looked at each other in surprise as my mother, having delivered this verdict in a ringing voice reminiscent of her old self, rose to her feet. “I want to use the commode,” was her next remark, provoking something of a flurry. My mother no longer had the patience for bodily continence and could just as easily use the furniture to relieve herself if not taken in the right direction in time.
Belming’s arrival with a tea tray spared me that particular task. Thomas and I were left to drink the restoring beverage while I recovered my equilibrium. I was sure my nose was shiny and my face blotchy, but Thomas and I were easy in each other’s company.
“Michael was more than hinting earlier that I should take Mama off his hands.” I stared at the window, where a thick strand of ivy had broken loose and was flapping against the panes in the wind off the marsh. “O said he was bullying me.”
“So he is.”
“But it would make sense. Whitcombe House is so much bigger than Hyrst.”
“Wouldn’t the twins object to losing her? I thought they liked being in charge of everything.”
“The twins have their charity work and looking after Hyrst in general. I concede that Mama doesn’t create a whole lot of extra work for them—Belming’s an absolute marvel—but then she wouldn’t create an awful lot more work for me either. It’s just that—” I was suddenly as weary as if I’d spent the whole day riding. “Oh, Thomas, the thought of doing anything right now wears me out.”
Thomas leaned in and kissed the top of my head. “Of course it does, Auntie. You can make Grandmama one of your worries once you’re feeling more like yourself.”
“I keep thinking of how she would have taken charge, back before Papa died. And she would have done it cheerfully too. Nothing ever seemed to upset her for long. The perfect wife, mother, and hostess, and on top of that she did so much good with her herbal remedies. A happy and useful woman.”
Thomas was silent for a few moments, watching me. “You’re not useless, Aunt Helena,” he said eventually. “No more than I am. We may both think it at times, but what do we know?”
He stood up and held out his good hand to me. “Come along. Let’s join the rest of the family. After all, it’s not often we’re all together.”
I slept better that night than I had for days, no doubt from sheer exhaustion. I awoke hungry—widowhood had not stolen my appetite—and decided to take breakfast in my pleasant morning room.
I was lingering over the last few mushrooms on my plate when I heard Michael’s loud, plangent voice ascertaining my whereabouts and ordering coffee for three. I heaved a large sigh, popped the last mushroom into my mouth, and wiped my lips on my napkin just as the footman swung open the door.
Of course Michael had brought the odious Brandrick with him. The man entered the room close behind my brother and removed his cap with a respectful “M’lady.” Michael gave me his version of a brotherly kiss, a bare touching of his nose to my cheek.
Joshua Brandrick performed the functions of steward, land agent, and private secretary for my brother when Michael was in the country. When Michael was in London for parliamentary business, he employed another secretary. Such help was vital since Michael, a highly intelligent man in all other respects, had never acquired the ability to read or write.
Brandrick had befriended Michael when the latter was an awkward, unhappy boy of fifteen, an odd duck returned from his private tutor in Somerset at our father’s insistence so he could be trained for his future title and responsibilities. Michael found the burden of these responsibilities unbearable. The strain of them compounded the anger born of frustration at his inability to grasp skills other people took for granted.
At that time, Brandrick had been a gardener at Hyrst, a young man of fierce ambition and an appetite for learning. His smoldering resentment of his lowly position had somehow struck a chord with Michael. Brandrick’s ability to calm Michael’s temper had earned him our father’s gratitude in the form of education and promotion. Now, at thirty, Brandrick was a constant, taciturn presence at Michael’s side. Although good-looking, he had taken no wife, preferring to devote himself to Michael’s interests body and soul.
“Sit down and stop standing around looking servile,” was Michael’s instruction to Brandrick when the coffee arrived. “Lady Helena won’t mind.”
Lady Helena did mind, and Brandrick knew it. He complied with a flick of his gaze toward my brother and the ghost of a smile on his lips. His “as m’lord wishes” held an unmistakably sardonic edge.
“I have been giving your position the most careful consideration,” was Michael’s opening salvo as soon as Brandrick’s chair ceased moving. “Now that you are a widow, your most logical course of action is this.” He leaned forward, using his finger to count off the points of his argument on his other hand.
“First, you should hand the running of the Whitcombe estate over to me—and Brandrick, of course—until you marry again.”
I sat up straighter. “Michael, I’ve only just lost my husband. Why would you even mention my marrying again the day after his funeral?”
To my annoyance, my tone was placatory. What was wrong with me that I couldn’t simply tell my little brother to stay out of my business?
“Because it is the logical step. Please do not interrupt. You must marry again to provide yourself with an heir to the estate. You must not delay this step; you are no longer a young woman. Naturally, your new husband will wish to have a say in the running of the Whitcombe estate, and that is why he must be chosen with care. Your holdings are considerable.”
And how could Michael be so certain about the extent of my wealth? I looked at Brandrick, but the dreadful man lowered his gaze to his coffee.
“Of course,” Michael continued, “there’s a strong possibility you will produce no heir since so far you have proved barren. But that’s a question that can be addressed later.” He tapped one hand with the forefinger of the other. “You could always move back to Hyrst and let me manage Whitcombe. I daresay we could put a decent tenant in.”
“Move back to Hyrst?” My voice rose to a squeak. “You’re always saying how little room there is at Hyrst.”
“You are my sister, and as head of the family I have a duty to protect and guide you. I intend to be diligent in that duty.”
He shifted on his chair and drained his coffee cup, shoving cup and saucer across the table so clumsily that the cup tilted sideways. “All this after your first year of mourning is over, naturally. Although I don’t believe it would be unreasonable to receive visits from prospects who are eager to show an interest, even during first mourning. Your widow’s seclusion does not need to be complete. The Queen
was much criticized for her utter withdrawal from the world.”
He paused, clearly waiting for me to speak.
“I don’t intend to move away from Whitcombe.” I knew I sounded sulky. The remark about my barrenness had stung, but of course I had been complicit in letting that assumption take hold in my family.
“You could certainly afford to keep the house going.” Michael passed a hand over his mouth and looked at me for a second. “The property investments and so forth are sound and well managed by Justin’s solicitor, I believe. As for the farm—” He looked at Brandrick, who nodded.
“Lucius Hatherall’s got that well in hand.” Brandrick’s tone was dry. His imitation of Michael’s educated speech did not entirely eliminate the Sussex burr from his voice, but he knew how to avoid using the dialect. “Sir Justin had an excellent grasp of the breeding of sheep for a gentleman farmer, and Hatherall knows what he’s about. From what I’ve heard, they increased the yield and quality of the meat considerably in the last ten years. And Sir Justin owned properties in Littleberry, Broadmere, Lewes, Sandwich, even Brighton. All well improved and looked after. Even without the farm, her ladyship will suffer no loss of style or comfort.”
“I have no intention of giving up the farm.” I folded my arms and glared at Brandrick.
“Of course not, m’lady, not at first.” Brandrick’s tone was conciliatory. “But your mind will move on to other things before long. You’ve never had the deep interest in sheep that Sir Justin had, God rest his soul. One day you’ll be ready to marry again.”
Both men stared at me as if I were a breeding sheep myself, plainly assessing my qualities and future remarriage prospects. I thanked the Lord for the year and a day of full mourning. If I’d been immediately available, would they have brought a suitable mate to look me over straightaway?
I drew myself up as far as my vertebrae would stretch, annoyed at how small I felt next to the two tall men. “I’ll certainly take your advice to heart, Michael. But kindly allow me some time to recover from the shock of my husband’s death before we—I—make any decisions about my future.”