Summer's Secret

by Sandra Heath

  So, farewell for the moment, fair Olivia. Dream of me as I dream of you,

  Jeremy

  Summer gazed at the letter in utter astonishment, for it was couched in terms far more affectionate than the strictly platonic friendship that existed between Jeremy Fenwick and her. Gradually, the astonishment was replaced by anger. How dared he put pen to paper in such a way! And how dared he purloin that miniature!

  She crumpled the letter into a ball, and then gradually calmed down a little. Jeremy’s propensity for cognac was surely to blame for this. He must have been in his cups when he wrote it. Yes, that had to be the answer, for why else would he resort to such flowery, inappropriate phrases? Come to that, why else would he admit to having taken the miniature?

  Then Jeremy went from her thoughts as she tossed the letter into the fire and got up. What was keeping Brand? She returned to the foot of the staircase again, not realizing that the letter she thought the flames had consumed had actually bounced against an andiron and fallen into the ashes in the hearth, where the only portion to burn at all was that upon which her full name was written.

  The dining room door opened as a waiter hurried out with a tray of empty plates, and she caught a glimpse of the crowded room behind him. Lady Harvey was in floods of tears at her table because a jug of milk had been knocked over and spilled in her lap. Poor Sir Oswald was doing what he could to soothe her after this latest disaster, and he happened to glance up just as Summer glanced in. Their eyes met, and he beckoned imploringly. There was nothing she could do except respond, so she hurried into the room.

  But as she bent to comfort Lady Harvey, who was by now quite hysterical, Brand’s tall figure emerged from the shadows at the top of the staircase, from where he’d heard and seen everything from the moment the landlord informed her of the letter and its author.

  A nerve flickered at his temple, and his blue eyes were dark and angry as he looked at the dining room door. His mouth was set, and there was no softness about him at all as he strode to the fireplace and retrieved the singed ball of paper from the hearth.

  He read, and his blue eyes became like ice. Slowly he folded the letter and pushed it into his pocket, then turned to collar a passing waiter. “I wish to speak to the landlord.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man hurried off, then returned with the reluctant landlord, who feared another guest with a theft to report. Brand turned swiftly toward him and raised the singed paper. “What is the lady’s name?” he demanded.

  “Name? I don’t know, sir.”

  “You must know, you gave her this letter!”

  “I don’t know, sir, I can’t read. I only know it was from Major Fenwick, because that’s what the boy from the White Hart said when he brought it, and the lady asked for the major on arriving yesterday.” The landlord spread his hands.

  “It doesn’t matter. Here’s what I owe you; now just have my carriage brought to the yard without delay.” Brand thrust some coins into the man’s hand.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I mean without delay!”

  The landlord almost ran out into the yard, and Brand returned to his room, where he gathered his few overnight belongings, before going onto the gallery. It wasn’t long before his coachman tooled the carriage carefully through the archway from the stable yard, and then drew the team to a standstill.

  It was at this moment that Summer looked up from ministering to Lady Harvey and recognized the carriage in the yard. Brand? She straightened in puzzlement. Surely he wasn’t leaving without at least saying good-bye? Then she saw him swiftly descending the wooden steps opposite, his overnight valise in his hand.

  Dismayed, she gathered her skirts and hurried to the door into the yard. She emerged into the cold winter morning. “Brand?” she called.

  He paused, then turned.

  “You surely aren’t leaving without saying good-bye?”

  Their eyes met just as they had on his arrival, but this time she saw cold loathing in his gaze. Then he walked on toward his carriage, flung the valise inside, and climbed in. A second later the whip cracked, and the coachman urged the team forward. The vehicle swept out beneath the archway into the market square, and within moments all sound of it had gone.

  Shaken, Summer stared after it. Nothing could have been more tender and loving than their last kiss just before dawn; now he’d spurned her. He hadn’t even had the grace to say good-bye. She felt cheap and used, and more hurt than she could ever have dreamed possible.

  But as she stood there in the chill yard, she suddenly became aware of other eyes upon her. She turned quickly toward a travel-stained carriage that had arrived a few moments before she emerged from the dining room.

  The thin, black-clad, almost cadaverous occupant had alighted and was gazing at her with a rather surprised, if not to say disapproving expression in his rather small eyes. It was Mr. George Bradshaw, the London lawyer brother of her late Aunt Merriam. He’d acted for her when Roderick died, but she didn’t like him.

  Now he was not only here at the Black Lion, but quite clearly on his way to Oakhill House for his niece Caro’s betrothal, just as she herself was, and unkind fate had been spiteful enough to bring him into the courtyard at the very moment she made a fool of herself!

  She froze in unutterable dismay. How much had he seen? How much might he have deduced? Swiftly, she snatched her wits together and hurried toward him. “Why, Mr. Bradshaw, what a happy surprise this is!” she cried, forcing a smile to lips that were stiff.

  His thoughtful glance flickered toward the market square archway and then to her. “A happy surprise indeed, Mrs. Courtenay,” he murmured, inclining his head. He had a thin voice to match his appearance.

  “I vow I sometimes cannot credit the foibles of chance. I was in the dining room with Sir Oswald and Lady Harvey when I was absolutely certain I saw one of my near neighbors from Kensington. I rushed out to greet him, but instead it was a total stranger! Can you imagine how very foolish I felt? And now I find you instead, so my excursion into the cold morning air hasn’t been entirely in vain!” She gave a tinkle of laughter that she trusted didn’t sound as false to him as it did to her.

  “It, er, would seem not, Mrs. Courtenay,” he said, the tone of his voice suggesting he was now less sure than he had been a moment before.

  “And how happy too the reason for us both to be en route for Oakhill House. You are en route for Oakhill House, aren’t you?”

  “I am indeed, Mrs. Courtenay.”

  “I’m so pleased for dear Caro. A love match is surely the most felicitous thing in the world, is it not?”

  “I, er, imagine so, madam, but being a bachelor, I cannot claim personal experience,” he murmured.

  She rattled on. “Do come inside, sir, for I’m sure you must be feeling the chill. Do you know Sir Oswald and Lady Harvey?”

  “I do not have that honor.”

  “Then I must introduce you. Oh, there have been such dreadful happenings here. We have had a villainous thief, and her ladyship’s necklace was stolen during the night...” She began to walk him toward the dining room door, and by the time they went inside, it was her fervent hope that he’d forgotten anything he may have observed on alighting from his carriage.

  But as she presented Mr. Bradshaw to Sir Oswald and the now recovered Lady Harvey, her misery over Brand returned. Oh, how she wished she hadn’t succumbed to temptation the night before. Not only had she been badly hurt by the experience, but now Caro’s unlikable uncle had witnessed her indiscreet conduct in the courtyard!

  Suddenly, she was no longer enjoying the past. The very thing that had made it so wonderful, now made it awful. She wished she hadn’t set the cassette recorder for as long as two hours, but she had, and she had no option but to wait until the trance was brought to an end.

  One thing was certain, after this she didn’t want to sample 1807 again!

  Chapter Seven

  Summer returned to the present at the allotted time, a
nd after lying unhappily in her bed for a while, eventually fell into a restless sleep. She felt ragged the next morning, although Chrissie and Andrew didn’t notice when they returned from London. They’d had an excellent time and were in good spirits as they regaled her with all that had happened, from Chrissie’s success on the shopping front to the unexpectedly high quality of the dinner.

  Somehow Summer managed to evince the necessary interest, but behind her brave smiles she was empty. It was as if she, Summer Stanway, not her previous self, had been so cruelly let down by Brand. It was always bad enough to return to the present and forfeit Olivia’s health and vitality, but this time the feeling was far worse because she felt unbelievably hurt.

  She was so upset that she didn’t feel at all like eating at the regulation times, and then realized she’d forgotten her insulin too, but Chrissie’s alarmed fussing soon put her on track again. She then had to endure her sister’s wagging finger on top of everything else, but knew that on this occasion at least, the telling off was more than justified. She glanced outside as Chrissie lectured her. Lowering clouds raced endlessly above an unfriendly, slate-colored sea. It looked exactly how she felt, she thought resignedly.

  At midmorning she decided to escape to Chichester for a while to see if shopping for new clothes would provide the necessary tonic, but even that failed her this time. After several hours of fruitless browsing, followed by a snack she didn’t want but had to have, she returned to Bracklesham empty-handed. The weather now helped even less. It started to rain again, and as she drove to the constant rhythm of the windshield wipers, she felt close to tears.

  At the apartment she found Andrew making a cup of tea in the kitchen. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “How goes it?” he asked.

  “Oh, all right, I guess.”

  “Chrissie’s taking a shower.”

  “Right.”

  He turned. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Why?” She attempted to look bright.

  “Well, in all the time I’ve known you and Chrissie, neither of you has ever returned from shopping without at least one purchase!”

  She gave a quick laugh. “I guess Chichester didn’t come up to scratch this time. Or maybe I just wasn’t really in the mood.”

  He leaned back against the table, studying her more closely. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” he said quietly.

  “No, I’m fine,” she insisted, going to the window and gazing out at the sea.

  “You’re a lousy liar, Summer Stanway.”

  “I’m just feeling low, that’s all.”

  “Well, perhaps a little visit to 1807 would cheer you up,” he suggested suddenly. “Maybe I’m wrong, but it seems to me that both trips so far have brought a considerable smile to your face. Am I wrong?”

  “No, you’re not.” It’s the trips you don’t know about that are the trouble, she thought contritely.

  “Would you like to go back again?”

  “Well, I...” To say no was going to seem peculiar, and she knew it.

  “Don’t be coy. Come on, we’ll do it now, before your mouth turns down even more.” With a quick smile, he picked up his cup of tea, then held out a hand to her.

  Feeling as guilty as hell, she managed a smile as she accepted.

  * * *

  Olivia’s unhappiness over Brand was the first sensation that engulfed Summer this time. The second was the motion of her carriage as it drove along a narrow country road.

  Andrew’s voice intruded from the future. “What’s happening? Are you still at the Black Lion?”

  “No, I’m in my carriage on my way to Oakhill House, my relatives’ residence. The weather is still dry and bitterly cold, and I’m well wrapped up in my hooded cloak. There’s a warm brick on the floor under my feet, and a smaller one in my muff to keep my hands warm.”

  “Central heating, eh? Describe what you see.”

  “Well about half an hour ago we drove south out of Berkeley, and—”

  Andrew interrupted. “We?”

  “Yes. There are two carriages, mine and the one belonging to my cousin Caro’s maternal uncle, Mr. George Bradshaw. He arrived at the Black Lion, and we’ve driven in convoy from there.” She spoke carefully, because her first meeting with George Bradshaw had taken place during an illicit visit to the past that Andrew didn’t know about.

  The lawyer hadn’t said anything else to her about the courtyard incident, and she was fairly certain he’d dismissed it from his mind. She prayed so, for she’d begun to form the unsettling impression that for some unknown but compelling reason he would prefer Caro’s betrothal not to take place.

  “Go on,” Andrew prompted.

  “Mm? Oh, yes. Sorry, my mind was wandering. Well, we’re approaching the gates to the grounds of Oakhill House. To my right, that’s the west, the countryside is very low and level because the Severn estuary is only about half a mile away. It’s a landscape of streams, ditches, hedgerows, apple and pear orchards, and farms. I know from Caro’s letters that in medieval times there used to be a forest here called the Forest of Horwood, where the lords of Berkeley hunted, but now only fox coverts remain because the Berkeley Hunt is still one of the most famous in England.”

  She looked out the other window. “To the east there’s rising land. Not too high, but I guess it would have been an island back in the mists of time. Now it’s all been laid out as a huge park, not belonging to Oakhill House I hasten to add, but to Bevincote, Lord Lytherby’s country seat, which is out of sight on the far side. There are beautiful specimen trees that have been carefully tended, and I can see a herd of red deer moving across some more open land.”

  She glanced along the road ahead. “Oh, I can see the gates of Oakhill House now!” She knew a great deal from Caro’s letters and had been told how the gates would suddenly appear on a bend, so she continued to describe everything to Andrew as she lowered the window glass and leaned out.

  Uncle Merriam’s new property lay at the very southern end of the rising land, its grounds taking a modest rectangular piece out of otherwise exclusively Bevincote land. There was a little lodge, gray stone with a tall chimney, and a man came out to open the wrought iron gates and wave his hat as the carriages swept past into the small rather open park.

  Oakhill House itself stood amid gardens halfway up the incline ahead. It was a six-bayed stone building with a central pediment and hipped roof, and parts of it dated back to the fourteenth century. Through a wicket gate from one of the gardens there was a church, which served the scattered cottages and farms that dotted the countryside.

  The door of the house opened as the carriage drove up, and Summer’s—or rather Olivia’s—uncle and cousin emerged to greet their guests. Caro Merriam was that most rare of creatures, a redhead with a flawless skin. She was slightly built, with wide green eyes, full lips, and an infectious smile that seemed to light up her whole face. Her leaf green fustian gown had a gauze-filled neckline, and she clutched a warm pink shawl around her shoulders as she waved.

  Uncle Merriam was still a good-looking man, although his wiry gray hair had thinned to leave a bald patch in recent years. His financial problems had left their mark on his health, for there was a new frailty about him that his concerned niece noticed straightaway. His penchant for old-fashioned clothes hadn’t changed, however, for his blue velvet coat, gray brocade waistcoat, silk breeches, and buckled black shoes would not have been out of place in the last two decades of the previous century.

  As a manservant came to open Summer’s carriage door, she spoke briefly to Andrew. “I don’t want to say anything more for the moment.”

  “All right, I’ll leave you to it, and bring you out of the trance in half an hour, okay?”

  “Okay.” She alighted from the carriage, and Caro ran to hug her.

  “Oh, Olivia, I’m so glad you’ve arrived at last. I have so much to tell you I really don’t know where to begin.”

  Summer returned the hug, then turned to Uncle Merriam as he c
ame over too.

  “Olivia, my dear, how good it is to see you out of mourning, I’ve always loathed black.” He embraced her, then he held her arms to study her face. “I vow you look more and more like my dear brother every time I see you,” he murmured, his eyes filling with easy tears.

  “I hope I may take that as a compliment, Uncle,” she replied with a smile.

  “Oh, you may, you may. Would that I was fond of all my kinsfolk,” he muttered as his brother-in-law approached, but then gave a brisk smile as he took the lawyer’s hand and pumped it. “George, m’dear fellow, it’s excellent to see you again,” he said untruthfully, then clapped the lawyer on the back and ushered him into the house.

  Caro moved closer to Summer. “Where did you encounter Uncle Bradshaw?”

  “At the Black Lion in Tetbury.”

  “Poor you.” Caro smiled. “To be truthful, I wish we didn’t have to invite him, but as he’s Mama’s brother, we couldn’t really leave him out.”

  She shivered, for the hillside was exposed to the wind from the estuary, which from here was visible as a wide silver ribbon that curved inland between the flat eastern shore and the much steeper hills of the Welsh borderland on the other side. She linked Summer’s arm. “Come on inside before we freeze.”

  They hurried toward the house and laughed with relief as they entered the hall, where a huge log fire flickered in the hearth of an impressive carved and gilded chimneypiece.

  A maid had already assisted George Bradshaw with his outdoor clothes, and as she came to take Summer’s cloak and muff, Caro spoke to her. “Have tea brought to my room,” she said, then caught Summer’s hand to lead her toward the straight stone staircase at the far end of the hall “Come upstairs, for I wish to tell you all about Francis.”

  Having no desire to take tea in Mr. Bradshaw’s gloomy presence, Summer made no complaint as she accompanied her cousin up to a dark-paneled passage that led to the bedrooms at the front of the house, all of which enjoyed magnificent views toward the estuary.