Summer's Secret

by Sandra Heath

  Caro’s room was firelit and comfortable, with chairs and sofas that were upholstered with blue-and-cream tapestry, and matching hangings on the four-poster bed. There was a mullioned bow window with a fine seat to which Summer was ushered as her cousin went to bring an ivory-framed miniature from her bedside, before joining her in the window.

  “Well? What do you say, Olivia? Is Francis not the most adorably handsome man you ever saw?” she breathed, her green eyes shining with love as she pressed the little portrait into Summer’s hands.

  With dark hair, soft brown eyes, and sensitive lips, the Honorable Francis Lytherby gazed almost wistfully out of the frame. He was indeed romantically handsome, and clearly a man of high fashion too, for his high-collared mustard coat was very stylish, and there was something undeniably a la mode about his large, intricately knotted neckcloth.

  “Well?” Caro prompted impatiently.

  “Yes, he’s very good-looking indeed,” Summer agreed, thinking that Brand was more handsome by far, but then beauty was in the eye of the beholder, was it not?

  Caro took the miniature and clasped it to her breast. “Oh, Olivia, I’m more happy than I could ever believe possible, and yet six months ago I hated coming here. After the grandeur of Merriam Park this house seemed odiously poky, and I was brought so horribly low by poor Father’s reduced circumstances that I thought I’d never be happy again. Then we received an invitation to a ball at Berkeley Castle, I met Francis, and that was that. It was love at first sight, truly it was, and I cannot believe I am so fortunate as to be the object of his love too.”

  “He’s clearly a paragon.”

  “Oh, he is, he is!”

  “Good heavens, he really has got you all at sixes and sevens, hasn’t he?” Summer observed with a tolerant smile.

  Caro met her eyes seriously. “I’d die if I could not marry him, truly I would, and now I live in dread that his father will find some reason to forbid the match. I certainly can’t believe that the betrothal will still go ahead in two weeks’ time.”

  Summer fended off her own guilty conscience. “What’s all this about, Caro? You’ve hinted in your letters that you think Lord Lytherby has changed his mind, but you haven’t said why.”

  “I believe he now wants Melinda Huntingford as his daughter-in-law.”

  “Who?” It was the first time Summer had heard the name.

  “His ward, the Honorable Miss Melinda Huntingford.” Caro sighed. “Oh, Olivia, she’s so beautiful, and she loves Francis, I know she does! You should see how she makes up to him whenever she can. She’s always touching him, smiling at him, and giving him warm glances ... I feel drab and inadequate in comparison.”

  “Drab and inadequate are things you’ll never be, Caro Merriam,” Summer said, putting a quick hand over her cousin’s. “Besides, Francis loves you, not this Melinda person.”

  “I know, and he has no idea that I suspect his father of changing his mind.”

  “But does Francis himself suspect his father?”

  “No, of that I’m quite certain.”

  Summer was puzzled. “Then why are you so convinced? And besides, why would Lord Lytherby suddenly want Francis to marry his ward? Surely, he would have pressed for such a match before agreeing to let Francis marry you?”

  Caro looked helplessly at her and shrugged. “I can’t answer any of those questions, Olivia, but I still have this ... this awful feeling deep inside.”

  “I’m sure you must be wrong. If the Honorable Melinda were his lordship’s choice, he’d have said so from the outset. You’re seeing bugbears where there are none, and the betrothal will take place, I’m certain of it, so stop worrying.”

  A small smile crept to Caro’s lips. “Yes, I mustn’t let my fears run away with me.”

  “Correct.”

  “Well, you’ll soon see for yourself, for it’s the annual Bevincote masked ball in two days’ time, and you’ll meet them all then, including Melinda Huntingford. Oh, I loathe her, Olivia, for recently she has become the most odious creature that ever was, and yet when we first met, I really liked her. Now, in front of me, all she does is give Francis longing looks, smiling at him, flattering him, and generally flirting with him in the most outrageous way. She behaves as if I don’t exist!”

  Summer smiled. “Then we’ll present a united front and behave as if she doesn’t exist either.”

  Caro managed a laugh. “Oh, it’s good to have you here, Olivia.”

  “So come, let’s change the subject to something more agreeable. What did you do over Christmas?”

  Caro’s eyes took on a gloating gleam. “What did I do? Why, I was presented to His Royal Highness, the Duke of Clarence,” she declared lightly, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

  Summer stared, then laughed. “Caro Merriam, for a moment I actually believed you!”

  “But it’s true. The Duke of Clarence, and the Duke of Chandworth, and the Earl of... oh, I don’t know what, and many more. They all came to the castle for the coming-of-age celebrations of Lord and Lady Berkeley’s firstborn son.” Caro leaned forward conspiratorially. “Actually, their firstborn isn’t their first legitimately born,” she whispered.

  “Caro, I’m shocked at you!

  “It’s true. Anyway, that’s another story, for I was telling you of the celebrations. Well, everyone in the county attended, including we humble Merriams, and I was one of those who were presented to the Duke of Clarence, much to dear Melinda’s fury, for she was not so fortunate, although she did dance with the Duke of Chandworth, who—after Francis, of course—was easily the most handsome gentleman present.”

  Summer smiled, for the duke was reckoned one of England’s most eligible young aristocrats. Handsome and debonaire, he was the object of much conspiring by predatory mamas, anxious to see their daughters become the Duchess of Chandworth.

  Nothing more was said because at that moment the maid brought the tray of tea and set it on the window seat between them. Then, just as Caro leaned over to pick up the dainty silver teapot, Summer suddenly found herself back in the beach apartment because Andrew brought her trance to an end.

  He smiled down at her. “Better now?”

  Summer just hadn’t remembered how short this trance was to be, therefore the transition from past to present came as quite a shock. For a moment or so she still expected Caro to press a cup of tea into her hands, but the window seat and her pretty redheaded cousin were far away in 1807.

  Andrew looked inquiringly at her. “Well? Are you better now?”

  “Yes, much,” she answered truthfully. “I was just so engrossed in what Caro and I were talking about that I clean forgot I had to return to the future. Then there’s this business of not feeling so full of beans here in my own time. Darn it, I wish I had Olivia’s constitution!” She sat up and looked across at Chrissie, who was curled up on a nearby chair in a peach toweling robe, her hair fluffy because it was freshly dried.

  Chrissie grinned. “Hi, there, oh mighty time traveler.”

  “Hi.”

  Andrew was pleased Summer’s mood had lightened. “It’s good to see you smile again. Now then, tell us all about it, because we have no idea what went on after you drove up to Oakhill House. Did you like your relatives?”

  “Oh, yes.” She began to recount it all.

  When she’d finished, he raised an eyebrow. “So I guess you want to attend this masked wingding, mm?”

  The ball at Bevincote? Oh, yes, she wanted to be there, for apart from wanting to meet Caro’s Francis, she was filled with curiosity about Lord Lytherby and the Honorable Melinda Huntingford. She grinned at Andrew. “I sure do.”

  “Then Cinders, you shall go to the ball,” he declared in a pantomime voice.

  They all three laughed, but the past was still only the press of a button away, and Summer knew she was too interested in Caro’s woes to be patient enough to wait until the night of the ball.

  For a while she’d set aside her hurt over Brand
, but her next secretly taken excursion to 1807 was going to supply a very sharp and disquieting reminder of the indiscretions at the Black Lion.

  Chapter Eight

  The following morning, having taken time off to be with Summer during her stay, Chrissie and Andrew had to return to their respective places of employment, he to his Chichester practice, Chrissie to the small real estate office she and a friend had opened nearby. Alone in the apartment, Summer immediately and without any nod in the direction of conscience, resorted to the cassette recorder.

  This time her journey back in time found Olivia riding alone toward the estuary. Her horse was a bay hunter, and she was wearing a rose woolen riding habit with black braiding on the jacket. Her hair was pinned up beneath a top hat, and her face was partially concealed by a net veil. It was a cold but bright winter morning, and the sun had yet to melt the overnight frost. Seagulls called overheard, and from time to time she heard the lonely cry of a curlew.

  She was riding along one of the deserted tracks that led toward the estuary through an isolated area she now knew was appropriately named the End of the World. A barely perceptible breeze rippled the water in the dikes on either side of the track and whispered through the elms and willows that were the most common wild trees in these parts. A few hundred yards ahead of her was the grassy medieval embankment that was all that stood between these bleak low-lying acres and the Severn estuary, which was nearly two miles across at this point.

  She meant to ride as far as a little derelict chapel she’d seen from her bedroom window that morning. Fourteenth-century monks had built it on the embankment, together with its fellow on the opposite shore, to guide ships through the treacherous sandy channels and submerged rocks of the estuary, and that was a function they both still served, even though they had both long since fallen into ruin.

  She reined in at the bottom of the embankment to look back at Oakhill House and the church, but instead her astonished gaze was drawn to the hilltop above which peeped gilded tops of domes and pinnacles very like those her modern self knew would soon adorn the Royal Pavilion in Brighton. It was Bevincote, which by any standard was an example of amazing extravagance. Caro had told her that Lord Lytherby had spent much of his youth in India, and that on inheriting the estate in England, he’d razed the original house to the ground to put an eastern palace in its place. The lengthy business of building a portion of the Orient in this otherwise quiet corner of Gloucestershire had only been finished two years ago, and must have cost a very large fortune indeed.

  After gazing at it for a minute or so, Summer turned to the front again and urged the hunter to the top of the embankment. The tide was out, and the estuary was a wasteland of mud, rocks, channels, and sandbanks, at the far side of which lay the fertile patchwork hills of the Welsh borderland. She rode along the path that led along the top of the embankment toward the ruined chapel, a few hundred yards beyond which lay one of the fox coverts that had once formed part of the vanished Forest of Horwood.

  At last she reached the chapel, which afforded a little shelter from the icy salt-laden air coming off the estuary. She dismounted in the lee of the ruin, tethered the horse to a thick stem of the ivy that had grown over much of the ancient stone walls, then went around the front into what remained of the building. Because of the shaft of pale daylight that fell through the arched doorway onto the wall directly opposite, she noticed that over the centuries people had carved dates and their initials. Graffiti, even here, she thought.

  Then one carving in particular caught her eye. It was at eye level by the entrance, on an otherwise untouched surface. S & S 1719. She wondered who S & S had been. Lovers maybe?

  As she went closer, a tender whisper breathed softly through the chapel, as if someone—a man—were in the shadows behind her. I, Stephen, adore thee, Susannah...

  Long gone joy filled the chapel, and her eyes flew to the initials. Stephen and Susannah! As Summer Stanway she’d never been psychic, but Olivia Courtenay clearly was. For a second or so the whisper continued to echo softly among the stones. I, Stephen, adore thee, Susannah...

  Then the breeze got up suddenly, and the ghostly sound was lost in the rustle of the ivy that grew so profusely around the ruins. She leaned against the doorway to gaze across the estuary, hoping that Stephen and Susannah remained as happy all their lives as they’d been when they carved their initials. Then her eyes lowered as she wished Olivia Courtenay’s life were still as joyous as it had been for those few hours in Brand’s arms at the Black Lion. But he had left her feeling like a whore. So much for happiness ...

  She didn’t hear the other horse approaching from the fox covert farther along the embankment. The gentleman was riding at a slow canter as he too made for the chapel, a natural landmark on the estuary. He wore a pine green coat, leather riding breeches, and highly polished boots, and his top hat was tilted back on his head.

  His horse was a mettlesome gray, but he kept it effortlessly under control, hardly seeming to do a thing as he reined in about twenty feet away. He had no idea anyone was already there, for she was out of sight in the doorway, and her own mount was tethered at the rear of the building.

  It wasn’t until his horse snorted and shook its bridle that Summer became aware of him. She straightened uneasily to peep toward the sound, and her heart almost stopped with shock and dismay, for the rider was none other than Brand! Shaken, she stared at him. How could he possibly be in this isolated spot in the middle of nowhere!

  Almost as if he sensed someone’s eyes upon him, he turned suddenly toward the chapel. She drew hastily out of sight, pressing back against Stephen and Susannah’s initials and praying he didn’t decide to investigate the building. Her heart was thundering, and her mouth had run dry. Of all the unkind tricks fate could play upon her, this was surely one of the worst. He couldn’t be here, he couldn’t!

  She tried to marshal her spinning thoughts. Maybe he was just passing through! But even as this improbable hope struck her, she eliminated it. No one passed through the End of the World, which was well and truly off the beaten track, and besides, he was riding now, and had been in a carriage the last time she saw him, so at the very least he had to be staying somewhere in the neighborhood.

  Maybe he even lived in the area! Her heart sank. Perhaps he knew Caro and Uncle Merriam, or, more likely, he knew the Lytherbys! She closed her eyes tightly. Please don’t let this be happening, please! But when she opened them again, she knew it was. Her shocking misconduct at the Black Lion had followed her, and suddenly she had the most awful premonition that it was going to harm Caro’s betrothal.

  Brand’s horse snorted again, and to her horror her hunter whinnied in reply. Knowing Brand was almost certain to investigate, she edged into the shadows away from the daylight by the chapel doorway. She heard him ride a little nearer, and then the squeak of leather as he dismounted. His shadow crossed the entrance as he went to see what other horse was nearby. He couldn’t help but know it was a woman, for the sidesaddle would tell him as much, and the quality of both horse and saddle would tell him it was a lady. She closed her eyes again. A lady! No doubt that was the last way he would ever describe her.

  She heard him murmur to the horse and pat its neck, then he called out. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Hello?”

  Still she remained silent, and after a moment his tall figure blotted out the sunlight in the doorway.

  “I know someone is here,” he said then.

  To her dismay he came farther in.

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he saw her pressing back against the wall, but was unable to make out her face because of her veil. “Please don’t be afraid, for I mean you no harm, madam. I just wish to be sure you are all right,” he said gently.

  “I’m quite well, sir,” she said, altering her voice slightly in the hope he wouldn’t recognize it.

  There was a moment’s silence, then suddenly a flame burst into life as he
took a little bottle of luminaries from his pocket and held one up.

  Quickly, she turned her face away. “I wish to be left alone, sir,” she said, still disguising her voice.

  But he came a little nearer, his face demonic in the flame light. “I believe I know you, madam,” he said then, trying to see her face behind the veil.

  She made to walk past him, but he caught her arm, holding the flame closer, and in the few seconds before it went out he at last recognized her.

  “You!”

  “Please let me go!” she cried, trying to wrest herself away.

  “What in God’s name are you doing here,” he demanded, keeping his grip.

  “It’s none of your concern, sirrah! I wish nothing more to do with you, and request you to let me go!”

  “Not until you’ve answered my question. What are you doing here?”

  “It’s none of your concern,” she said again.

  “I’m making it my concern,” he replied, dragging her closer to the doorway and pushing her veil back in order to see her properly. His blue eyes were piercing as they gazed down into hers. “Now then, Olivia, what are you doing here?” he demanded a third time.

  She didn’t reply, but pressed her lips mutinously together.

  “Damn you, I demand an answer!”

  His arrogance provoked her. “Oh, do you! Well, I seem to recall hoping for an answer from you when last we saw each other, but I did not receive one then, so you certainly will not receive one now!”

  “Believe me, madam, I bitterly regret what passed between us at the Black Lion,” he snapped.

  “You regret it? Sirrah, what you feel can be as nothing to the disgust and self-loathing I feel for having sullied myself with you! I can only put such lack of taste and moderation down to a sip too much of cider punch!”

  Fury flashed into his eyes. “Have a care, madam!” he breathed.