by Diane Gaston
Anna leaned out the side of the chaise and called back to them, ‘I’ll return soon.’
When they reached the road, Anna turned to him. ‘Lord Brentmore?’
He gave her a quick glance. ‘The children will be well cared for. And I’ll drive back tomorrow.’
‘But look at you!’ She took in his linen shirt, brown coat and trousers.
He shrugged. ‘A costume that proved useful in the war.’
She was still not comprehending.
‘If the Marquess of Brentmore drove the governess to an earl’s estate, there might be gossip, but if Egan Byrne drives you, no one will credit it.’
‘Egan Byrne?’ Her brows rose.
‘My name,’ he explained. ‘And my Irish grandfather’s surname.’
‘But someone might recognise you.’ What if Lord Lawton saw him? ‘What will they think?’
He dipped his chin like the lowest of servants. ‘Don’t you worry now, miss.’ His accent turned to a lilt. ‘No one will be noticing an Irish stable lad. I’ll be quiet as a mouse and you’ll be the only one knowin’ the truth of it.’
She doubted such a man, even if dressed as a workman, could avoid notice.
He spoke in his own voice again. ‘But you must remember to call me Egan and not my lord.’
She swallowed. ‘But why would you do this?’
His expression turned solemn. ‘I thought you might need the company of a friend.’
Tears stung her eyes.
* * *
This was a folly of the highest order.
Brent trained his eyes on the road, although that did not prevent him from being acutely aware of the woman seated beside him. He felt her tension. Her worry. And also the brushing of her arm against his when the road turned rough.
He must be mad to put himself in her company like this. His intense attraction to her had never abated. She was a constant allure, cause of a daily battle against an urge to lose himself in all that warmth and beauty. Knowing her better, seeing her kindness to his children, feeling her sadness, made it all the more difficult.
She never complained, but he caught snatches of how lonely life was for her, in how she spoke of her childhood, or in the fact that she never received letters even though she wrote them. The letter informing her of her mother’s illness had been her first since coming to Brentmore Hall.
He’d had a bad feeling about that letter and could not send her off on the trip alone.
Her worry that someone would recognise him was unfounded. He’d learned as a boy how to make himself invisible—much like Cal had done. Or to make himself into someone else. He possessed a talent for mimicking accents, originally honed from a desire to rid himself of his Irish accent and avoid the taunting and teasing of his schoolmates. When he learned French, his French accent became nearly as flawless as his English one. During the war, no one in France had suspected an English marquess had been spying on them.
He’d slip in and out of Lawton as easily.
The chaise hit a rut and he reflexively threw an arm across Anna to keep her from falling.
‘I beg your pardon.’ He quickly removed his hand. Any time he touched her, it aroused his senses.
She glanced at him. ‘I am not likely to complain about anything you do, my lord.’
God help him. If she only knew how many sleepless nights he’d suffered, thinking of marching into her bedchamber and slaking his need for her. It made it more difficult to know she would not refuse him. The idea that he could be the man to awaken her sensuality was more torture.
‘Egan,’ he said.
‘What?’ she looked puzzled.
‘You called me my lord again. Practise saying Egan.’
If only he were Egan Byrne and not the Marquess of Brentmore. Then he would not be betrothed to a baron’s daughter and no one would lend scandal to anything he did. No one would care.
‘Egan,’ she repeated. On her lips his name sounded as if murmured between bed linens.
This manner of thinking would not do at all. Better to change its direction. ‘This is not the most comfortable of roads.’ Perhaps inane small talk would help.
‘Again, I shall not complain,’ she assured him. ‘If not for your kindness, I could be squeezed into a post-chaise with travellers who eat a great deal of garlic and transport cheese.’
‘And bathe but once a year,’ he added.
She almost smiled and his heart gladdened, relishing any moment of easy camaraderie between them.
‘You have spared me such a fate,’ she said, although her eyes quickly filled with pain and worry.
He wanted to ease it. ‘Your mother could be recovered by the time we arrive, you know. Is she susceptible to inflammation of the lungs?’ He feared worse, of course. Life was fragile.
‘She is never sick.’ She bit her lip. ‘That is why I worry. Our housekeeper would not contact me if she thought this a trifling thing.’
Illness was never a trifling thing. Brent had a flash of memory of his mother, lying abed, the sound of her breathing as loud as a fireplace bellows.
A wave of grief washed over him.
He tightened his grip on the reins. ‘Do not give up hope, Miss Hill.’
He rarely thought of his mother, but when he did, the yearning for her returned fullfold, even after twenty-five years. He never spoke of her. Whenever the old marquess had spoken of her, he’d called her that Irish whore.
Anna’s voice pulled him out of his reverie. ‘I was never close to my mother, you know. I was always with Charlotte. Weeks could go by and I would not even see her.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I want to see her again.’
He put his hand over hers.
As they rode towards Lawton, she talked about her life there, about growing up neither servant nor family, but something in between. She’d become close to the Lawton daughter, but separate from her as well, never truly accepted in her social circles.
Brent knew all about not being accepted. He’d never been accepted, not by his grandfather, his schoolmates, his contemporaries.
Or his wife. How bitter a pill that had been. He’d believed she’d loved him.
At least when he married this next time, he’d know the woman did not love him.
Brent flicked the reins and drove as hard and fast as he dared.
* * *
They changed horses frequently at the coaching inns and did not pause for much more than a quick look at Cary’s Itinerary or to pay at the toll gates. They ate from the basket Cook packed for them rather than wait for food at the inns.
By the time the light was waning in the sky, Brent’s arms ached from holding the reins and from the bumps in the road. Anna looked more fatigued by the hour. Their fast pace had paid dividends, though. There was still plenty of daylight left when they finally passed a road sign indicating Lawton was near and soon a tall church spire rose in the sky.
‘The village!’ Anna cried.
Anna examined each building as they passed through the village. Committing it to memory, perhaps? Would he recognise any part of his Irish village? he wondered.
This village had nothing to distinguish itself from dozens of other English villages. Stone houses with steep slate roofs. A coaching inn. A smithy. Shops.
‘Lawton House is not far,’ she said as they left the village and the main road behind.
Brent felt her tension grow.
Suddenly a vista opened, revealing a majestic country house set in manicured lawns and flowering gardens. Constructed of the same grey stone as the village buildings, it was a hodgepodge of additions and wings, as if the various Earls of Lawton were seized with a compulsion to build every half-century or so.
This was the place Anna had spent nearly her whole life, the home she lost when Lord Lawton so abruptly terminated her services. She leaned forwards in the chaise as if in a hurry to be among familiar surroundings, familiar people.
Her mother.
The sight of Brentmore Hall always plummeted him into depre
ssion.
Brent turned the chaise on to the long gravel drive leading to the house. ‘Do I leave you off at the house?’
‘Yes. Our housekeeper said Mama was being cared for in the house.’ Her brows knit. ‘Unless you want me to go with you to the stables.’
He waved a hand and put on his Irish accent. ‘Do not go concerning yourself about me, now. I’m not a marquess, a’tall. Just a simple stable lad who can find his way.’
He drove her to the servants’ entrance and watched her enter quickly, hating to leave her alone.
He shook his head. What a ridiculous notion. She would not be alone. She’d be among people she’d known her whole life.
He drove the chaise towards the stables.
As he neared, a man stepped out into the stable yard. ‘And who might you be?’
He touched the brim of his hat. ‘From Brentmore Hall. I brought Miss Hill to visit her mother, you see.’
The man’s face fell. ‘She’s come?’
‘Miss Hill?’ Brent pretended to be confused. ‘Yes. Come to see her mother, she has.’
The man dropped his head in his hands for a moment, then seemed to recover. He gestured to Brent. ‘Well, climb down. Do you stay?’
‘The night at least,’ he responded. ‘I’m to await her instructions.’
The stableman called to some other grooms and tasked them with unhitching the horses and seeing to their care. Brent removed Anna’s portmanteau and the kitchen basket. He was shown to a place to sit and given a draught of ale.
After a few moments the man who’d greeted him in the yard walked over to him again. ‘Are you hungry? You can probably beg some food from Cook, if you’ve a mind to.’
He wanted to see what was happening to Anna.
‘Food would be welcome, for sure.’ He touched his stomach and tried not to look too eager.
The stableman gestured for him to follow. ‘I’ll show you the way.’
He knew the way, but a visiting worker would not argue with anyone who might be above him in station.
As they walked the man spoke, more to himself than to Brent. ‘She should have come sooner.’
‘Sooner?’ Brent repeated.
The man stopped and gazed blankly into the distance. ‘Her mother...’ He paused and lowered his head. ‘Her mother is dead. Buried yesterday.’
Brent’s insides clenched. They were too late.
‘Miss Hill will be grieved, indeed,’ he said in a low voice.
The man’s expression turned bleak. ‘She was my wife.’
‘You are Miss Hill’s father, then?’ Brent asked.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ the man replied.
Brent’s brows rose. What the devil did that mean?
It was not a visiting stableman’s place to ask questions, though.
He followed Mr Hill to the tradesman’s entrance, which opened into a long corridor with doors to the other rooms. The sound of voices and clanging pots signalled that the kitchen was somewhere ahead.
Mr Hill escorted him to the servants’ hall.
Anna was there, seated at the long table, surrounded by the housekeeper and maids, all trying to comfort her. Her expression was desolate and her eyes red from crying.
‘I heard you’d come,’ Anna’s father said.
She looked up. ‘Papa.’
The maids made way for him, but he did not approach her. ‘They told you about your mother.’
That was obvious.
She caught sight of Brent, her silent communication of grief as clear as if she’d shouted aloud. To her father she said, ‘How do you fare, Papa?’
He did not answer. ‘Your room is ready at the cottage. Mrs Jordan expected you days ago.’ He glanced at the housekeeper, who must be Mrs Jordan.
Mrs Jordan explained, ‘The letter went astray.’
Mr Hill shrugged. He inclined his head towards Brent. ‘Anna’s coachman is hungry.’
Brent supposed that was an introduction. Or a changing of the subject.
Mrs Jordan turned her attention to Brent. ‘I expect you would like some food, then?’
‘His—his name is...Egan,’ Anna volunteered.
‘Egan.’ Mrs Jordan patted the table. ‘Sit down and we’ll bring you a plate of food.’ She snapped her fingers at one of the maids. ‘Mary, find something for the man to eat.’
Brent took the nearest chair, trying not to watch Anna too obviously. It pained him to see her so disconsolate.
Her father moved towards the door. ‘Your things will be at the cottage.’
She nodded. ‘Thank you, Papa.’
Brent frowned. Hill was so cold to her. He reminded Brent of the old marquess.
The girl brought food for Brent and tea for Anna. Servants drifted in and out of the room, completing their duties for the day or stopping to give Anna their condolences.
For a moment they were alone in the room. ‘Anna?’ he murmured, forgetting to address her formally.
She looked pale and desolate. ‘I feel like I cannot breathe.’
He wanted to hold her in his arms and comfort her the way he comforted Cal after his nightmares. He moved to a chair across the table from her and reached over to squeeze her hand.
‘Let yourself cry,’ he murmured. ‘It will help.’
Although, as a boy, he’d learned quickly never to cry.
She blinked rapidly and gripped his hand.
Someone approached and she quickly released him. ‘Are you finished eating?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ His plate was nearly empty, but he’d tasted none of the food.
‘We should go, then. We are in the way here.’ She stood. ‘Wait a moment while I stop in the kitchen to tell them.’
When she returned and they left the house, he said, ‘I’ll walk you to your father’s cottage.’
She did not refuse.
‘I—I cannot believe she is gone,’ she said after a time.
He steadied her with his arm.
* * *
When they reached the cottage, she rapped on the door before opening it. ‘I am here, Papa.’
Inside the cottage, the room was dark, with only the glow of the fireplace for light. Brent caught a strong whiff of gin.
Her father rose from a chair by the hearth. ‘Well, come in, then.’ His tone was sharp and his words slurred.
Brent waited in the doorway, uneasy at leaving her.
‘Come have a drink, you,’ Hill called to Brent.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said in his coachman’s voice. He’d stay as long as she needed him to.
* * *
Anna gave up any hope of sharing her grief with her father. She had never seen him drunk like this. It frightened her.
He gestured with his arm. ‘You sit for a while, daughter.’ This last word was bitterly said.
Anna sat.
He filled a glass for Lord Brentmore, some of the liquid splashing over the sides from his unsteady hand.
‘You should have come earlier.’ Her father shook a finger at her.
‘I waited for Egan to eat, Papa,’ she explained.
He wiped the air with his hand. ‘Don’t mean that. Mean for your mother.’
‘I could not.’ That was the worst of it. Tears stung her eyes. She’d not arrived in time.
Her father stared into the fire. ‘There was no one at her funeral, you know. No one to put her in the ground.’ He turned his gaze on her. ‘Why didn’t you come? Too busy tending that lord’s brats?’
Her gaze flashed over to Lord Brentmore.
He answered for her. ‘She came as soon as she received the letter.’ His Irish accent faded. ‘Which was this morning.’
Her father made another dismissive gesture and took a swig directly from the bottle.
Anna glanced away and, her eyes now accustomed to the room’s darkness, saw dishes left on tables, clothing scattered on the floor, bottles everywhere.
She stood. ‘I’ll just tidy a bit.’
She lit
one of the lamps and moved around the room, picking up empty bottles.
Her father took no notice. ‘Rankles me,’ he said. ‘After all her mother did. All those years.’
Anna only half-listened to him. She carried the bottles to the bin by the sink, which was full of unwashed dishes.
Her father kept talking. ‘She tolerated me. Nothing more. What chance did I have? A man who mucks out stables and comes home smelling of horse?’ He swivelled around to Anna and pointed his finger at her. ‘And the daughter. No better.’
All her life she’d wanted her father to love her. He never did.
Lord Brentmore rose and walked over to her. ‘How can I help?’
His nearness was a comfort. She was grateful he’d remained. ‘I would not ask you.’
‘I know you would not ask,’ he countered. ‘I am offering.’
She picked up a bucket. ‘Would you bring me some water? The pump is outside.’
He nodded.
She collected more plates, bowls and spoons from around the room and placed them in the basin. She could not properly wash the dishes without boiling some water on the hearth, but that meant crossing in front of her father. She did not wish to risk disturbing him. The dishes would keep until morning.
Lord Brentmore returned with the water bucket. She took it from him and poured water in the basin to soak the dishes.
‘What is next?’ he asked.
‘That is more than enough, my lo— Egan.’ She gave a grateful smile.
He did not return to his chair, but stood aside, his arms folded across his chest.
She moved through the room, picking up clothing and clutter from the floor. She paused near the chair where Lord Brentmore had been sitting. His glass was still full.
Her father, still rambling, reached for it and downed the gin as if it had been water. ‘Cursed man,’ he cried. ‘You’d think he would come. After all those years—’
Anna’s brow creased.
Her father went on, ‘He owed it to her to come put her in the ground.’
Of whom was he speaking? ‘Papa?’
He lifted his head to look at her. ‘You know. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.’
She shook her head. ‘Indeed I do not. Are you speaking of Mama?’
A bark of a laugh burst from him. ‘Of course I am speaking of your cursed mother.’ He jabbed his finger into his chest. ‘My wife!’