Burning Bright (Brambridge Novel 2)

by Pearl Darling

  The butler opened the door to an opulently plastered room and cleared his throat. “Lady Colchester, you have some visitors.” His announcement was thrust aside as Agatha marched into the room. Harriet followed cautiously.

  “Victoria Anglethorpe! I declare. I can’t believe you married him. Old Colchester!”

  The lady from the painting sat in her withdrawing room having tea. She was even more beautiful than her picture, golden hair encircling a creamy oval face crowned by a patrician nose. Two small, rotund spaniels lay upturned at her feet, eyes fixated on her hand, in which she held a slice of cake suspended in the air. She stared at Agatha in obvious astonishment, her eyes flicking backwards and forward to Harriet. As her mouth opened, the cake in her hand dropped to the floor. She rose slowly and put a hand to her chest.

  “Agatha? Agatha!” Lady Colchester paused and screamed in delight, tripping over her dogs and throwing her arms around Agatha. “Where have you been?” she babbled. “Have you seen Henry? What are you doing here? Oh, how marvelous to see you!”

  Harriet stood back as Lady Colchester took her aunt by the hand and led the laughing Agatha to a small chair. They spoke in urgent low voices. However her aunt knew Lady Colchester, it was obvious that they were or had been close friends. Harriet looked down at her travel-worn clothes. What were they doing here?

  “Victoria, I want you to meet my…” Agatha stood and dragged Harriet forward. “My niece, Harriet,” she whispered.

  Lady Colchester’s mouth gaped open. “Pardon?”

  Agatha motioned for Harriet to come closer by her side at the sash window. She twitched nervously at the curtain. “We’ve had some trouble. We’ve been living quietly. I’ll explain everything later.” As Agatha started to pace, Harriet pulled at her shoulder and guided her back into a chair. Agatha nodded and took a breath. “There are some things that Harriet doesn’t know either. We needed somewhere to go, and I didn’t know anyone else in the world that could hide us. I’m so sorry, Victoria,” she said forlornly.

  Lady Colchester motioned to Harriet to come closer to the window. Harriet took a step forward reluctantly. Her aunt’s nervousness was infectious.

  “Peter’s daughter?” Lady Colchester said softly.

  “Yes.” Agatha replied. “Her only inheritance is her father’s paintings. I don’t want to be a burden on you. We’re here to sell them in London to see if we can raise some money. He was going to have an exhibition before he…” She stopped, and licked her lips, dropping her head slightly. “Died.”

  “But Peter’s daughter wasn’t called…” Agatha stayed Lady Colchester’s words with an upraised hand.

  “We’ll talk later. Can we stay, Victoria? Please?”

  Lady Colchester cocked her head on one side. With a giggle and suddenly an unladylike guffaw she broke out laughing. The ice-like beauty that Harriet had beheld when they first entered the room shattered as Lady Colchester wheezed and put a hand to her side.

  “Oh, this is the best thing to happen to me in an age.” Lady Colchester took in a deep breath. She smiled broadly at Agatha. “Of course. Now we just need to get Harriet here back in to her own clothes.” Lady Colchester shook her head and stood up. “Chantelle will help us,” she said decisively. “She is discreet.”

  “I don’t want to be any bother.” Harriet took a step back.

  “Bother? Pshaw. She is my French ladies maid. She has a few secrets of her own, so one more will not hurt! Harriet, we will send you outside to complete some ‘man of affairs work’. Return to the house via the servants’ entrance in Woods Mews. Chantelle will find you. I will send her out with some of my dresses. The mews house is currently empty. You can change there.”

  As Harriet strode along the hard pavement and into Woods Mews, the smell of horses in the air was palpable. The cobbles had been freshly scrubbed, and the carriages were all safely locked behind large white doors.

  “Master Chance?”

  Harriet turned. Chantelle, clad in the uniform of a ladies maid, stood in front of her, holding a large box.

  “Here, let me help.” Harriet thrust out her hands for the box.

  “Merci.” Chantelle gave her the box and inserted a key in the door of the small mews house that stood behind the stable.

  The inside of the mews house was as elaborate as Lady Colchester’s own house. The intricate cornicing on the ceiling matched those Harriet had seen in the Upper Brook Street drawing room. The fireplaces, a little smaller, were still made out of the finest marble. It was obvious that no mere stable master was allowed to live in this small house.

  “If you please, put the box down on the floor.” Chantelle opened the box and withdrew several silk dresses that rippled softly in her arms. Lady Colchester obviously favored peaches, aquamarines and violets. Flounces, bows and stays adorned every single dress.

  “Do you not have anything a little less—” Harriet searched for the word— “sumptuous?”

  “I am ’ere to ’elp you get dressed,” Chantelle said haughtily with a strong French accent. “Madame asked moi to work my expertise on your appearance. A guest staying with Lady Colchester must wear the ’ighest quality clothes. Zeez will suit you. I promise you.”

  Chantelle made a beckoning motion with her hands. Reluctantly Harriet pulled off her coat and stepped out of the breeches. Chantelle shook her head as she took in the hole in the breeches.

  “Turn round,” Chantelle said. Goodness the woman would have made an excellent sergeant major. Harriet put her hands in the air as Chantelle slithered a violet silk dress over her head.

  “Zees color shouldn’t work on a red head but on you I zink it will be perfect.”

  Harriet didn’t have a chance to respond, gasping as Chantelle took hold of the laces on the dress and pulled, winching the dress tight around her chest. It was as if someone had sucked all the breath from her body. She had no ability to respond when Chantelle pushed her back onto a small hardback chair, and proceeded to pluck her eyebrows, and curl and primp Harriet’s unruly hair.

  “No rouge, I zink,” Chantelle muttered in Harriet’s ear. “You ’ave some country bronze which is most becoming.”

  “Ow!”

  “Juste un peu de cheveux gris.”

  “Grey hair? It’s probably something to do with my aunt.”

  Chantelle didn’t reply. She looked at Harriet with a furrowed brow. “Vous parlez francais?”

  Harriet shook her head. What was Chantelle talking about?

  “Alors.” Chantelle put her hands on her hips and gave a smile of satisfaction as she swept her eyes over Harriet’s appearance. “Laissez l’ours voir le renard… mais oui!”

  Let the bears see the fox but what—?

  “Come, it is time to go downstairs.” Chantelle gathered up Harriet’s old clothing with pinched fingers and trotted to the door. “Madame will be pleased. Ah. But here she is!”

  “Chantelle, you have worked wonders!” Lady Colchester entered the mews house and surveyed Harriet from all angles. “Put the remaining dresses back in the box and take them to Harriet’s room. She will need them whilst she is here.”

  “Oui, my lady.”

  Harriet returned to Upper Brook Street well after dark. She found Lady Colchester and her aunt Agatha cozily ensconced in the library, drinking brandy and— she sniffed— smoking?

  Her aunt waved at her hazily through the gloom.

  “Come here, darling, let me see you.”

  “Gosh, how like your mother you look,” said Lady Colchester, smiling sadly.

  Agatha nodded in agreement.

  “So beautiful too,” Lady Colchester continued.

  Harriet sat down heavily on a hard sofa. “You knew my mother?” She glared at Agatha. “How much more haven’t you told me?”

  Agatha licked her lips and turned her face away. “I hid you for your own good,” she said in a low voice. “Your mother and father were murdered in that coach accident. As you were travelling with them, you were meant to have been
killed too.”

  “But…”

  Agatha didn’t give her a chance. “I didn’t know if anyone would try again. Believe me, it was for the best.”

  Harriet looked down at her hands. Once again they trembled as they had trembled when she had left the cave. She knew what the feeling was now.

  Shock. Despair. But this time for her parents, not for herself. Her parents had been murdered. She clutched at her throat.

  “I think you could do with some brandy.” Lady Colchester leaned forward and pushed a glass into Harriet’s hand. Sitting back, she picked up her cigar again and inhaled gently.

  “Colchester’s secret stash,” Lady Colchester said cheerfully as she exhaled. “Found it on the day he cocked his toes up and died. I celebrated with a brandy and a cigar. Aggie and I—” Lady Colchester paused to wave at Agatha—“always wanted to secretly smoke after parties. Could never understand why the men could carouse and smoke when we could not.”

  Harriet looked down at the glass of brandy in her hand and swirled it gently. “Why did someone kill Mama and Papa?” she said, watching as the thick liquid clung to the glass.

  “I don’t know.” Agatha sighed. “And if I honestly knew, I would tell you.” She tapped some ash from her cigar into a bowl on the table in front of her.

  Harriet took a large sip from the brandy. It was more watered down than the firewater Tommy had given her on the Rocket. It still warmed her as it slipped down her throat. She rubbed at her eyes tiredly.

  “Today has been… confusing.” She nodded as Lady Colchester poured more brandy into her glass. “Thank you. I’m not sure where to start.” She picked up her glass again and tipped it from side to side. “First I find that my aunt has a good friend in London of whom she has never spoken, then she tells me my parents were murdered, and yet strangest of all when Chantelle spoke to me in French I still managed to pick out words such as fox, bear, the word grey, for goodness sake, despite never having learned the language.”

  Agatha smiled. “Oh, I was wondering when you would rediscover that! Your mother used to tell you famous tales in French when you were small. You particularly loved those about Renard the fox, his cunning and his interaction with the bear and the grey wolf.”

  Harriet stopped tipping the brandy glass. “Why did she do that?”

  “Because she was French of course! I rather thought that was why Peter fell for her.”

  Lady Colchester nodded. “It was quite a shock when he announced that he had married. I think my brother felt rather bereft. From what I understand, it was typical Peter though.”

  Agatha waved a hand in the air. “It was like everything he did, leaving home early, painting when he wanted without a care for money and damn the consequences.” She stared out of the window and took a deep breath. “I understand your mother was actually quite lucky. Peter met her one day in Ottery St Mary. He was down hunting in Devon with some friends at Urley Castle. He wrote to me that it was love at first sight, a beautiful girl with flaming red hair sat next to her father struggling along the road with a wagon load of possessions.” Agatha gave a small laugh. “A week later they were married.”

  Harriet stared down at the brandy glass and put it on the table. So true love did exist. Was that why James dominated her thoughts? She was her father’s daughter, a whimsical impetuous girl without an ounce of practicality. Sighing, she leant back in the chair. Damn him. Damn them.

  “Where were they going? Mother and… grandfather with that wagon I mean?”

  Agatha turned back to Harriet, a frown on her face. “Peter never did say where they were going. It didn’t matter to him. Your father supported them all, Claire, her father, yourself when you arrived, by selling paintings.”

  Lady Colchester squeezed Agatha’s hand. “I remember that.”

  Agatha gave a small smile. “It didn’t help them much. Peter was apparently about to mount a large exhibition in London when he and Claire died.” Her fists clenched. “According to the magistrate that informed me of his death, Peter had taken out enormous loans to buy paints and canvases, and was still paying off his own mortgage on the house in Seaton. There was nothing left after the death duties were paid.” She took in a shaky breath. “All I found when I arrived at the orphanage in Honiton was a small child, and many paintings.” Agatha buried her head in her hands. “I slept in the orphanage outbuilding, for goodness sake. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Madely, the vicar in Brambridge…”

  Harriet did not want to hear it. She couldn’t bear to think of them being beholden to Mrs. Madely. She chewed at her lip then stood. Her head whirled. “I’m going to bed.” At the door, she turned. “Where is grandfather? You said that Papa met Mama with her father. Where is he?”

  Agatha shook her head. “He’s right there with Peter and Claire. They buried him under the name John Smith.”

  Harriet took in a breath. Every time she had visited her parents’ grave she had wondered at the closeness of the other headstone with the simple ‘John Smith’ etched into the stone.

  Agatha took a breath and carried on. “Claire wanted that, the John Smith I mean. She never said much, but that her father had been twice disappointed because of his name, and that the English equivalent of the common man was all he ever wanted to be.”

  Harriet wiped a hot hand across her cheek. “What do we do on the morrow?” she said in a low voice.

  Agatha stood. “I’ve been thinking on this. We should go looking for the site of your father’s former exhibition.”

  Lady Colchester breathed in sharply. “You know you can stay as long as you want. You’re my friend, Aggie.”

  Agatha shook her head. “I’m no longer your brother’s ward, Victoria. We need to pay our own way.” She looked again at Harriet. “We’ve only brought half of the paintings with us. The rest, the biggest ones, were apparently sent to London. Perhaps we’ll be able to find them. ”

  “Do you have to rush into that so quickly?” Lady Colchester persisted. “I have sent out for Madame Dupont and Master Bertrand. I thought we could attend some balls together, even go to the theatre. Have some fun.”

  Harriet froze, in and out of the doorway. Theatre. She hadn’t thought of that. They were in London, she didn’t need to just read about it any longer, she could experience it for herself—

  “Madame Dupont, the dressmaker?” Agatha stared at Lady Colchester.

  “Yes and Master Bertrand, the dance master.” Lady Colchester laughed.

  Agatha covered her eyes. “Master Bertrand taught Agatha and me how to dance. We were terrible!”

  Lady Colchester shook her head. “And Madame Dupont made our dresses. We could never stand still. She kept sticking pins in our side.”

  Harriet licked her lips and turned. “Could we go to the theatre?” She dropped her head and said in a low voice, “I’d like to see Kean.”

  “I’m not sure,” said Lady Colchester slowly, “I’ve heard that he is a little unpredictable. When he was meant to be playing in the ‘Duke of Milan’ he failed to turn up. Apparently he was drunk in a Deptford Tavern.”

  Harriet’s shoulders slumped. It was just like everything that week. An opening of endless possibilities turning out to be false hope.

  “But of course,” Lady Colchester said with a broad smile, looking at Harriet. “I have heard great reviews of his Othello. The man playing Iago opposite him cannot compete. Booth, I think his name is. I’m sure we can get tickets for Drury Lane.”

  Kean. After so long she would finally see him in the flesh. And yet the elation she should have felt did not come.

  CHAPTER 24

  Melissa closed the book with a snap. James swung his legs out of the bed and stood, his eyes still staring out of the window at the sun setting in a blaze of red across the cliffs. He closed his eyes. A red as deep as Harriet’s hair. He opened them again and looked blindly around the room, skating over Melissa’s face and the rotting hangings. He felt no connection with the room, or even the house. Harriet had
been right; he was just like his father, a spiteful capricious man, hanging on to something just because it was his right.

  He hadn’t even taken one step into the study since he had been back in Brambridge, the scene of so much hatred, the room that he had promised himself he would destroy with yellow paint. As James spent more and more time downstairs, drinking less and less laudanum for the pain, he had noticed that Edgar had taken up residence in there. Good luck to him. The chances were that they would all be out of the house within two months.

  “I’m tired of this,” James said looking at his stockinged feet. “I need a brandy.”

  Melissa raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure that is wise?”

  He rubbed his face. “Wise? I’m not sure I’ve ever done anything that is wise. All I know is that I want a damn brandy.”

  “The patient is better,” Melissa murmured. “I believe everyone is downstairs having sherry. Perhaps you might like to join them?”

  James stared at Melissa. She had sat there every night and read to him. How long had she and her mother stayed with them—three months now? Did they not have their own home to go to? A home to go to until the wedding. He swallowed. Why hadn’t he left himself? He had written to his lawyers. They had confirmed what he had half known all along. There was more than enough money generated by his other estates to support his family as well as the injured soldiers that were already there. He didn’t need Brambridge. James shivered as he heard his father’s voice through the will again.

  He disappointed me while he lived under my roof and I find nothing to have changed my mind in the intervening years.

  “Let’s go downstairs,” he said firmly.

  James stared at the dark windows. There was no welcome there, no happy memories. All of his happiness had been tied up with being outside, with Bill on the Rocket, with Harriet—

  It was like déjà vu walking through the hall. He ignored the gallery and the half-open door to the study. He walked straight into the weak firelight of the drawing room.