Dreamspinner Press Year Five Greatest Hits

by Tinnean

  “No. A few welts and some bruising, but her stays protected her for the most part.” He placed gentle fingers on the old scars that disappeared beneath the waistband of my trousers. “I had no idea, Mr. Ashton!”

  “Why should you?”

  Dr. Medford muttered something under his breath and plucked the remnants of my shirt out of the cuts that crisscrossed my back.

  The door opened. “The water, Doctor.”

  “Thank you, Colling. Put it on the table there, please. Oh, and would you fetch us some tea?”

  “Of course. Cook is already preparing it for Lady Cecily. I’ll bring it presently.” The door closed once more.

  “Now, Mr. Ashton, I’m going to clean these wounds before dusting them with basilicum powder.”

  I sighed. Why was he telling me…? I hissed with pain as he dabbed as gently as he could at my back.

  “I’m sorry. I merely sought to prepare you. I thought surely, with the scars on your back, you would be aware….”

  “They… they were never treated. No… no matter. Just do what needs be done, please.”

  “Someone should bloody well take a whip to Sir Eustace’s miserable hide!” he growled, which didn’t surprise me. The entire neighborhood had a fondness for Aunt Cecily. A shrill scream interrupted his ministrations. “What in bloody hell… what is that?”

  I recognized the tones of our housekeeper. In spite of the discomfort I was in, I could not help giving a wry huff of laughter. “I expect that Mrs. Walker has found Sir Eustace.”

  Colling came hurrying in, his eyes wild with panic. “Doctor, you must come!”

  “Mr. Ashton….”

  “You had better go, Dr. Medford. I am… there is nothing more that needs be done here.”

  Medford growled again but followed the butler down to the morning room, where, after a cursory examination according to those who witnessed it, he pronounced Sir Eustace dead of apoplexy.

  UNCLE WAS interred in the family crypt. Perforce the men and women who worked his lands must needs attend, but the turnout of those who came down from Town to see him to his final resting place was meager at best.

  To those who inquired, I merely said that Aunt Cecily was prostrate.

  I saw no need to tell them that she was prostrate with relief, and not grief. That was no one’s business but the family’s.

  It was a nine-day wonder that the Hoods also were not at the funeral, but that, too, was none of their business. It was only later in the day Sir Eustace died that the letters from the brothers were discovered in the priest’s hole, neatly stacked in the chest that had housed the Flame of Diabul. Each missive stated simply that the author was the sole thief of the valuable stone and that he alone was responsible.

  In spite of his treatment of me, I was loath to consider that John had done it; Aunt Cecily refused to consider any of the Hoods, but the fact remained that the Flame of Diabul was missing, and so were they.

  Flowers never left Aunt Cecily’s side, and Arabella, her indisposition forgotten, was there also, more than happy to fetch whatever her benefactress might desire.

  Aunt Cecily’s blonde hair had turned pure white almost overnight, and she dressed in unrelieved black, which heightened her fragility so that those who saw murmured over the poor lady’s bravery in the face of unbearable bereavement.

  Bereavement it was, although none outside the family knew it was due not to the loss of her husband but to the loss of Robert, John, and William Hood.

  THE DAYS passed. There was no time to coddle myself, for there was the new hay to harvest, followed shortly thereafter in the season by our usual crop of hops. For the last few years we’d had good crops, but Uncle was so seldom at home that I was able to excuse the meager funds they produced by fobbing him off with tales of otter moths and corn borers and crown gall and downy mildew, and he’d never cared enough to discuss the problem with any of our neighbors. I’d intended to use what I’d kept back in order to effect repairs on the cottages of our people, but they’d been in surprisingly good condition, and so I’d set the profits aside in hopes of starting a small, reputable stud.

  Now it appeared those monies must needs be used to pay off my uncle’s gaming debts.

  Each day I dreaded the arrival of the post, anticipating the dunning letters. To date, none had arrived. I couldn’t understand it, but I was grateful for the breathing space it afforded me.

  A thought occurred to me. Because Robert Hood was no longer here, the engagement to Miss Colbourne was effectively at an end; would Mr. Colbourne sue the estate for the breach of promise to his daughter? Floundering in the possibility of an even greater encumbrance, I began having trouble eating, and my sleep was disturbed by images of the Hall and its lands falling to wrack and ruin.

  And then one morning, a sennight after the Flame of Diabul disappeared, Colling brought a letter to the morning room. “Beg pardon, m’lady. This arrived in the morning’s post.”

  I sat up. Was this the start of it? “For me, Colling?” I swallowed, pleased that my voice hadn’t trembled or cracked.

  “No, Mr.—beg pardon, sir. Sir Ashton.” Would I ever grow used to hearing myself addressed as “Sir Ashton”? “It’s for Miss Arabella.”

  “I can’t think… who would be writing to me?” She seized the letter from the salver and tore it open. Her eyes widened as she read the words, and then she burst into tears.

  “Arabella! Oh, my dearest child, what is the matter?”

  “It’s from William!”

  “From William? He’s still in the country?” Aunt Cecily appeared not to know whether to be relieved or alarmed. My heart lurched, for if he was, so was John also.

  “No. He was about to take ship for the Americas. He’s… oh, Aunt Cecy! He’s releasing me from our engagement!”

  “Let me see that, if you please?”

  Arabella held out the letter blindly, her face buried in her arm, and Aunt Cecily took it.

  “Aunt? May I… may I know what it says?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course, Ashton. I’ll read it aloud.” She drew a breath and began. “My dearest Belle, I am writing this aboard the Peregrine Falcon, a three-masted schooner which will sail out of Liverpool on the tide—”

  “What care I what ship is taking my William from me?” Arabella cried.

  “I imagine the poor boy was as distracted by circumstances as you, Arabella. By the time this reaches you, we….” She paused to look up. “The ‘we’ is scored out. I pray William is not alone and that his brothers are, indeed, with him! I will never believe them capable of stealing something of value!” She cleared her throat and continued. “By the time this reaches you, I shall have set sail for America. There are vast opportunities there, and with the help of the Almighty, I hope to make my fortune and so somehow repay Aunt Cecy. What was done was unforgivable, and yet I must hope that given her kind heart and loving nature, she will one day be able to forgive.

  “My darling girl, it breaks my heart to do this, but I must end our engagement. I do not know how long I will be from the shores of my birth—or if, indeed, ever I may return—and so I would be the veriest cad to hold you to an understanding made in happier times. Forgive me, dearest, and forget me. All I ask is that you do not forget me too soon.

  “Give Aunt Cecy our deepest love and assurance that what was done, was done with the best will in the world.

  “I remain, until the end of time, Ever your loving, William.”

  “Never! I will never forget him!” Arabella thrust back her chair and, sobbing, ran from the room.

  “Pray excuse me, Ashton.”

  “Of course, Aunt.”

  But Aunt Cecily had already risen and was hurrying after Arabella.

  The letter was left lying on the table. I picked it up, hoping there might possibly be a postscript containing word of John, but there was nothing.

  Well, there was an end to it then, for both Arabella and myself.

  My appetite gone, I pushed away from the tabl
e and returned to my room to dress in clothing more suitable for the day’s tasks.

  “ARABELLA IS taking a tray in her room,” Aunt Cecily informed me as we sat down to dinner that evening.

  “Ah.”

  “I’d….” She paused to take a sip of her wine. “There is something I feel we need to discuss, Ashton.”

  “Yes, Aunt?”

  “I have been giving this some thought. Arabella needs to be married. Oh, no, no! Nothing of that nature, I assure you!” she exclaimed when she saw my appalled expression. “What I mean to say is that… a woman needs a man in order to be truly and completely a woman.”

  “I have never given much thought to this, but I imagine you are more knowledgeable in this matter than I.”

  “Yes, and so I hope you will allow me to guide you in this and will agree to my suggestion.”

  “Your suggestion?” I had no idea about what she was talking, and I reached for my own wine.

  “Yes. You see, I think you should marry Arabella.”

  The glass fell from benumbed fingers, and I stared aghast as the ruby stain spread, leaping to my feet before the wine could drip onto my inexpressibles. As I dabbed at the spill with my napkin, I shook my head and smiled sheepishly. “I do beg your pardon, Aunt. I must have misheard you.”

  “Not at all, Ashton. Your marrying Arabella would be the ideal solution to this situation.”

  “For whom?”

  “Why… why, for the both of you. Arabella will be much happier once she is wed and has other things to take her mind from William, and you must needs get a wife to ensure that Fayerweather and Laytham Hall stay within the family.”

  “But there is no love between us!” She of all people knew what a loveless marriage was like.

  “Surely you didn’t expect to marry for any reason but expediency?”

  Truth to tell, I had not given any thought to marrying. I imagined that some day, in the very distant future, I would have to marry in order to provide an heir for Fayerweather as Aunt had suggested, but until the matter of Sir Eustace’s debts could be settled, that was not something on which I intended to dwell.

  “Anyway, talk of love is fustian. Where there is regard, love will grow.”

  There was no regard between Arabella and myself. We could barely tolerate one another! “I cannot!” I declared, hoping that would be an end to it.

  “Why ever not? It’s not as if you’ve formed an attachment to anyone.”

  “No, but….” My mind worked frantically, scrambling to find a reason she might accept. “But it would feel unnatural to me!”

  She frowned. “Unnatural? In what way?”

  “Arabella and I have grown up together. It… it would be like wedding my sister!”

  “But she is not your sister. There is no blood relationship there at all!” She nodded in triumph.

  “Be that as it may, and pray forgive me for being so blunt, but it would prove impossible for me to father a child on Arabella!”

  “But why…?” A blush colored her cheeks as the realization of my statement sank in. “Oh. I see. Oh, dear.”

  “I deeply regret disappointing you, but trust me, Aunt. Arabella and I would not suit!”

  She sighed heavily. “If you are certain?”

  “I am.” I was never more certain of anything.

  “Very well. It was just a thought. We will not inform Arabella about this discussion.”

  “No, Aunt.” I breathed a sigh of relief that a potential fiasco had been averted. The footman entered with the next course. “David, bring me a fresh napkin, please?”

  “And refill Sir Ashton’s wine glass.”

  “Thank you, David. Asparagus, Aunt Cecily?”

  TIME CONTINUED to pass, and each day my nerves stretched tighter, awaiting the inevitable.

  On this day, not quite a fortnight since my uncle’s demise, I had been closeted in the study all afternoon with Mr. Kirkby, Uncle Eustace’s man of business, trying to make heads or tails of the shambles in which he had left his estate.

  “I’ve seen to it that Fosby has been paid to the end of the quarter—that’s very generous of you, if I may make so bold, Sir Ashton, and I’ve given him the letter of reference you were so kind as to write for him.”

  “Fosby was with Uncle Eustace for as long as I’ve lived here, and most likely even longer than that.” My uncle’s valet had been kind enough to instruct me in the art of tying a cravat, although I had no doubt he took more pleasure in performing that task himself for the Hoods. “It was the least I could do, especially considering how in arrears Uncle was in paying him.”

  “Yes.” Mr. Kirkby cleared his throat and went on to other matters. “As per your instructions, I’ve put it out around Town that the cottage off Covent Gardens is for sale. Sir Eustace’s opera dancer—quite a taking little thing, but very vulgar, I fear—was none too pleased to be given her congé—”

  “I beg your pardon? Sir Eustace is dead! How could she expect to remain there?”

  “Er….” He studied the space beyond my left shoulder. “I believe she expected you to take her under your protection.”

  My jaw dropped, an inelegant expression, but one I could not contain, and Mr. Kirkby gave me an apologetic smile.

  “Indeed, Sir Ashton. I imagine she’ll soon find someone to take her under his protection. I… er… felt it was in the estate’s best interest to let her keep the jewels she was given.” He peered at me over his spectacles. “Paste, I’m afraid.”

  I tapped a pen restlessly against the blotter on what was now my desk. “That wasn’t like my uncle.” However niggardly he might be with the estates, he would never let his town cronies see him as a pinch-penny.

  “No, Sir Ashton. However, I rather imagine they were genuine at one point.”

  “Ah. And you think Uncle Eustace had ’em switched?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Are you sure it would not be wiser to give the woman their value?”

  He was shaking his head. “No, for then she would become curious. And there’s the possibility she might demand more.”

  “You’re right. I still feel uneasy over it, but I’ll let myself be guided by you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I have no wish to speak ill of the dead, but truthfully, that’s more than Sir Eustace did. Perhaps….”

  I knew what he was thinking. Perhaps if Uncle had paid heed to what his man of business advised, the estate wouldn’t be in such poor condition.

  “Is it true he was desirous of selling the Flame of Diabul, sir?”

  “Yes. He was not best pleased when he learned it had gone missing.” I did not want to discuss that day. “It will only be a matter of time before his creditors come pounding upon the door. I am surprised they have not set the bailiffs upon us already. I would have used what my father left me….”

  “Such a thought does you credit, Sir Ashton, but….” Mr. Kirkby shook his head. “I am so sorry there is nothing. Mr. Dinwiddy, my predecessor….” His lips tightened. “He was unable to do anything to stop your uncle from squandering your inheritance to cover his gaming debts.”

  And that was the truth of what had happened to what Papa had left me, of what had happened to Mama’s jewels.

  I cared not about the money and the other jewels Papa had given her, the suites of opals and sapphires, but the string of pearls Mama had been wont to wear…. I removed my spectacles and pinched the bridge of my nose.

  “What of my uncle’s breakdowns?”

  “I’ve had offers for the blood bays and the matched chestnuts.”

  “Accept the best one.”

  “And the racehorses?”

  “No. Not yet, at any rate. If they do well enough, we may drum up some interest in a stud. But sell off whatever cattle he had stabled at the posting houses on the Bath and Reading roads.”

  He nodded and made a note of it.

  There was a tap on the study door, and Colling entered. “Forgive me for intruding, Sir Ashton. Ther
e is someone here to see you.” He handed me a card.

  I replaced my spectacles and took the rectangular piece of cardboard. “George Stephenson, Esq.”

  “Are you sure he does not wish to see Aunt Cecily?” He was an old friend from the days when she had taken the Town by storm, having been a diamond of the first water, and he would visit Fayerweather whenever he was sure Sir Eustace was from home. A widower with one son, he would beseech Aunt Cecily to run away with him each time he came to see her. He always claimed it was in jest, but being unhappily in love at the time myself, I could recognize it in another.

  “He asked for you, sir. I have put him in the conservatory.”

  “Very well.” The conservatory was not my most favorite room, since I found the scent of the flowers that grew in riotous profusion within its confines cloying at times, but Aunt Cecily had a fondness for it, and often sat there with Mr. Stephenson when he visited. “Thank you, Colling. Please tell Mr. Stephenson I will join him shortly. Mr. Kirkby, perhaps we can continue this conversation at another time?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry I do not have better news for you, Sir Ashton. However, I must say the farms are in far better condition than I had dared to hope. At least there is that, as puzzling as it might be.” Mr. Kirkby gathered his papers and shook my hand. “I will continue to study your uncle’s affairs, and will return sometime next week to let you know how things stand.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kirkby.” I followed him out and saw him to his gig in the courtyard before reentering the Hall once more and hurrying to the study to retrieve my coat. It wouldn’t do to appear in my shirtsleeves.

  Why would Mr. Stephenson wish to see me? Whenever he visited he had never shown any liking for me, much preferring the company of the Hood brothers.

  Surely he had not come to me as head of the family to sue for Aunt Cecily’s hand! So soon after Uncle’s passing would cause a scandal none of us would live down.