"What a tragic tale," Vivienne said.
"So handsome he was too."
A scuffle sounded behind her and Vivienne turned to see a young man with messy hair clasping something in his hand.
"I found a fledgling," he said as he walked into the kitchen. "It had fallen out of its nest."
"Well, don't bring it in here, you daft boy. Put it back."
"But the mother is gone."
"Fledglings don't live without their mothers, Clive."
"But I can't just leave it."
"And you can't bring it into my kitchen. Out you go, or I'll chase you with my rolling pin."
The young man ran off, the under-formed bird still cradled in his hands. "The boy is slow," Mrs. Sims said. It was perhaps unusual that young men his age ran around with birds in their hands. His behavior indicated someone younger. "Miss Trubright despised him. I don't mind saying now that she's dead. Saw his affliction as a curse from God."
"Affliction?"
"A fever as a child made him slow. He's never been quite right since. A boy in a man's body. And the older he grew, the more she hated it. Truth be told, I think it was men she hated."
It gave some credence to Mrs. Bollingworth's accusation that Miss Trubright would not have given Archie the estate if she'd had the power to prevent it. Hatred was probably the true reason rather than some notion of guardianship for the lost heir.
"The other one's no better. Nasty character," Mrs. Sims said darkly, "but you didn't hear that from me."
Chapter 10
RETURNING UPSTAIRS, Vivienne made her way to the parlor, where Mrs. Dartmoor sat with her embroidery work, pressing the needle into the mesh. "Miss Sophie is a little upset with me," she said when Vivienne sat down on the sofa next to her.
"Oh?" Vivienne replied, concerned that Sophie was being unreasonable. She had the tendency to be very forthright, especially with people like Mrs. Dartmoor, who, by nature, had very different sensibilities.
"I cannot ride and she wants to go riding with the men."
"I see," Vivienne said.
"She has taken to her room."
A bit petulant, but Sophie had a capability of being petulant when things didn't go her way. "Well, we will have to make do without her company."
Mrs. Dartmoor smiled. There was something a little withdrawn about Mrs. Dartmoor, an elusiveness, but it seemed Sophie's moods didn't distress her. Not everyone could ride. Sophie simply had to accept that.
A gust of wind pummeled the window panes. Back home, that would constitute a storm, but not here. It was a blustery day, but that was normal. The sea was gray outside the window, white caps forming on the undulating waves.
"Not sure I could ever get used to it, the wind," Mrs. Dartmoor said. "Always pressing on the windows, howling and tearing at your clothes."
"It's just wind," Vivienne said.
"I don't like it. To be fully honest, I don’t like this house. It has a heavy energy. As if you expect to spot something out of the corner of your eye."
The woman always seemed to refer to energy and Vivienne never quite understood what she meant. It certainly wasn’t something Vivienne felt. But was she right in saying so? There were times when she felt the hairs rise along the back of her neck, but that was just the strangeness of the location and the chill of the wind. This dislike was something she and Sophie had in common. Perhaps not surprising as one did feel remote here, separated from everywhere else, as people who lived on an island probably felt—cut off.
"Although one makes do, doesn't one?" Mrs. Dartmoor continued. "If one must."
Vivienne didn't hate this place, even liked the dramatics of the landscape. It made her feel small, and in reality, she was small—they all were.
"I think I will walk a little," Vivienne said and rose. Sometimes it felt as if they were cooped up in this house, getting on each other's nerves. The idea didn't appeal to Mrs. Dartmoor, which Vivienne didn't mind. A bit of time spent with one's own thoughts was always beneficial.
After retrieving her traveling coat, she set out through the front entrance rather than to pass by Mrs. Dartmoor in the parlor, in case she felt pressured into accompanying her.
The vastness of the land stretched before her. It really did need a garden. Otherwise it seemed like a house that just rose out of the ground.
There was no one around. The stable seemed quiet as did the other buildings. The wind sang along the land, changing pitch and cadence, swaying the long grass in its depleted greens and yellows of the long grass. It grew uneven in tussocks.
The wind pummeled her as she walked around the corner of the house, receiving the full force of it coming off the sea. Her coat flared and flapped, and it tore at her hair. This was not a place where bonnets were practical and such fineries seemed a little out of place out here.
Her gloves were in her coat pocket in case she needed them, but right now, she felt fine as she walked toward the edge of the cliffs and decided to go north toward where that spear of land jutted out.
It felt as though she was away from everything and everyone, utterly alone. Was that how he had felt, the heir—Jonathan?
Had he come out here and thrown himself off a cliff? Been in such despair? It seemed such a drastic action.
Walking closer to the edge, she looked down. It was a far way down to the pebble beach below. To be claimed by the sea and dragged down into the deep. A shudder worked down her spine. It was uncomfortable to think someone would do that, would be so melancholy they would seek such an end.
"Careful," a deep voice said behind her and she startled, and for a moment, her senses seemed to lose their focus.
"Don't sneak up on people when they're standing on the edge of a cliff," she said tartly as she turned to the person. Brynnell stood there, his dark hair lifting slightly with the wind. By his clothes, he was riding or should be riding.
"My apologies, Miss Harcourt. I did not sneak. The wind carries away the noises that are normally heard."
"I regret my tone," she said, acknowledging it had perhaps been a little too familiar.
He considered her for a moment, his face unexpressive. His eyes were green, she noticed. A handsome face, but not one of levity. "What has drawn your curiosity down there?"
Moving closer, he looked down onto the beach below, then back at her. Was he wondering if melancholy had her in its grip?
"I suppose I was wondering if it was true that the lost heir could have fallen off the cliff and been dragged out to sea."
"You would have to be very careless to fall off a cliff," he said, offering his hand to her. Clearly he had already suggested she was careless just by standing this close to the edge, but then it had been him startling her that could possibly have made her lose her footing. "Miss Harcourt." So now he was insisting. As a gentleman he had a duty to lead her away from danger, but she wasn't in danger. Her footing was quite stable. But equally, it would be distinctly rude to refuse his assistance when it was offered.
Grudgingly she put her hand in his gloved hand and he led her away from the edge, where he promptly let go again. He slowly moved forward, waiting for her to follow, which again, out of propriety, she should do. Although, she could claim that she could not possibly walk with him without a chaperone, but they were within sight of the house and it would come across as slightly neurotic. For some reason, she didn't want him to see her as some neurotic female who did stupid or immature things.
"Shouldn't you be out riding? I thought everyone was going out riding."
"I left a little earlier. Sometimes I need some solitary moments."
"Then I am sorry if you feel you must accompany me. I am perfectly fine and you can continue with your stroll."
"I have reflected sufficiently. What makes you think the heir fell?"
"I spoke to Mrs. Sims and apparently there was a scandal involving him in the district, and shortly after he disappeared. Some around here apparently think he might have…"
"Dispatched himself," B
rynnell finished.
"And been washed out to sea."
"It is possible. There are certainly places along the coast here where the cliffs fall straight into the sea."
"I certainly don't think he's going to show up and stake his claim to the house as Mrs. Bollingworth clearly hopes," she said.
"I think her exertion is plain bitterness."
"Apparently Miss Trubright was not the most ardent proponent of your gender. It seems she really would have left the house to Mrs. Bollingworth if she could."
Brynnell remained quiet at this news. Perhaps he was a little torn on the subject, as she was. Obviously Archie was her friend and he did deserve this good fortune, but it also irked her that the house was given to him just because he was male. It was the way of the world, but it felt uncomfortable fully supporting the notion.
"It matters not now," Brynnell said. "The house is his and the chance of a lost heir coming to claim it are highly unlikely. It is only Mrs. Bollingworth's envy that has her mentioning it."
That was true. It wasn't Archie's fault that he inherited. He could not be blamed for the unfair structures they all had to live by. An entailment was there because someone had placed it there to protect the family name and wealth. Although many would argue that the house was never Miss Trubright's to give, and subsequently it was wrong of Miss Bollingworth to imply that it was.
A gust of wind flared her coat again and pressed on her skirt. She was getting a bit cold now. "I think I will return, but please feel free to continue with your walk."
"No, I will return with you. I suspect the weather will be turning soon."
Vivienne looked out to sea and tried to understand what made him say so. To the south, the clouds had a bluish tone, implying harsher weather.
"I hope the riders don't get caught in bad weather." The last thing she needed was John getting ill. He was a nightmare when he caught a cold.
"Hopefully they will already be on their way back. I can't see Lewis keen on spending hours in the saddle," Brynnell said.
That was true. Lewis would only have a limited tolerance for riding.
A fat drop of rain fell on Vivienne's head, cold and uncomfortable as it snaked down her scalp. This was when the inability to wear bonnets became a burden rather than a freedom. "We had better return."
More drops fell and they picked up pace until they were running, the rain chasing them the whole way. One minute it had been fine, and the next, the weather had moved in like a silent creature pouncing. The material of Vivienne's coat was getting soaked and her hair was wet by the time they reached the house.
"The weather is unpredictable here, I find," Brynnell said.
"Makes it hard to wander far, doesn't it?" That only made her feel more cloistered in the house, almost imprisoned. It was a silly notion, but it had snuck up on her just like the weather had.
Chapter 11
AFTER CHANGING HER dress, Vivienne returned to the parlor for a warming cup of tea just in time for the men returning with their soaked clothes, which Mr. Jenkins was trying to deal with.
The rain was heavy out the window and the scenery had become much darker. Rain pummeled on the stones outside and they lost sight of the cliffs and the sea.
"The weather moves quickly," Mrs. Dartmoor said. "It is not a wonder the Greeks believed there was a god of the sea when you see such quick changes."
As if they were adrift. This only added to Vivienne's feeling of being trapped in the house. They couldn't go far, because things could turn quickly.
"I think we must light a candle. Would you be so kind?" Mrs. Dartmoor asked.
"Of course," Vivienne said and rose, seeking the candlestick on the side table to bring to the fire. The metal was cold in her hand and she absently looked up at the painting of a man's legs right in front of her. Then seeing the young man, blond and handsome. His thumb rested in his waistcoat pocket and he looked confident. The clothes suggested it wasn't recent, but it wasn't from the last century either. "Is this him, do you think?"
"Who?"
"The heir. Jonathan Fitzgerald. There is no plaque." It was an odd place to put a painting. Out of the way so it couldn't be readily seen.
Mrs. Dartmoor looked over. "Perhaps it is. Although I quite understand why someone would put it out of the way. It has a certain aching loneliness to it, doesn’t it?
"Do you think so?" Vivienne asked and returned her gaze to the painting. It wasn’t what she saw. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, finely dressed. His features were light and unburdened. This wasn’t a man ready to throw himself off a cliff, but this portrait could have been made before the ill-fated love affair, which seemed to be the cause of all the scandal and commotion.
No, Mrs. Dartmoor was applying the things she had learned about his subsequent fate to the painting that was of a perfectly normal young man. Arrogant and assured of his place in the world, as young men tended to be.
Even with the scandal, would a man like that give in to despair to the point of such tragic action? Perhaps. It was hard to tell what people hid in their hearts.
Candlestick in hand, she walked over to the fire and used a thin bit of reed from the wood store to light it from the fire. For a moment, she basked in the warmth of the fire. It wasn't as if she was cold, but the warmth was lovely. Until Lewis walked into the room, rubbing his hands together against the chill, coming to stand by the fire.
They had been in the rain for much longer and likely were chilled. "Perhaps you should put some logs on," she suggested to him and he did as she bid without comment. “The chill does seem pervasive at the moment.”
Slowly, the others came into the room, including Sophie, who was drawn by the more exciting company. Mrs. Bollingworth and her husband did not, however. In fact, they hadn't been seen all day.
"Where is Mrs. Bollingworth?"
"I believe she went to visit someone she knows in the district."
"Of course."
"What a day," Sophie said, seating herself on the adjacent sofa. "The weather has decided to rage."
"Perhaps being so exposed as we are here, with very little protection, one notices the weather more," Vivienne suggested.
Sophie grabbed one of the empty cups and poured tea into it, adding a spoonful of sugar. "It's an awful place. Sent chills up my spine from the moment I saw it, and I can't say that I've changed my mind."
"Such a vision of loveliness," John said as he came over and sat down. He'd changed his clothes.
"Did you get awfully wet?" Vivienne asked.
"The skies opened and it positively poured down. My horse didn't like it much. Temperamental creature."
"I think that's him," Vivienne said.
"Who?"
"Jonathan Fitzgerald." John followed her gaze to the painting.
"I'll be…" John drifted off. "Looks like an upstanding fellow, doesn't he? I'd even go so far as to say there was some family resemblance."
"With Archie?" Sophie cut in, having listened to the conversation. "Much more handsome than Archie. Quite dapper. It's hard to think of some of the older generation as once young and beautiful. Although I can't imagine Miss Trubright ever being so. Some people are like that, aren't they, old and dour even when they're young." Sophie's quick look at Mrs. Dartmoor didn't go entirely unnoticed, clearly a sentiment she had about her companion. Both unkind and untrue. "Speaking of honored guests, where are the Bollingworths? We are positively bereft of their company."
"I believe they are out visiting," John said.
"Seems a dangerous activity in these parts."
"If you are not dressed for the weather," Mrs. Dartmoor added. "As she is so familiar with the district, I'm sure she knows how unpredictable the weather can be."
"That's right," John said. "I'm sure she's prepared for a bit of a downpour. Besides, they have their curricle to speed their travels."
"Who wishes to play cards?" Sophie said brightly as she sharply stood up.
Lewis, Archie and John decided t
o join her. Vivienne wasn't in the mood for cards. Her attention was brought again to the portrait, and she wondered if there were any more of him. Perhaps Mrs. Sims could confirm it was indeed Jonathan Fitzgerald.
A sharp bang reverberated through the house. "Help," a man shouted. All rushed from their seats into the main hall, where stood Mr. Bollingworth, carrying his wife in his arms and wretchedly wet. He was crippling under the weight of her and Mrs. Bollingworth was moaning.
"What happened, man?" Archie asked, rushing in to take Mrs. Bollingworth's weight. Her husband was so puffed he could barely breathe, and his wife now wailed.
"Accident," Mr. Bolligworth stuttered out. "The carriage overturned."
"There was a specter on the road. I swear it. A specter," Mrs. Bollingworth wailed.
"The horse was spooked and bolted, until we overturned."
Jenkins was rushing in with a blanket. "We must take her upstairs and warm her up. I'll ask Mrs. Sims to draw a bath."
Carrying his cousin fully now, Archie took her up the stairs and Vivienne and Mrs. Dartmoor followed, realizing she would need help. In her room, Archie placed her down on the bed.
"Where's that damned maid?" Mrs. Bollingworth inquired.
"If you could assist her," Archie said to Vivienne and Mrs. Dartmoor.
"Of course," they agreed and waited for him to leave before helping the woman divest of her sodden clothes.
"As God is my witness, there was a specter in the road. It just appeared. I have never been so shocked. And the horse was terrified." She really was cold to the touch and her teeth hacked. Her husband must have carried her quite far.
Mrs. Sims and Clive appeared with a large copper bathtub.
"Out!" Mrs. Bollingworth roared.
"They're just bringing the tub," Mrs. Dartmoor said. "A warm bath is exactly what you need."
Her clothes were utterly soaked and clung to her body, dropping heavily to the floor when finally free.
"There was always something wrong with this place," the woman continued. "Always."
It was a curious statement considering how adamant she had felt about the place belonging to her. But people's true opinions were often revealed in times of stress. Her statement was disturbing, though, but it wasn't the time to query her about it.
The North Sea House: a gothic romance Page 6