Unforgettable (Mockingbird Square Book 1)

by Bennett, Sara

  Juliet remembered reading about Ash’s heroic act in the newspapers. At the time she had known she would be heartbroken if he died—luckily he recovered from his injuries. She’d thought of writing to him, but by then she was married to another man and it seemed dangerous and foolish to stir things up again. Dangerous because of her aching heart, and foolish because she must learn to live without him. And yet she’d hoped that maybe he would come to her despite her marriage. He hadn’t. That was when she truly knew it was over between them.

  “I suppose I was trying to emulate him.” Simon had grimaced down at his leg. “Not particularly well it seems.”

  Juliet had replied with a smile. “I am always a little suspicious of heroic behaviour. I think it smacks of uncaring recklessness, if you really want to know.”

  Simon had laughed, sounding almost shocked. However, later, she thought he appeared deep in thought, as if he was seeing a parallel between his brother and the characteristics she had mentioned. Perhaps it had been wrong of her to plant that seed in his head, but it was the truth, surely? Ash had been reckless with her, too. And uncaring.

  When Simon left the next morning he had asked if there was anything he could do to repay her kindness, and she had told him he could persuade his mother to donate to the hospital. With such a fine reputation in the county they had attracted patients from near and far. Now they were in desperate need of funds, and Doctor Knowles, diligent as he was, could not work long enough hours to help everyone. They needed another physician to ease his burden.

  He’d promised he would, but so far there had been nothing but silence from Crevitch Castle. Which was the reason Juliet had been sending out polite begging letters to those with whom she shared even the most tenuous acquaintance.

  She picked up the next bundle of letters.

  Begging and being refused, by the look of it.

  With a sigh she laid aside the note from the Duchess of Durham, who had once been a girlhood friend of her mother, Claudia. If she had hoped to spark some happy memories, then she was mistaken. The Duchess sympathized but could not help. It seemed to Juliet, reading between the lines, that her mother’s old friend preferred to distance herself.

  When Claudia had married Mr Montgomery, it had been a shock to her friends. He was several rungs below her on the social ladder. The problem was that Claudia’s family had lost what money they had when the elder brother fell in with a bad crowd and gambled away his inheritance. Mr Montgomery was sympathetic, had prospects, and had made his appearance at just the right time, and so Claudia chose to escape her family’s bad fortune by marrying him.

  She’d hoped to be happy, but it was not to be, and once again Claudia chose to make her escape, this time by running off with the Italian count. Juliet’s young life had been blighted by her mother’s action. It was the last time she had seen Claudia—all ties had been cut by her father—and although Juliet barely remembered her, she often wondered about her. For instance, was she happy or miserable, and did she miss her daughter? As far as she knew her mother was still alive and in Italy.

  The scandal was twenty years old but it had never been forgotten. She rather suspected that her father was to blame for that. He had liked nothing better than to repeat his tale of marital woe to everyone he met. After Claudia had bolted, he wanted Juliet to live a blameless life. As if to make up for her mother’s behaviour.

  “Bad blood,” he would say, when he wasn’t happy with her, which was often. Of course, by ‘bad blood’, he meant her mother’s blood. That his strict and insensitive treatment of her might be making her utterly miserable never occurred to him, or if it did then he ignored it. He’d told himself, she was sure, that he was doing what was best for her, and perhaps he’d truly believed that.

  Anyway, it hadn’t made any difference, because just like her mother Juliet had let him down by plunging them into another family scandal.

  Abruptly she stood up and walked to the window. She had a view of the woods, the leaves on the trees were bright green, and the sky was blue. On days like this she had run wild through these same woods with Ashley Linholm. They hadn’t been children; Ashley had been nineteen and Juliet seventeen.

  Mr Montgomery might have noticed what he called their ‘inexcusable behaviour’ earlier, but he was away much of the time on business. His prospects—the promise of which had led Claudia to marry him—never seemed to eventuate. That, and his wife’s abrupt departure, had combined to embitter him.

  Later he put his daughter’s conduct down to bad blood, and the idea had been taken up by neighbours and friends, as well as those who weren’t friends. Juliet didn’t agree. When she thought about those heady days, she knew she had fallen deeply and precariously in love. She hadn’t told her father because she knew what he would think and say, but she had never felt as if she was doing anything wrong.

  Now she accepted she had been a fool, putting her heart before all other considerations. In that respect she was just like her mother. She should have looked beyond her overwhelming passion and thought of her future. Ash hadn’t offered her any future at all.

  From this window, Juliet could glimpse the summer house at the edge of the woods. These days it was looking very sorry for itself and desperately in need of a coat of paint. The shutters were kept closed over the windows and it was as if the place was sleeping. Rather like something in a fairy tale. When was the last time she had been inside? She couldn’t remember. The summer house had been her mother’s favourite place, which was possibly why her father had allowed it to fall into ruin.

  But there were other reasons why Juliet kept away.

  The summerhouse had been the scene of her disgrace eight years ago. Perhaps, seeing it now, after her recent time with Simon Linholm, was the reason that all of a sudden she felt so angry and upset. Memories that she hadn’t revisited for many years crowded her mind.

  Had she truly believed that her entire life’s happiness might reside in a pair of blue eyes and a handsome face? God help her, but she had, and that just illustrated to her older, wiser self how idiotic she’d been.

  She was young and in love, and Ashley Linholm had seemed like the prince of her dreams. His kisses had drawn her soul from her lips and filled her heart with love. And he loved her, she had been certain of it, and certain that, like his ancestor, the great Lord Radulf with the Lady Lily, he would sweep her up and carry her off to their life together in his magnificent castle.

  For one long delirious summer, they had been together, and then her dream had turned into a nightmare. On the day when her father had discovered them, locked in each other’s arms, in the summer house he blamed for his own ill-favoured marriage. Even now the remembrance of that moment made her shrivel inside.

  Which was possibly why she usually did not think of it.

  Then why, now, was she allowing herself to relive his kisses, and the hot melting caresses they had shared? It occurred to her that if her mother had felt for her Italian count half of what Juliet had felt with Ash, then it was understandable that she had bolted. And perhaps she could forgive her, just a little.

  But she would never forgive Ash.

  For abandoning her and allowing her to be married off to a man old enough to be her grandfather.

  Her bitterness was like a dark stain in her heart. If she was ever to see Lord Ashley Linholm again, then she would tell him exactly what she thought of him. She would not hold back for the sake of politeness and nor would she temper her language . . .

  Juliet bit her lip. She rather thought that if she were ever to see Ash again she would do none of those things. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to. She would pretend she didn’t recognise him and walk right past him.

  Chapter Three

  Summer, 1816, Mockingbird Square, Mayfair, London

  Lord Ashley Linholm stepped through the door held open by one of his servants, and into Number Five. He was a different man from the one who had left feeling so confident about his future. He felt as if his life was i
n complete disarray.

  Ash still didn’t understand why he had agreed to the earl’s ‘challenge’, apart from the fact that the man was extremely persuasive. He’d had the unpleasant sensation that he was back in the army, being ordered to do things he really didn’t want to do, by men who seemed not to care whether he lived or died. But then the stark truth was, neither had he.

  He suspected Simon would be waiting in the library, so he went straight there. Ash’s father had died when his eldest son was five, just after Simon was born. During his minority the estate had been run by his father’s brother, Uncle George. If he was honest it still was, and although George had been a competent and diligent custodian, he was elderly now and, according to Simon, who had seen him more recently, ready to retire.

  Ash had dallied long enough, enjoying the bachelor life and ignoring his responsibilities. He needed to go home to Crevitch and take up the reins—settle down to the life of a country gentleman. If he and his brother were to die, then the estate would go to a distant cousin he had never seen nor met. He was absolutely sure such a person could not love Crevitch as he did.

  As he had thought, his brother was in the library reading one of the books that had belonged to their father. Ash himself rarely read them but Simon seemed to enjoy the dry old tales. He had even suggested they have the library catalogued, and Ash had agreed, thinking it would give his brother something to do during his convalescence.

  Simon had come up to London from Crevitch a month or so ago, after spending time with their mother, recuperating. His leg injury had initially been serious but currently he could make his way with the aid of a walking stick rather than the two crutches he had used in the beginning. Now, every day, he walked to the garden at the heart of Mockingbird Square, and Ash was certain that was doing him good. It must be. He always returned home in a far cheerier mood.

  “Well?” Simon had noticed him and was looking up with a rather strained smile on his pale face. Ash, far too full of his own concerns, barely noticed.

  Simon tossed the book aside and reached for his cane. “Did Monkstead give his permission?” he demanded with uncharacteristic impatience.

  “No,” his elder brother replied, and went to the window to stare out blindly at the promising summer’s day. “The strangest thing, Simon.”

  He sounded odd even to himself, and his brother limped slowly across to join him. “What happened, Ash?” he asked quietly. “I thought you were set on marrying Miss Beales.”

  The way he spoke her name, almost like a caress, also went unnoticed by his brother.

  “I was. I am.” He turned, his bright blue eyes searching Simon’s dark ones. “Simon . . . do you remember Juliet Montgomery?”

  Simon frowned. “Of course I do. She was our neighbour, before she married Baron Flett. Now she’s home again. When I was at the hospital she was there to help Doctor Knowles. I told you, Ash.”

  But Ash didn’t seem to be listening. Suddenly he gave a strange sort of laugh. “Eight years ago, when you were barely out of short pants, brother, I thought that it was Juliet who made the sun rise and set. I was utterly besotted with her.”

  “Juliet?” Simon couldn’t hide his amazement. “Well, she is very beautiful.” He leaned against the sill, taking the weight off his injured leg. “What happened?”

  “Her father and our uncle decided that it wasn’t a suitable match for either of us. I was bought a commission in the army, and Juliet was married off to Baron Flett. We were both young . . . Soon I found myself involved in fighting the French, and by the time I came home, well, I barely gave her a thought. I’m sure it was the same for her.”

  He sounded as if he believed that.

  “So why are you speaking of her now? I thought you were set upon shackling yourself to Miss Beales?” Once again his voice softened but neither man seemed to notice it.

  Ash tried to find an answer. “There are things I need to . . . I have questions . . . unanswered questions . . .” He gave up.

  Simon was still waiting and suddenly Ash didn’t want to discuss Juliet with him. The matter was a private one. He needed to see her again. Speak with her. Monkstead was right in that at least, even if his comments about Ash keeping himself at a distance from life, in case he got hurt again, were completely ridiculous. Ash was perfectly happy with his life just the way it was, and he’d prove it. He’d go to Juliet and make his peace. How difficult could it be?

  “I am going to Crevitch,” he said with sudden decidedness. “Today.”

  And he turned and walked out of the library.

  Simon could hear him running up the stairs as if he didn’t have another moment to lose.

  Should he be concerned by this sudden change in his elder brother? Usually Ash brushed off life’s difficulties, as if they didn’t touch him, or at least not overly much. He never spoke in the way he just had, and he certainly never ran up the stairs in his eagerness to visit a woman he hadn’t seen in nearly ten years!

  Maybe, Simon thought, he should make his laborious way up the stairs after him? Try to talk to him so that he could understand what was happening? Instead, he found his thoughts turning to Christina Beales.

  He had only met her a month ago. He’d just returned from Crevitch and had been walking—or limping—in the gardens when they had come face to face. Christina had been with Miss Willoughby, who was staying with her cousin, Mrs Maclean, in Number Nine. Miss Willoughby, who was walking her cousin’s dog, had seen the way things were between Simon and Christina. Perhaps the woman was a romantic at heart. Instead of sticking close to them, she had drifted away to a safe distance, so she could still be seen to be chaperoning the pair but was not listening to their conversation.

  They had sat on a bench and conversed for over an hour, the time had gone so quickly, and instead of sleeping that night, he’d found himself going over the moments they’d shared. Her soft voice, her smile, her eyes gazing into his. He’d hardly been able to wait to pay another visit to the garden, and when he did he had thought he would have to sit there for many hours until she eventually turned up. If she did turn up.

  She had, and with Miss Willoughby once more in tow. As soon as she saw him, she appeared relieved, as if she’d been thinking about him too. Since then they had been meeting nearly every day.

  Simon hadn’t allowed himself to consider a future with her. His injury held him back—why would a woman like her want a cripple for a husband? But then his brother had met her and in a flash was talking about marrying her. Simon had felt as if a rug had been pulled from under his good leg and he was floundering even more than usual.

  His brother was his hero, and a man he aspired to emulate. He had never disobeyed Ash before but now, as if from nowhere, he remembered Juliet’s words to him in the cottage hospital. I am a little suspicious of bravery. It smacks of uncaring recklessness.

  Was his brother uncaring? Not consciously so perhaps, but it was true that Ash always expected to get his own way. He was the heir of Crevitch, and it was how he had been brought up. And was he reckless? Had his heroic action in Spain been nothing more than irresponsible behaviour? Sometimes when Ash rode in his curricle he could be reckless, although their acquaintances considered his behaviour ‘dashing’. He wasn’t a cautious man, that was true, and he rarely considered the consequences of his actions. Apart from recently, when he’d spoken of Crevitch and its importance to him, and how he needed to marry and secure their inheritance for at least one more generation to come.

  And that was where Christina Beale had come in.

  Just now, while he waited in the library, Simon had steeled himself to tell Ash how he felt about Christina. He had never stood up to his elder brother before, and the very idea of going head to head with him on this matter made him feel slightly queasy. But it had to be done, he was determined, no matter if it caused a rift between them. He was in love with Christina and he could not watch her life and her future ruined by his brother’s sudden decision to find a suitable wife.
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  Now it appeared Ash was off on some wild goose chase, and Simon was very glad he had not had to say the words he’d been practising all morning. It would also give Simon a chance to steal his brother’s chosen bride right out from under his nose.

  Chapter Four

  Summer, 1816, Montgomery House, Crevitch, Somerset

  It was a beautiful evening and Juliet was bored. Since she’d returned home her life, apart from the hours spent in the hospital, seemed to have narrowed into one long tunnel of doing very little. It was true that while she was married her time had been full of social engagements which, in hindsight, had not been terribly important. Not like the hospital. But at least her days, and nights, had been busy enough to keep her thoughts occupied.

  After her hasty wedding she had discovered that Baron Flett liked to entertain. It was a pleasant surprise, and once they had moved into the house in Taunton, she found she was a good hostess. They’d had some merry old times.

  She’d been fond of the baron, perhaps even loved him, but it was the sort of love she might have felt for an elderly relative. Their intimate moments had been few and far between, and rather embarrassing if the truth be told. Apart from the bedroom, her marriage to him had been surprisingly enjoyable. She’d put aside her resentment at being handed off to him by her father and made the best of things.

  “Enjoy yourself, my dear,” the Baron had said to her, near the end. “Don’t mourn me for too long. Someone as young and beautiful as you deserves to be adored.”

  At twenty-five she was not so young as she had been, Juliet thought wryly, although she was still an attractive woman, or so her mirror told her. What were a few lines here and there, and the occasional grey hair—which Yvette made sure to pluck out. And anyway, who would she find to adore her as her baron once had?