by Brown, T. J.
“Well, do you want your lesson or don’t you?”
“Yes, please.”
He grabbed a ladder and leaned it against the plane. Rowena climbed up and settled herself into the cockpit. Her heart thumped with excitement even though she knew she wouldn’t be flying today. He explained the instrument panel and made her repeat the name and function of every device until she had committed everything to memory. Then he made her get out of the aeroplane and they repeated the exercise on the exterior.
“You learn fast,” he complimented, and she glowed. “I’ve trained grown men who didn’t pick up those terms as quickly as you did.”
“That’s because I was meant to be a pilot,” she told him.
He slipped his arms about her waist. “You were, were you?”
She nodded. “Yes, I was.”
“Let’s put Lucy to bed so that we can let the rest of the crew go home,” Mr. Dirkes called from the barn.
Jon grinned. “Lucy?”
“Well, we have to call it something,” Mr. Dirkes said, his tone sheepish, and Jon laughed.
“See, you’re getting under everyone’s skin,” he whispered, before pulling away to help roll the plane into the barn.
Jon had borrowed Mr. Dirkes’s Silver Ghost for the evening while Mr. Dirkes got a ride back to the inn from one of their hired men.
“Does your brother know I’m coming?” she asked as they headed out toward Wells Manor.
Jon nodded. “He’s not happy about it, but I told him that you were coming and that would be that.”
He reached out and squeezed her hand. She tried to smile, but her nerves got the better of her and it turned into a grimace. “Do your mother and sister know who I am?”
Jon was silent for a moment. “I told my mum, but she told me not to tell Cristobel until she had gotten to know you. She was our father’s pet and still cries at night for him.”
Rowena stared straight ahead, guilt over her family’s actions settling in the center of her stomach, even though realistically she knew she had nothing to do with it. But how could she use logic to eradicate a feeling as potent as guilt? She felt responsible for the Wells family trouble in some way that couldn’t be undone by rationale. She was a Buxton, and a Buxton had systematically stripped the Wells family of a portion of their land and their wealth. “How does your mom feel?” she asked in a small voice.
Jon twined his fingers round and round hers and stared straight ahead. “My mother is a strong woman. Her ma was a Scotswoman, which is where we get the red hair and the stubbornness. So she was shocked. She also knows that I have never before felt strongly enough about a woman to bring one home with me, and for my mother, that speaks louder than anything your surname could imply. She will head off any trouble with George.”
They rounded the corner and again, Rowena was struck by the difference between Wells Manor and Summerset. Whereas every aspect of Summerset was planned and well thought out to be as grand as possible, Wells Manor looked as if everything had grown from a sense of practicality. The only whimsical touch was the ivy that had been allowed to grow up one side of the house and onto the roof, tickling several of the chimneys.
“I love your house,” Rowena said truthfully.
“It was actually here before most of Summerset. Turns out the first Wells, or whatever their name was then, was a smith who didn’t want the protection of the local ruling family, an ancestor of the Buxtons, and refused to build near the castle. So you see, except for a brief period of affability, the Wellses and the Buxtons have always been at odds.”
He stopped the motorcar in front of the house and leapt out to open her door. Not wanting to look as if she were putting on airs, she had taken care to wear a sensible tweed suit, with a fine linen blouse underneath. Her hair had been dressed in a simple chignon, low on her neck, which was draped with a strand of pearls. She didn’t want them to think she wouldn’t bother dressing well for them, but neither did she wish to play the dame of the castle, either.
Rowena’s hands were slick with nerves by the time she and Jon entered the house. Jon’s mother stuck her head out of the kitchen door. “Take her into the sitting room, Jon. We’re having a slight problem here.”
“We are not!” Cristobel cried out, and then there was silence.
Jon winked at Rowena and ushered her into the sitting room. Low beams crisscrossed the ceiling every few feet, and the gleaming dark oak was answered in the wide planks on the floor. Comfortable, worn sofas and chairs dotted the room, and there were several tables stacked with leather-bound books and decorated with vases of evergreens, perhaps placed there by Cristobel, excited to have a guest. Dark paneling lined the walls, and the room was only saved from dimness by the five leaded windows lining one wall, each with its own window seat. The most decorative item in the room was the fireplace, a beautiful white, highly molded piece that glowed with simple beauty. Rowena could have curled up with a book for hours on one of the window seats.
“I love this,” she said, walking over to one of the windows.
He joined her. The window looked out onto the kitchen garden, though Rowena also spotted a cutting garden on one side. In the summer, the household would have both fresh vegetables and fresh flowers. “Cristobel loves this room, too. My brothers and I preferred the kitchen. That’s where the food was. Though when Dad was alive and well, we spent lots of time in here on a winter’s evening after the work was done.”
A lump rose in Rowena’s throat, not only for the Wells family, who had lost their father, but for her little family, who had also lost a father. “We usually gathered in Father’s study. Victoria and Prudence and I used to take turns reading French novels so Father could correct our pronunciation. Sometimes Prudence would play the piano, or Victoria would recite poetry.” She looked down at the ground. “I miss those times often.”
He squeezed her hand in sympathy. “Who is Prudence? I don’t think you ever mentioned her before.”
“She is . . . ” Rowena faltered. To say “governess’s daughter” wouldn’t come close to explaining what Prudence was to their family. She was family. “She was like a sister to Victoria and me,” Rowena finally said. “We loved her.”
“Oh, wasn’t Prudence the little maid you got rid of?” George asked from behind them. “A friend of mine who works in the house told me all about it. She came to Summerset as your lady’s maid because your uncle wouldn’t allow her in the house, because her mother was a maid. The next thing everyone knew, she was married to the footman and sent off to London. You Buxtons certainly know how to take care of unsavory messes.”
George tried to sound casual, but bitterness leached out, filling the peaceful room with spite. Jon rushed forward, his fists clenched.
Rowena hurried to Jon’s side and put a placating hand on his arm. Her stomach burned at the thought that her private life should be dissected and judged.
She looked George in the eyes and was struck by how dissimilar they were from Jon’s. For while Jon’s blue eyes glowed with the richness of summer, George’s blue eyes held the chill of winter sky. “You certainly listened well to rumors and half-truths, but your sources couldn’t possibly know what really happened. Prudence was someone Victoria and I loved like a sister. I’m surprised you would take gossip for fact.”
“I would not,” Jon said shortly, still staring at his brother. Though they were of similar height, Jon was more slender, with lean hips and long legs. His shoulders were wide and strong, but George’s powerful frame looked as if he had wrestled with one-hundred-pound fleeces and bales of hay his entire life.
“You told me what happened with her uncle had nothing to do with her, little brother, so I inquired a bit and discovered this dirty little tale. The whole family is full of bad apples. This is what I get for my thanks?”
“You’ll get worse than this if you don’t back down,” Jon said, his voice tight.
“I’m glad to know nothing has changed since I went away,” a voice called throu
gh the door. “George and Jon are always ready to fight over something, though I don’t remember it ever being over a woman before. And especially not such a beautiful one as this.”
For a moment neither man moved, as if breaking eye contact was a form of surrender. Rowena slipped her arm through Jon’s and leaned close. She could feel his muscles relax with her proximity.
“My name is Rowena.” She turned to give the new guest her widest smile. Then with a narrowed look at George she added, “Buxton, my name is Rowena Buxton.” The man’s brown eyes widened in comprehension, but Rowena continued. “My father was Sir Philip Buxton and though he was born at Summerset, he moved away long ago and my sister and I were brought up in London.”
She held out her hand, her heart pounding. She could tell from the red hair that this was a Wells, and she couldn’t stand to have another brother against her.
The man looked at her hand for a moment and then he smiled. “It is very nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Buxton. Since both of my brothers are behaving like philistines, I shall introduce myself. I am the second-oldest brother, Samuel. And don’t worry, Miss Buxton, there will be no judgments here.”
It was then that she noticed he was wearing the plain black suit and white collar of a vicar. She almost laughed out loud.
“Please call me Rowena. Cristobel doesn’t yet know who I am, and I would much rather tell her myself.” She glanced at George, who had the grace to look away.
“That sounds like a good plan to me.”
“What sounds like a good plan?” Margaret Wells asked, coming in the door. “Please don’t be making plans before the girl has a chance to get used to us. She’ll be thinking us stark raving mad.”
Again, Rowena detected the slight burr of Margaret’s voice. Jon’s mother came to her immediately and kissed her in greeting. “A handshake or a bow seems much too formal to greet the girl who has brought such happiness into my son’s life. I never thought anything but those silly aeroplanes could give him that silly smile on his face, but all he has to do is mention your name—”
“Mother!” Jon protested, while Rowena glowed. “Slow down a tetch, next thing I know you’ll be showing her the family Chantilly lace.”
“Don’t give her any ideas,” Samuel said, kissing his mother and wrapping her in a bear hug.
George stood stiffly to one side, apparently irate that his plan to put a wedge between her and Jon hadn’t worked. Rowena watched him under her eyelashes, wondering what his next move would be. He didn’t seem the type who gave up that easily, and Rowena knew that even though Jon would stand by her, it would be best to give him an accounting of exactly who Prudence was and what had happened. Her stomach stirred uneasily. She would tell him the truth without sparing herself. If they were to have any kind of future, they must be honest with each other.
Just then his mother offered everyone a glass of Scotch whisky. “I’ve heard the Americans have started a new tradition called predinner cocktails, and though I rarely think of the word civilized in conjunction with the Americans, I think that a very civilized idea, indeed.”
The boys agreed as Cristobel made her entrance into the room. She looked neat in a white wool dress with antique blue silk piping. Rowena could tell the dress had been made over to fit and had been done very well. She knew better than to mention the dress, though, as the girl might be self-conscious of it, and instead complimented her hair as they greeted each other. “However did you get your hair to roll so smoothly?” she asked. “I could never get mine to look so lovely when I did my hair that way.”
The girl flushed pink with pleasure. “You’ll have to ask Mother. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a klutz with a hairbrush.”
“I was so happy to finally get a girl that nothing could stop me from playing with her hair.” Margaret laughed, pouring out drinks. Jon took two glasses and led Rowena to a sofa. Cristobel took a chair close to them. Rowena sipped a bit of whisky and coughed.
“Take it easy,” Jon cautioned. “Relatives make and bottle this stuff in Edinburgh. They send us a case every year because they claim our English blood will turn us to pansies without the right Scotch.”
Rowena smiled. “The glasses are lovely, Mrs. Wells.”
“Please call me Margaret. Yes, my aunt gave them to me when I married. They’re Waterford crystal called the Star of Edinburgh.”
Rowena took another careful sip and gave everyone a weak smile. She couldn’t possibly finish this and yet was afraid to hurt their feelings. It almost felt like a test, especially with George on one side of the room, staring at her with such disdain. Cristobel was a blessing, as she spoke nonstop of horses and riding.
“I desperately want to be asked to go on a hunt next season. I’m a good enough rider to.”
“You’re still a bit young to be in society yet,” Margaret said.
Rowena smiled. “I’m always invited to several during the season. If you like, and your mother doesn’t mind, I would love to have you come with me the next time I go.”
There was a moment of silence and Cristobel blushed up to where her forehead met the chestnut brown of her hair. She looked down at the ground.
Rowena looked from Jon to Margaret, unsure as to what her mistake had been.
“I’m not sure if her new riding habit will be done by that time,” Margaret said, and Cristobel looked up with relief.
“Oh, but the hunts aren’t for months yet,” Rowena said. “And if her habit isn’t done, she can borrow one of Victoria’s. My little sister is about the same size.”
Cristobel brightened. “Oh, that would be wonderful! I’ve been working with Grenadine, my big hunter, and I know he’d be up to the challenge, though not as well trained as some of the horses . . . ”
George threw his glass against the wall, where it shattered. Everyone fell silent.
“We don’t need a damned Buxton giving us charity.”
Cristobel gasped and her blue eyes turned to Rowena.
Margaret stood. “You just broke a valuable glass that meant the world to me, not to mention ruined the set.”
“Father meant the world to me, Mother. Did he mean the world to you? Because you have a funny way of showing it, inviting a Buxton to dine with us.”
Rowena watched as Margaret paled and her fingers tightened around the glass she held as if she, too, wanted to throw it. “I am not even going to dignify that with an answer. Not one of you loved your father as I did, and if I thought for one moment this girl had anything to do with his death, I would not be welcoming her into my home. But she did not. The only one responsible for your father’s death was your father. Not the barristers or the judges or the Buxtons. I’m sorry if you can’t accept that.”
Margaret threw the rest of her Scotch back. “I’m sorry, Rowena, for this confrontation. George can be as headstrong as a child. When a man takes his own life, it is difficult to understand why and we often try blaming everyone but who was responsible for it.”
An elderly servant appeared through the door. “Dinner is served, madam.”
Margaret gave a grim smile. “I hope you boys have all washed up and remember your manners. We do have a guest tonight for dinner. Rowena, you will still be joining us? Please don’t let this turn you away. Any family with this many boys is bound to have a few rows.”
Rowena stood, her legs shaking. “We had three girls in our family and there were plenty of conflicts among us, as well. Though of a different sort.”
Jon took her arm and led her to the table in the kitchen.
“I hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen. As I told you when you visited, this is where we spend most of our time.”
Rowena heard a door slam and understood with relief that George decided not to join the rest of the family for dinner. Judging from the relaxation of Margaret’s posture, it appeared his mother was relieved as well.
Cristobel, on the other hand, hadn’t said a word about the argument. Rowena tried to draw her out but had little success, so
she turned her attention to the other three diners, trying to learn as much about Jon’s family as she could. William, the fourth son, was two years older than Cristobel and was working with family in Scotland in the whiskey business. Samuel had a church in a little town outside of Theton and was engaged to a parishioner. She also learned that Mr. Dirkes was an old friend of Jon’s mother.
The food was simple, good, and plentiful, and by the time they finished the sour cherry pudding and cream, Rowena was sated.
“Are you sure you won’t have another wee bowl?” Jon’s mother pressed, but Rowena shook her head.
“What I would really like is to see the stables,” she said, squeezing Jon’s knee under the table before he could volunteer.
“Cristobel, why don’t you show me Grenadine?” The look on the girl’s face showed that she knew she was being led, but Rowena had judged that her pride and love of her horse would move her.
The stable was every bit as clean as those at Summerset, though Rowena imagined that the Wellses had limited help. The tack hanging on the wall was worn but well cared for, and the horses appeared fit and healthy. The nicker from the last box in the barn told Rowena exactly which stall Grenadine was in.
Cristobel withdrew a lump of sugar from a box on a nearby shelf and held her hand out to a large bay.
“He’s gorgeous,” Rowena told Cristobel. “He looks intelligent.”
Cristobel nodded and her shoulders relaxed for the first time since dinner. “Oh, he is. He knows what I want, often before I even let him know. He’s very responsive.”
Rowena mentioned her own horse and added that she often rode the acres of Summerset for hours when things were troubling her.
Cristobel ran her hand up Grenadine’s face and scratched under his forelock. “What kind of troubles would you have?”
The emphasis on “you” hinted to Rowena that she hadn’t been forgiven for who she was. With the loss of her own father so fresh, Rowena ached to reach out to this girl whose suffering was so similar. “My father died five months ago. It was completely unexpected, as he had always been healthy. I miss him so much it hurts to breathe sometimes.”