An Earl To Remember_The Yorkshire Downs Series_Love, Hearts and Challenges_A Regency Romance Story

by Jasmine Ashford

  “Aye,” he nodded. “Mercifully, no snow though.”

  “Mercifully not,” Evelyn agreed fervently.

  “The cold drives all sorts of people into a place like this,” he continued morosely. “I'm glad I'm here to keep them away.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Gilchrist,” Evelyn commented thinly. She sat back and listened to the conversations around her, feeling slightly restless with Mr. Gilchrist's hovering, protective presence. It doesn't seem full of brigands to me, she thought. She listened to the talk that rose and fell around them.

  “...bloody rain. No good for the crops, too much rain this time of year.”

  “And the price of flour has soared...”

  “Parliament! What do those ponces know..?”

  The mix of farmers, students and shopkeepers was interesting, and Evelyn found herself following the conversations as she ate, finding them a pleasant distraction from the dour company of the coachman. Evelyn listened in to the dialogue of two students from Cambridge, sitting behind her.

  “...and you'd think Tallinn would do something about it!”

  She was surprised to hear that name. Not Lord Tallinn, Alexandra's godfather, surely? Perhaps it was. She listened in more intently.

  “...you know he has his own problems there,” the second voice said darkly.

  “But they're as good as family! You know that,” the first student said testily.

  “I know that! The thing is, does Brokeridge?”

  “Oh, hush. That was all long ago now. In Father's time.”

  “I know, Eugene, but these things leave their mark...”

  Evelyn sat back, feeling completely confused. Lord Tallinn and the Brokeridges were family? That sounded odd. She strained to hear more of their talk, but they had called the proprietor for more ale, and once he had gone, the thread of the conversation changed.

  Evelyn finished her stew in silence, lost in thought.

  “My lady?” Gilchrist said suddenly.

  “Mm?” Evelyn asked. She had been so far in her musings that she had almost fallen asleep. I must be more tired than I thought.

  “Shall we go? The front room is yours. I'll be in the attic, if you need me.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gilchrist.”

  Evelyn went upstairs, still lost in her thoughts. She washed her face and hands and the moment she hit the pillow, she was asleep.

  The next morning, the carriage rolled over cobbled tracks, carrying Evelyn closer to the city. She had been traveling for five days now, and this was the last of them – the road trip down from Cambridge to London. It would be a long day, but at the end of it she would be at Brokeridge Manor. It was a frightening and elating thought.

  Evelyn looked out of the window, trying to compose her thoughts. The countryside all looked the same as the carriage rolled through it: Trees and grasses under a cloud-swathed sky. Seeking to distract herself, Evelyn reached for her things – her sewing, her notebook. Her purse, with its poetry-book inside. Somehow it functioned as a sort of amulet, a charm to remind her of all that was innocent.

  I travel into darkness, after all! She grinned at the thought. She only half-believed that. She was not traveling to hell, but to a wild, unknown place. It could as well be paradise, she told herself.

  “But what of these rumors?” Evelyn asked aloud. It was frustrating. She reached for her book and wrote down the most recent of her discoveries, made by chance in the inn in Cambridge.

  Lord Tallinn may have close family connections to Barrett.

  Even as she wrote it, she was surprised. Alexandra had insisted the man hated the family, and he himself had mentioned no such connection. And as far as she knew, there could be no way for them to be connected: Lord Tallinn himself had no brothers and sisters, and no children she knew of, which was why he doted so on Alexandra, his god-child.

  All I can do is try and find out.

  The sun was coming out, turning the rain-soaked fields to purest orange and gold as the raindrops caught the rays and shone them back. Evelyn smiled. The beauty was so great that it hurt her heart like a blow.

  “Mr. Gilchrist?” she shouted up, opening the window.

  “Yes, milady?” he bellowed down, shouting against the wind of the carriage's movement.

  “Are we there yet?” She could hear him smiling.

  “We shall stop within the hour for luncheon, and by four of the clock this afternoon, I think we shall arrive.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gilchrist,” Evelyn said primly. Inside, her heart was soaring. Only four more hours! She was not sure if it was all excitement that filled her or if it was at least partway trepidation. However, she knew she felt some strange, overwhelming wonder course through her. They were almost there.

  Luncheon was a pleasant time – Mr. Gilchrist was uncommonly cheerful and the inn was unusually good. Evelyn enjoyed her meal of pie and ale, eaten with a view over the delightful garden, and then they headed out to the carriage for the final leg of the trip.

  As the carriage rolled down country lanes, bright with late-afternoon sunshine, Evelyn felt her stomach tense. She wanted to be sick, and put a hand over her stomach, seeking to quell the raging emotions that beat against her from within.

  “We're almost there,” she whispered.

  As if he had heard her, Mr. Gilchrist tapped on the roof. “Almost there, milady,” he called down when she opened the window.

  I am almost there.

  Evelyn felt her breath catch in her throat. Before she had a chance to realize it, they were rolling onto a cobbled drive, passing between conifers and through lawns now turning green after the recent snows. She opened the window, letting the cool breeze tousle her hair and carry the scents of fresh, damp sun-warmed earth to her. She closed her eyes in anticipation.

  “Here we are, Miss.” Mr. Gilchrist slowly pulled to a halt.

  They were there.

  She opened her eyes. “Oh, my...” she covered her mouth with her hand.

  Brokeridge Place was huge. Built of dark brick in the latest style, it towered above her, its gables imposing, its huge windows practically singing of wealth. Evelyn knew something of the cost of sheets of glass, since her father had new windows placed in the gallery. So much glass on display was a way of practically shouting: I am wealthy. Set at the end of a long white gravel drive, flanked with cypresses, it was an edifice to wealth Evelyn could not imagine.

  She slid out of the carriage. “Thank you, Mr. Gilchrist,” she murmured.

  “Not at all, milady,” he said, grunting as he hefted her luggage. He patted her hand as he passed. “Take care, lass.”

  “I will.”

  He rang the bell for her, and the door opened. The retainer ushered her inside, and called for someone to help carry her bags. She waved goodbye to Mr. Gilchrist, and he climbed up onto his perch at the front of the carriage, already turning away.

  Evelyn bit her lip and stepped inside. Her feet were silenced by marble. She looked up.

  “Lady Evelyn!”

  “Lord Barrett!”

  All her misgivings suddenly melted away. He was here. He was taking the stairs of the vast marble stairway two at a time, running to reach her. He smiled.

  She embraced him. She could almost feel the retainer's eyes bore into her back as they embraced, but she did not care. Laughing, she returned the hug.

  “My lord!”

  “My lady!”

  They both laughed.

  “There are so many things I want to show you...” he began at once.

  “I am a little out-of-sorts,” Evelyn ventured, noticing that after the long day of travel she could hardly walk.

  “Oh, my lady! Of course. Forgive me. My manners...”

  “Are appalling, son, as I often tell you,” someone said.

  Evelyn saw Barrett visibly recoil. “Yes, Father.”

  She stared to the end of the hallway, where a man stood half-shadowed by the side wall. He was as tall as Barrett, and wore, like him, a black suit. His ha
ir was shorter than his son's, though still longer than her father wore his. He was slim and stood at ease, as if he owned the place. Which, of course, he did.

  “I am delighted to welcome you to my home, Lady Evelyn,” he said quietly. “My son is remiss. We shall have a repast prepared for you when you return from your quarters.”

  Evelyn felt Barrett stiffen as if he had been slapped. Seeing him made frightened by this man emboldened her. How dare he make someone she cared about afraid?

  “Lord Brokeridge,” she said formally, her voice icy. “Thank you for your welcome. I am pleased to meet you. Once your son, on whose invitation I am here, has shown me the house, I will retire and sleep a while.”

  She had walked closer as she spoke, and now she stood before him. He was tall. Taller than his son – at least he seemed so. He was dark-haired, like his son was, and if there were some strands of gray she would have had to look carefully to find them. As she spoke, his eyes widened, and then narrowed. Then he smiled. He seemed amused by her anger.

  “I shall not impose on you, Lady Evelyn. You are free to view the house at your leisure, without fear of my hospitality. Your quarters have been readied in the East Wing, as I trust my son will show you.”

  Still regarding her with the hint of a smile, he bowed over her hand, which she had held out in greeting. He kissed it, and then looked up at her as if to gauge her reaction. Or his son's.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Evelyn said firmly. She withdrew her hand as soon as it was polite to do so. She turned slightly to include Barrett as she added, “perhaps I can take a short tour of the house and then have a little tea? I would appreciate it immensely.” She smiled at Lord Brokeridge in what she hoped was a winning way, though the smile did not change the blue ice of her eyes.

  “Certainly, Lady Evelyn. I think we can stretch to some tea?” His dark eyes mocked her again. In this echoing monument of a house, she was sure they probably had a ship's load of tea, expensive though it was.

  “If you would like to see your quarters now?” Barrett stepped up, offering her escape. She took it.

  “Thank you, my lord. I would like that.”

  She curtseyed as stiffly as she could to Lord Brokeridge and then turned, smiling placidly, to where Barrett stood, already turned toward the stairs.

  He bowed stiffly to his father, who raised his eyebrows, amused, and then walked across the hallway, his feet echoing on the marble inlaid floor.

  When they were on the staircase, Evelyn turned to Barrett. Their eyes met.

  “Don't mind my father,” he said stonily. His cheeks were flushed, his voice thick with emotion. Evelyn felt sorry for him. His father had no right to try and humiliate him so.

  “I will not,” she said lightly, and grinned at him. “If he does not try to mind me.”

  Their eyes met, and he grinned back. There was a moment of understanding between them. He laughed. “You are remarkable,” he said softly.

  Evelyn blushed and looked down to where there clasped hands lay at her side. “Thank you,”

  “Don't mention it.”

  He squeezed her hand and together they walked up the stairs to her quarters.

  As they walked down the corridor, their feet hushed by rich tapestries and carpets, she drank in the exquisite decor. This place must have cost a fortune to rebuild – from the style of the exterior, and the materials inside, she could tell that it had been recently refurbished, the old building extensively restored and modernized.

  It seems as if there was a woman here not too long ago, she thought as they neared her chambers. There was something about the choice of colors, the carpeting, the embroidered window-seat opposite the huge window that made her think a woman had designed at least this area of the building – a graciousness and warmth filled it. Barrett's mother's touch perhaps?

  As if he read her mind, he squeezed her hand to a halt. “Father hardly ever goes here now,” he said softly.

  “He doesn't?” Evelyn asked.

  “No. It was my mother's quarters. See that seat? She used to love to sit there. She embroidered the covers and cushions you see there.” He was smiling, a mix of joy and pain on his face.

  The expression made her heart ache. She turned so she could look up into his face. “What happened to her?” she asked gently.

  “She died.” Barrett choked the words through a throat stiff with feeling. “A long time ago. I was just a boy. Eight years old. I can barely remember, now...” He trailed off. A tear rolled down his cheek.

  She died, Evelyn thought. Was this the blood on Lord Brokeridge's hands? She could not help but wonder. “How did she die?” she asked carefully. She did not want to offend him when the grief was so obvious despite the years.

  “I do not know,” Barrett whispered. “No one does.”

  Evelyn's ears pricked up. She did not want to press him on the subject, so she stood still, waiting for him to say more.

  “They say...They say she was strange before she died,” he said quietly. “Sad, reclusive. I do not know if that was because of some malady, or if...” He stopped.

  Or if she took her own life, Evelyn completed silently. “Oh, poor, poor Barrett,” she said softly. “I am so sorry.” Feeling wretched and sad for him, Evelyn reached for a handkerchief and passed it to him.

  He looked down at her tenderly, as if he had temporarily forgotten her presence, his mind locked in the past. “Thank you,” he said. He took the handkerchief and wiped the tears. He handed it back.

  “Don't mention it.”

  They laughed a little shakily, both relieved to shed the sobriety of their earlier mood. He lifted her hand to his lips and they walked down the corridor together.

  “Here are your quarters,” he said, stopping outside a wide pale door. He opened it. Evelyn stared.

  A vast bed stood there, covered with a cream-colored eiderdown, its cover muting the light of the lamps with its silk texture. There was a wardrobe and a dressing table, and the floor was oak parquet. She stepped onto it and walked to the window, almost afraid to make a noise. She stared at the exquisite view from the French windows over the garden.

  “Barrett,” she breathed. “It's...splendid!”

  He smiled tenderly. “Thank you,” he said softly. “I am pleased you like it.”

  She turned in a circle and then waltzed to the door, the tiredness from the journey already gone. Her cases stood in the doorway, waiting to be unpacked into the wardrobe. In one of them, she knew, was the new ball gown. She looked forward to wearing it. Her mother had been right about the sleeves – they did suit her.

  “May I see more of the place?” she asked, enraptured. “I would love to see the gardens.”

  “You should be more warmly dressed, dear,” he said lightly. “Perhaps we can see them tomorrow. I would, however, show you the new ballroom Father started to build about ten years ago...It was designed by the same man who designed Blenheim, and you can see that in the exuberance of the style...” He trailed off, already walking toward the door.

  Evelyn, feeling her spirits lift with excitement, followed him out. The house was so exciting to explore! Vast and imposing, she felt she would never reach the end of all the rooms.

  As they passed an area cordoned off by a silk rope, she raised questioning eyes to Barrett. “What is that?” she asked, inquisitively.

  “It is my mother's quarters,” he said shortly. “No one goes there.”

  Evelyn blinked, surprised. He sounded very abrupt about it. She felt a need to inquire why it was shut off, but knew that if she did, it would likely be something he did not wish to say.

  “Where are we headed to now?” she asked instead, seeking to lighten the mood that had suddenly become brittle.

  He smiled. “We are headed to the West Wing. I wanted to show you the gallery, or perhaps the library – though it is gloomy, and largely Father's private domain. We will head downstairs then to the reception hall and the ballroom. It is quite something, as I said.” He grinned.


  “Is it used often?” she asked. There was a strangely remote feeling about the house, as if it did not often host gatherings.

  “You mean, could we have a party? Sometime not too distant?” he said, lifting an eyebrow.

  Evelyn felt her stomach tighten. She had meant that, but did not know her thoughts were so transparent – at least to him, it seemed. “I had considered asking that question, yes,” Evelyn admitted candidly.

  He laughed. “Of course we shall!”

  Evelyn tried to match his mood with lightheartedness herself, but she found she could not. There was something about the house that worried her. The shut off quarters, the signs of a woman's touch, the stiffness between father and son all seemed somehow ill-fitting.

  I wonder who Barrett's mother was.

  Looking back at the room briefly, she felt a chill pass over her. There was something about it that drew her like a magnet. There was some story there and she would find out what it was.

  That night, Evelyn had a disturbing dream. She was trapped in a room, unable to move. Her legs had turned to lead and would not obey her commands. She could only stand and watch as everything she loved was destroyed. She could only stand, immobile, as she watched her own death descend on her. Leave, a voice said in her mind. Leave now. While you still can.

  Evelyn felt as if there was a force pushing her, making her leave the room. She woke panting and soaked with sweat. There is something wrong in this house, she told herself. I need to find out what.

  She slid out of bed and opened her trunk, taking out her notebook. She read through the notes she had already made about Lord Brokeridge and Barrett, looking for answers.

  The more she thought about it, the more obvious it became to her that Barrett's mother was the center of the mystery, and the greater her conviction grew that she had not died by accident.

  Shivering, she slid into bed and tried, fitfully, to sleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FINDING SECRETS

  FINDING SECRETS

  The next morning Evelyn opened her eyes and found herself staring at a high, white, molded ceiling. She blinked. Where am I? As she rolled over and felt the satiny sheet beneath her, she remembered. She was at Brokeridge Manor.