I was contemplating this as we passed through the long gallery on our way to another strip of damage my aunt was anxious to show us, when I chanced to look to the left. Peering through the windows out onto the terrace, I could see a solitary figure seated near one of the columns. His back was to me, but I recognized his silhouette all the same, for it had always reminded me of someone even dearer to me. Even the slight tinge of red in his brown hair, which I could see now, glinting in the sun, brought forth a bittersweet pang of memory.
I glanced in the direction my aunt and Sidney had disappeared, hoping my husband would forgive me for abandoning him, and then inhaled a steadying breath before I stepped out through one of the French doors. I moved forward slowly, not wishing to startle him, but also to allow myself time to absorb the shock of his appearance.
Not that he was in any way disfigured. In truth, beyond the series of tiny scars near one of his eyes, Reg still appeared unscathed. The other wounds caused by the shrapnel had all healed neatly, and whatever concussive force had rendered him totally blind had left no other visible trace. But time and age had altered his face slightly, so that he looked even more like my brother. In some ways, it felt like looking at a ghost.
He hadn’t given any indication that he’d heard my approach, his head facing resolutely forward to gaze sightlessly out at the gardens, until he spoke. “Well, are you going to come say hullo, Verity, or are you going to just stand there staring at me all day?”
I laughed as lightly as I could, forcing my feet forward again. “How did you know it was me?” I asked, leaning down to buss his cheek.
“Your shoes. Nobody else I know prefers those clackety pumps. Certainly nobody around here.” He grasped my arm when I would have straightened, his voice softening. “And you always did prefer something dainty and floral rather than one of those musky French perfumes that are so popular.”
I smiled. “You’re right.” I searched his familiar face. Though he couldn’t see me doing so, I figured he could sense it. “It’s good to see you, Reg.”
The corners of his mouth curled upward in an all-too-brief smile. “Did your war hero husband come with you?” he asked as I pulled a wicker chair closer to him and sat down. Though I couldn’t detect any bitterness in his voice, I tread forward carefully nonetheless.
“Yes, he’s inside with your mother, being given a complete tour of the damage the airmen wrought to your home.”
Reg heaved an exasperated breath. “That again. Tell me, how extensive is it, truly? I cannot see it myself, but I’ve asked Hatter to describe it to me in detail, and it doesn’t seem as bad as all that.”
“There’s certainly damage,” I replied, tucking my arms tighter to my sides inside my woolen scarf coat against the chill breeze. Something Reg didn’t seem to notice in his gray flannel suit, though it stirred the hair at his brow. “And some of it is rather severe. The carpet in the library, for instance, will have to entirely be replaced. And the floorboards in the corner where the fire was located might have to be repaired, as well. But the house isn’t in shambles or near to crumbling over your heads.”
He nodded, as if this confirmed his thinking. “I told her to have everything typed out and submit it to the RAF for repayment, but she insists the matter is worse than I could possibly know and that she’ll handle it in her own way.” He scowled. “However, I didn’t realize that would involve calling Uncle Frederick and dragging you into the matter.”
“Your mother didn’t tell you I was coming?”
He chuckled wryly. “Of course not.” He turned his head to the side before adding in a tight voice, “But I overheard her telling Miles. She forgets that although I cannot see I can still hear.”
I couldn’t blame him for his anger. It sounded as if Aunt Ernestine was doing everything in her power not to trouble him. Except, in truth, the estate was his. He was the new baronet, and so the managing of it should fall on his shoulders. She might be trying to protect him, but by refusing him the ability to shoulder his responsibilities, she was also rendering him useless.
He turned toward me, his brow furrowed and his jaw hard, though his hazel eyes were blank. “As did you, apparently,” he said accusingly. “Why didn’t you come forward immediately? You were staring at me.”
I grimaced in shame at the hurt I’d caused him. “I was, wasn’t I?” I admitted softly.
His pursed mouth slackened as he attempted a jest. “Do I truly look so awful?”
“No,” I replied. “No, not at all. It’s just . . .” I swallowed and then forced the words out. “You remind me of Rob.” Little as I’d wanted to admit the truth, to speak my brother’s name, I couldn’t let him go on thinking I was disgusted or horrified by him. Everything was awkward enough without that added strain.
His brow smoothed in understanding, and he stretched his hand out toward me as I sat silently battling the dark well of emotion I’d kept tapped down for so long, refusing to draw from it. I lifted my hand to meet his, focusing on the warmth of his skin as I choked it all back.
“Sometimes, when I’m in a crowd, I’ll hear a voice and think it’s Tom. I’ll even turn to look for him, forgetting I can’t see. And then I’ll remember.” His voice was hollow like the wind. “It can’t be him.”
I blinked back the stinging wetness in my eyes, grateful the breeze was there to dry any tears before they fell.
He tilted his head in my direction. “Do you ever do that?”
“Yes,” I replied simply.
We sat side by side, quietly acknowledging our shared pain at losing a brother. The longing that they could be there with us now, listening to the wind rustle through the yew trees, and smelling the freshly turned earth in one of the flower gardens that had been given over to vegetables. One of them would cajole us to play a game of tennis on the court in the southeast corner of the garden, or race to the large, rectangular fishpond. But it couldn’t be. Just as Reg could never see the blue sky or the perfect white fluffy clouds dotting its expanse ever again.
I frowned. Or the massive hole in the brick wall of the gazebo down near the river, where it looked as if something—be it a motorbike or an aeroplane—had crashed into it. Good heavens, what had the airmen been doing?
From the far corner of the terrace, I heard Aunt Ernestine’s voice ring out, and turned to find her and Sidney bustling toward us.
Reg squeezed my hand, pulling my attention back to him as he spoke hastily. “Verity, can you do something for me?”
“Of course.”
“Find out what the deuce is going on with mother’s bedchamber door.”
“Her door?”
“Yes.” He leaned nearer, recognizing they were drawing closer, and lowered his voice. “It’s been locking or sticking or some such thing. Trapped her inside once. She tells me it’s nothing to bother myself over, but I’ve since learned she’s started sleeping in another room.” His eyebrows arched. “That doesn’t sound like something that’s not a bother.”
“That is odd,” I conceded, already contemplating what the cause could be. “I’ll see to it.”
“Good.”
CHAPTER 3
“Verity, we wondered where you’d gone,” my aunt exclaimed as she huffed forward. “You missed half the tour.”
“Yes, well, I saw Reg out here and thought he could use some company,” I replied.
“I see.” Her voice and her eyebrows raised with suspicion. “And just what have you two been conspiring about?” She wagged her finger between us. “They always were, you know,” she told Sidney in an undertone, as if we couldn’t hear her. “The lot of them. Verity and the boys. Her mother despaired of her ever learning to behave like a lady.”
I laughed. “I can’t help it that all my cousins are boys, and my only sister so many years younger. You didn’t expect me to be able to convince them to have tea and play with dolls, did you?”
“No, but a young lady might have balked at wading barefoot into the river to catch tadpoles or cl
imbing trees and tearing her dress.”
Reg let out a crack of laughter. “I’d forgotten about that. Ripped it clear up the back. I thought your mother was going to have an apoplexy when she saw you running toward the house in nothing but your shift.”
Sidney, who had been observing us all in amusement, his hands tucked in the pockets of his trousers, chose that moment to disabuse my aunt that she had any ally in this argument. “I think I would have liked to see that.”
My aunt scowled while Reg nearly doubled over with merriment.
It was painful, yet also somehow comforting to talk about old times, like using a muscle that’s grown weak from disuse. “I do believe you witnessed me doing enough foolish things to try to impress you the first time you came home with Freddy from school,” I reminded Sidney. “And none of those were cherished memories to your sixteen-year-old self.”
“Darling, you underestimate your eleven-year-old charm,” he teased.
I screwed up my nose. “No, I do not. I was a perfect pest, as you’ve admitted.”
He chuckled. “True enough. Who knew how much I would find you changed in six years’ time?”
“Not so much changed as aware that men do not like apples thrown at their heads or secret admirer notes doused in pilfered perfume tucked under their doors.”
“Good Lord, Verity,” Reg cried, clutching his side in hilarity. “How have I never heard this before?”
“Reginald, don’t hurt yourself, dear,” his mother cautioned.
His brow creased in annoyance, and Sidney stepped forward to clasp his shoulder. “Good to see you, Popham.”
“Likewise, Kent. Hope you didn’t travel all this way just to pay us a visit.” That this comment had been calculated to irritate his mother, there was no doubt, for his jaw clenched, as if prepared for her answering rebuke. And she gave it to him.
“What an absurd thing to say, Reginald. It’s not as if we live in deepest Cornwall or, heaven forbid, Scotland. In any case, it’s a lovely day for a jaunt out to the country, and I’m very grateful to have their company.” Her gimlet stare fell on me. “Though I hope your cousin hasn’t been saying anything untoward to upset you.”
There was a topic she clearly hadn’t wanted me to broach with him, and I had a strong suspicion of what it was.
“Of course not. What an absurd thing to say,” he responded with biting mockery. “We were merely reminiscing and discussing my still-stunning good looks.” His head turned vaguely in the direction of where Sidney stood. “You understand, old chap. One can hardly trust one’s own mother for confirmation of this fact. She’d likely call me an Adonis even if I looked like a gargoyle.”
“What nonsense,” Aunt Ernestine huffed. “Come with me, Verity. There’s something I wish to show you.”
More likely she wished to scold me. But before I could object, she’d already turned to stride off, expecting me to follow.
“Now you’ve done it,” I teased, rising from my chair and turning with a swish of my blue skirt. “She’ll never let me come back out and play.”
“Fortunately, she retires early,” Reg called after me. “And we have a full sideboard stocked with gin.”
I laughed as I lifted my skirts to better hasten after my aunt, who could move with surprising swiftness when she was working herself into high dudgeon. I caught up with her just as she turned into the corridor, which led to the grand staircase, her chin arched upward imperiously.
“I hope you haven’t said anything to Reginald about my troubling discoveries,” she proclaimed in a sharp voice calculated so that it could not be heard beyond a few feet away above the echo of her footfalls. “His health is delicate, and I’ve no wish to upset him more than absolutely necessary.”
“His health doesn’t seem delicate,” I replied, matching her tone. “If anything, he seems frustrated and listless. And in any case, shouldn’t you be conferring with him on the matter of these forgeries and thefts? He is the baronet, after all. Perhaps he has some insight.”
She pulled up short to glare at me just as we reached the base of the staircase. “I forbid you to speak of them.”
I frowned at the vehemence in her tone.
Swiveling abruptly, she began to march up the stairs. “Just because I called you here for your help, does not mean I will brook any interference. I should think I know better than you what my son needs.”
“I meant no insult, Aunt Ernestine, but don’t you think . . .”
“You were not here when he came home from the hospital that first time,” she continued in a brittle voice. “You didn’t see the scars beneath his bandages, or hear his cries of terror when he couldn’t tell whether he’d woken from his nightmares or was still trapped inside them because he could no longer see.”
My steps faltered on the landing though she continued on. I’d forgotten Reg had been buried under a collapsed trench wall when they pulled him out after the shell explosion.
“You weren’t here begging him to return to the hospital out of fear he would put a pistol in his mouth if he did not.” She paused to glower down at me from halfway up the flight, her face pale and haggard in the light of the window at my back. “So don’t presume to tell me what I should or should not do in regards to my own son.”
I nodded and she turned to carry on. I hesitated before following her, realizing I’d clumsily trampled over a chasm of grief, dread, and insecurity. She was right. I hadn’t been here when my cousin had been at his lowest, and it was callous and presumptuous of me to think I understood all of what he had been through or what he was thinking simply from one short conversation. But that didn’t mean I was entirely wrong about Reg’s frustration or his capabilities either.
However, I would obey my aunt’s wishes for now. At least until I’d confirmed my suspicions about the forgeries via a different angle.
“I’ve placed you in the laurel-green chamber.” My aunt continued speaking, as if our confrontation had never occurred, and I hastened after her. “I know it was one of your mother’s favorites, and honestly it’s one of the least damaged. The officer who stayed in that room was more conscientious than his fellow airmen.” She opened a door a short distance from the landing and allowed me to proceed her into the chamber.
My eyes swept over the warm oak furniture and laurel-green walls, and I could well imagine why my mother had liked it. The gleaming furnishings were at least two hundred years old, and the color palette, while understated, was still pleasing to the eye. “Thank you. It’s lovely.” My gaze fell on the painting of a bay laurel tree hanging above the bed in an ornate swirling frame, and a thought occurred to me. “What a charming picture.” Then feigning sudden inspiration, I turned toward my aunt. “I seem to recall a portrait hanging in your bedchamber. One of you reading under a willow tree. Please tell me that isn’t one of the forgeries.”
She gave a soft laugh. “No, child. That wasn’t me. It was naught but a pretty picture I found at a shop in London and took a fancy to.”
This I well recalled, but I figured it would deflect some of the pointedness of my sudden interest.
“Then it’s still there? In your room?”
“Yes, above my writing desk, where it’s always been,” she said with a gentle smirk.
“May I see it?”
She didn’t respond, and I had difficulty interpreting the look on her face. It was pained in some way, though I couldn’t tell if that was because she suspected my subterfuge or for another reason entirely.
“Maybe that seems an odd request . . .” I continued, trying to gauge her reaction.
“Oh, no,” she replied. “It’s simply . . .” She broke off, shaking her head before she offered me a determined smile. “Come with me.”
I followed her down the corridor, its runner scuffed and worn beneath our feet, and around the corner toward the grand master bedchambers. A gold-haired maid who had been walking toward us down the main corridor turned to watch us with interest as we approached the suite of ro
oms, and then she hurried on.
“I should warn you, the door may not open.”
Relieved that she’d broached the matter Reg had wanted me to look into herself, I regarded her quizzically. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve had some issues with doors in this part of the house sticking and the locks jamming.” She spoke evenly, as if the matter was not of great concern, but I could hear the consternation beneath her words.
“That sounds unsettling.”
“Yes, well, apparently a leak was found on the roof in the upper story, and it’s seeped down into the walls along this corridor, causing the wood to swell. Or at least, that’s how our man-of-all-work explained it.”
My eyes trailed up the walls to the ceiling, searching for any evident signs of water damage. “Can the problem not be fixed?”
“Yes, but at some expense.” She reached for the door to the lady’s chamber and paused, as if bracing herself, before turning the handle to push it open. Contrary to what I’d expected after what she’d just told me, it swung open with ease. “Sometimes it’s like that,” she explained. “While other times it seems nothing will force it open save the hand of God Himself.”
“Is it safe for you to stay here, then?” I asked, following her inside. I wondered if she would confirm what Reg had already told me.
If the wood was truly that warped, that temperamental, then was this part of the house even structurally sound? And heaven forbid, if there was a fire and she needed to escape.
“I’ve moved to a room down the hall. Temporarily,” she stressed, anxious to make some point, though I wasn’t certain precisely the aim. If they were as strapped for funds as they seemed to be, then they hadn’t the money available to make such extensive repairs. But of course, maybe my aunt didn’t want me to know that. Though surely if my father knew, she must have anticipated he would tell me.
A Pretty Deceit Page 4
