An Earl To Remember

by Jasmine Ashford

  She curled up in the safety of her bedchamber, thinking about what she had seen. When Stella, her maid-servant, arrived to dress Evelyn for dinner later, she told her about it. She had thought of telling Bronson, who was the stable-hand and her best friend, but it didn't feel like the kind of thing Bronson would understand.

  “...and they were dressed in black. The lord rode a black horse,” she finished.

  Stella stopped brushing her hair. “You're sure they were real, lass? Only it sounds like some wild fancy.”

  “They were real!” Evelyn insisted. “I heard them talking. The lord had a name. He was called Brokeridge.”

  “I've not heard that name in Ireland before,” Stella said cautiously. “But they sound a wicked pair.”

  When Stella had finished brushing her fine gold hair and she was dressed for dinner, Evelyn sat on the seat and thought about what she had seen.

  Wicked or not, that is the sort of man I want to meet when I am full grown.

  CHAPTER ONE

  QUESTIONS OF THE HEART

  QUESTIONS OF THE HEART

  “Evelyn?”

  “Yes, Mother?”

  Twenty-one years old, her soft gold hair a river around her shoulders, Evelyn looked up at her mother's questioning words. They were in the small parlor, the walls pattered with silk and a fire in the grate burning merrily against the winter cold. The scents of lavender and rosewater were delicate on the warm air around them.

  “You have decided to wear your white gown to the ball this evening?”

  “I think so, Mother,” Evelyn agreed mildly, not looking up as she tied off a section of some complicated stitching in her embroidery. She was trying a new pattern, working the coat of arms of the Donnelly house – a stag on a white border, surrounded by green leaves – into an elaborate wall-hanging for the hall.

  “I am glad. It becomes you well. I approve of your choice,” Ada, Lady Donnelly and Evelyn's mother, replied.

  Evelyn smiled at her mother, stretching her back and looking up now that the finer stitches were done. She blinked, adjusting her focus. Her mother saw her focusing her eyes and grinned.

  “You should use a magnifying glass for those fine satin stitches, dearest,” she suggested mildly.

  Evelyn laughed. “They are not so fine, Mother.” She looked at the embroidery ruefully. “In fact, they seem far too big and clumsy for my liking.” She frowned, wrinkles forming above her pale blue eyes as she closely studied the work.

  “Oh, nonsense,” her mother dismissed. “Only to your eye, dear. You notice such tiny details. It is a quality I think many would envy – your power of observation.”

  “Thank you, Mother.” Evelyn smiled. The compliment made her flush, bringing high color to her porcelain skinned-face. “I'm not sure if it's such a thing to envy,” she added archly.

  “Sometimes noticing too much must be hard,” her mother agreed. Lady Ada had been reading, and now set aside her novel, stretching her back. “I suppose I ought to see if Cook has enough provision for the dinner party.”

  The Donnelly family was planning a large dinner party for the coming Sunday, a celebration of the beginning of the Christmas season. They would be joined by extended family members from both Ireland and England. It was a big undertaking to organize it.

  “I suppose,” Evelyn agreed. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Oh, no. Don't tire yourself, dearest.” Lady Ada grinned. “Heaven knows we shall all be exhausted enough when Alicia and her family come visiting.”

  Evelyn smiled. “I am looking forward to it, Mother.” Lady Alicia, countess of Harwood, was her mother's dearest friend. Now a grandmother, Alicia had lost none of her youthful verve, and her lighthearted delight in everything sometimes made Evelyn feel quite old. She was a breath of fresh air, though, and it would be a pleasure to have her there on Sunday.

  “I do love this time of year,” Ada continued. “Not necessarily the weather,” she said, looking out at the snow-covered landscape with a grin, “but the parties and gatherings! It is the perfect time to meet people. What say you, my sweetheart?”

  Evelyn swallowed. She knew where this conversation was going, and she simply did not wish to talk about it anymore. At twenty-one years old, it was more than time for Evelyn to start considering marriage. While Evelyn was grateful that her parents placed no stricture on her choices, it was still unpleasant. There only requirement was that his status must match her own. The surprisingly-broad range of choice had not made it any easier for Evelyn, who hated the thought of marriage in any case. It would mean leaving her home, family and everything she loved.

  “It can be a good time to meet people,” Evelyn said quietly. “When we are here, this is my favorite season.”

  Donnelly Park was her father's estate in Ireland. The story of how her mother, Lady Ada, daughter of an English duke, had met and married the earl of Westmeath was one Evelyn had heard during her childhood and that had never ceased to delight her with its romantic edge. As a result of her parents' romance, the family now owned lands both in England and in Ireland, and Evelyn loved both homes, though the remote, ancient stone edifice of Donnelly Park was by far her favorite. The forests that surrounded the estate, the intense green of the fields, the mist that wreathed them in autumn: these were things she knew and loved and she could not imagine living without them. That was one thing that marriage would take from her.

  “You should attend more parties,” her mother was saying, walking to the fireplace. A tall woman, Ada was in her early forties and beautiful, her auburn hair hanging down her back a haunting contrast with the slate blue gown she wore. “You are too isolated here in the north.”

  “Isolation suits me, Mother,” Evelyn commented mildly as she lifted her tapestry. “You know I prefer being alone with my thoughts.”

  “I know,” Ada smiled. “And I am not that different, my dear. Though company is such a pleasure! I cannot wait to see Alicia again. And Henriette and Roderick may even manage to come up this far north for Christmas!” she enthused, hands clasped.

  “I would like to see Uncle Roderick,” Evelyn said. Roderick was her mother's elder brother, and a quiet, sensible man about a decade older than Ada. How he had met and married the feisty Frenchwoman, Henriette, was another of their family stories. “Medora and Margaret will also travel here?” They were Roderick's daughters.

  “Oh, I do not know,” her mother said. “Margaret probably will not want to leave London and bring her son and daughter all this way. Medora, mayhap, if Lucas will come with her.”

  Evelyn squinted at her work, trying to pretend that her mother's words were not cutting her. Her cousins, ten and eight years her senior, were long-ago wed and settled. Hearing about it rubbed salt in Evelyn's sense of inadequacy. She was one and twenty, and had not a single suitor!

  I must be so very ugly.

  There was, in Evelyn's imagination, no other reason for her lack of prospects. She thought of it often, and all the more so when she contemplated the success her cousins seemed to radiate. They were married and settled by the time they were here age. Why can I not be the same? What was wrong with her?

  “Perhaps it is best they cannot travel so far,” she said lightly, seeking to change the subject. “We will have so many people here at Christmastide that I suspect the manor will be full.”

  Her mother laughed. “It would take an army to fill up Donnelly Park! I myself hardly know what's in some of the rooms. I haven't been in the west wing for ages!”

  Evelyn smiled. Her mother was right – Donnelly Park was huge. As a girl, she had explored much of it, but now she lived mainly in three rooms: her chamber, the small parlor and the drawing room. Her time was taken up mostly with her tapestries, riding or her incessant passion for writing.

  Writing was her greatest joy. As her mother had said, Evelyn was an observant person. She watched people, and then she wrote about them, and what they made her think of. It amazed her how often the Black-Haired Man ente
red her work – the one she had seen a full nine years ago in the woodland that snowy day. He haunted her stories, each hero a facet of that particular man, graced with his appearance, his rakish laugh or just his vicious smile.

  I still wish I could find such a man to marry. If I could, I might consent to leave Donnelly Park! Evelyn smiled to herself at the thought.

  “You look contented, my dear,” her mother observed. “Which makes me sorry to disturb your peace. I asked Chapman from the village to come and take our measurements for new ball gowns, and I suspect she will be here within the hour. If you could leave your sewing for a while?”

  Evelyn sighed a little sadly. Her life was a pleasant inward tide, and she found it hard to face interruptions to its flow. “Of course, Mother,” she said resignedly. “I cannot very well turn down an offer of new dresses!”

  Ada laughed. “You need new dresses, dear. There will be so many officers returning from the war...I am sure you will catch someone's eye at the ball. And they shall catch yours too, I hope!”

  Her mother giggled, but Evelyn could not find the prospect amusing. While her parents were being more than usually fair in that they were allowing her to chose her own husband, she still felt the subtle pressure building every day. One day, she was sure it would engulf her.

  And what if she could not find a husband? What if she really, really was too ugly? The thought made her heart sore. If she was more beautiful, perhaps she would already have a husband, like Margaret and Medora.

  “My dear!” her mother said, looking sad. “What is the matter? You look miserable!”

  “Nothing, Mother,” Evelyn sniffed. “I think I will retire a moment, if I may..?” Sniffing to hold back the tears, a kerchief in her hand, Evelyn stood and walked quickly from the room.

  Out in the hallway, she remembered something. Bronson would be at Donnelly Park today. Seeing him would make everything better.

  The first thing that hit her when she reached the stables was the smell. Hay, dust, and mustiness, mixed into the unique cocktail that would have told her, even blindfolded, where she was. She closed her eyes and listened. She could hear horses walking in the stalls, and one whickered softly. She could hear a person forking hay into the stall further up, the swish and glide of the pitchfork over the packed-earth floor. It must be Bronson.

  “Bronson?”

  “Lady Evelyn!”

  Bronson was standing on the pile of golden straw, mucking out the barn. He looked up and wiped a hand across his face, perspiring despite the cold. His face was blunt, his jaw strong, his eyes deep-set and dark. Intelligent eyes, they scanned her face.

  “My lady! What brings you here? Nothing ill, I trust?” He frowned, clearly sensing she was concerned about something.

  “No, Bronson,” Evelyn sighed, and collapsed onto one of the hay-bales, feeling wretched.

  “Doesn't look like it's nothing ill,” he said mildly, finishing his task and laying aside the rake. “You've been crying.” He knelt down beside the bales and produced a kerchief, which he used to wipe away her tears.

  Evelyn felt her heart contract and reached up to touch his strong hand, stopping him. He was so gentle, so kind!

  “You're upset about something. Was it Beatrice?” he asked.

  Beatrice O' Conway was a distant cousin of Evelyn's on her father's side, and she could often be cruel and domineering. More than once, Bronson had soothed away wounds inflicted on Evelyn's fragile confidence by her older cousin.

  “No, Bronson,” she smiled. “Beatrice has not visited for a month.”

  “That is as well,” he said darkly. “But what is it, Evvie? Is it something I did? Tell me it's not?”

  His lilting accent soothed her soul, as did his use of her childhood pet-name. She and Bronson had known each other since she was eleven and he thirteen, two playful children exploring the estate of Donnelly Park. He had been her best friend then, and he still was.

  She looked at him now, kneeling in the straw before her, his handsome face lit by a shaft of light entering the space. If I could marry Bronson...

  Evelyn stopped the thought before it was complete. Bronson was so far removed from her parents' idea of suitable that she could not even entertain it. He was reliable, kind, and honest. Not exactly Evelyn's idea of a romantic hero, she had to admit. However, as a solid, caring person – if that was what a husband was meant to be – she could not have found one better. In addition, he understood her as no one else did.

  “Oh, Bronn! Dearest, how could it be you? I haven't even seen you for weeks! This is the first time since you were back from the horse fair.” She put a hand on his cheek, staring into his eyes.

  “Good,” he said, looking down. “Then what is it? Your granny being mean again?”

  Evelyn sighed. The last person to pressure her about her marriage had been her grandmother on her father's side, but she had not seen her for months either. “No, Bronson, dear. Not Granny. But it is the same problem, yes.”

  “Marriage?”

  “Yes.”

  Bronson sighed. “Lass, they have to give you time! Marriage partners don't just fall out of the sky, you know,” he chuckled. “Or Heaven knows I'd have found one. And I haven't either.”

  She giggled. “Bronson, dear, I can't say I'm sorry. It would vex me if you had to leave. And I wish I could ask for time. But I'm getting old.” She turned to look out into the stables broodingly.

  He snorted. “One and twenty is youthful! How am I supposed to feel, if you are old? Ancient?”

  They laughed, her hand on his arm. The sunshine fell in through the high barn windows, gilding the straw around them and making the dust-specks sparkle like tiny pieces of fire. Evelyn watched them, entranced.

  Bronson stroked her hair. “You'll find someone, lass. Stop worrying so. A beauty like you? You'll have to fend them off with a chair leg before being left alone!”

  Evelyn let out a big laugh. “Oh, Bronson! A chair leg? How do you think of such things?”

  “I saw a fellow use a chair leg as a weapon. It was in the public house in Connell. Lethal jolly thing.” He whistled. Evelyn laughed and held him close.

  “Bronson,” she whispered. “What would I do without you?”

  “No idea, milady. But probably you'd have a few less scars – we were wild when we were little.”

  She chuckled. It was true. “Remember playing in the woods when we were small?”

  “Aye! You went off by yourself for hours. I got so worried sometimes! You had me worried sick, and then you'd appear as if you'd never gone, and look at me like I was quite mad for worrying.”

  Evelyn laughed. “I remember,” she said wistfully. As she thought back to their childhood years, she remembered the man in the woods. The Dark Haired Man. “You told me once who owned the estate next door,” she said slowly. She had made inquiries about the man at the time, but had not managed to discover much information. His tracks seemed to have melted with the snow. All she’d managed to dig up was that there was a large hunting-party staying at the estate for winter grouse season. It left her with a large spectrum of people to choose from for his identity.

  “Lord Winchester owns it. Aye.” Bronson said cautiously. “The manor is occupied now, but it's not him who's there.”

  “It isn't?”

  “No,” Bronson said, thinking. “I think they said he let it to a tenant.”

  “Let it? To whom?” A natural information-gatherer, any news was valuable to Evelyn.

  “Brokeridge,” Bronson said coldly.

  Evelyn stared. Her skin had gone cold. She shivered as if the wind had entered the stables, though it was close and warm in there. “Why do you sound so angry?” she asked, trying to ignore the chills running through her. The man in the woods was called Brokeridge.

  “Brokeridge is an evil man.”

  Evelyn blinked. Bronson was not one to hate someone for no reason. “Why do you say so?”

  “I suppose I shouldn't. I don't know him, do I?” He h
uffed a laugh. “But that's what people say. They say there's blood on his hands.”

  I can quite imagine that, Evelyn thought privately. “Whose blood?”

  “That's a question only he could answer.”

  I rather hope he does, Evelyn thought. I hope I can ask him. She said her farewells to Bronson and went back to the house, lost in thought. There was a mystery here. She would find out what it was.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MEETING OF MINDS

  MEETING OF MINDS

  The next morning, Evelyn awoke feeling strangely restless. The fact that Lord Brokeridge was on the estate next door made her feel drawn toward it as metal filings are drawn to lode-stone. She needed to know how he was there, and why.

  “Stella?”

  Her maid was already in attendance, tidying the room and opening the curtains to let in wan winter sunlight from outside. “Yes, Lady Evelyn?”

  “I think I shall ride today. If you could lay out my new riding habit?”

  “Of course, my lady,” Stella agreed. “Though it looks ice cold out there! Best wrap up warm if you don't want a chill.”

  “My fur-lined boots will do the trick,” Evelyn suggested. “And if you could find my warmest winter bonnet to wear below my hood?”

  “Of course, my lady,” she said and hurried out.

  As Stella helped her dress a while later, Evelyn was silent, brooding on the possibilities of Lord Brokeridge. She had not seen the man for nine years and was not sure why she felt the compulsion to do so now. The memory of him was a memory of blood and ice and wonder; a memory of all that had made the young Evelyn both fear and thrill. At this juncture, with marriage looming over her, she felt a need to return to that memory – the only memory she had of anything like the awe and thrill of romance in the French novels she read.