An Earl To Remember

by Jasmine Ashford

  Evelyn swallowed. “I shall hope then that it is neutral news. Something which can be either good or bad sounds truly awful.” She grinned at him, head cocked.

  He grinned in return. “Depends on what you mean by awful. I am leaving a week from tomorrow.”

  Evelyn stumbled, or thought she did. It was as if the ground was treacle, slippery and sucking her down. “You are?”

  He laughed, albeit gently. “Yes. I had not known such news would be distressing.”

  His hand reached out and touched her chin, stroking the velvet-soft skin. Evelyn stopped breathing. His eyes spoke to hers and she leaned forward. His lips met hers.

  The kiss was sweetness, softness, warmth. It flowed through her like warm Malmsey, making every inch of her throb. She wanted to kiss him again, and again, to never let her lips leave his. It was like an elixir, or breath for a drowning man. She felt her arms draw him close, and they stood, mouth on mouth, arms around each other. She was gasping, or he was. Their breath mingled in a single exhalation.

  He coughed and drew back. “My lady,” he said roughly. “You do me too great an honor. And make me long for that for which I have no right to demand.”

  Evelyn blushed. “The right is mine to give. I give it.”

  He stared at her. “Oh, Evelyn...” He held her close. They kissed again.

  When he released her, he stood back and looked into her eyes. “If that was a promise, I accept it.”

  “And I hold to it,” Evelyn said softly. She felt desolate even to think of his leaving. She had known she would be leaving at the end of January herself, but she had expected they would have a few more weeks together, that perhaps there would be a Christmas party at Winchester. She had hoped to see him a few more times before the New Year at least.

  “We shall make good on that promise, when I return.” he said raggedly.

  “Where will you go?” Evelyn asked in a small voice.

  “London.”

  Evelyn stared at him.

  “What, my lady?” he asked, a small rueful smile touching his mouth. “What makes you smile so?”

  “I will be going to London.”

  It was his turn to stare. “Truly?”

  “Truly!” She was still laughing. “The second-last week of January!”

  “A mere three weeks after I do?”

  “Quite so,” Evelyn confirmed.

  “I have an idea,” he said quietly. “Would your parents allow you to leave early? To come with me to my home? I would of course accept a chaperone would travel with you. It would be above board. I promise,” he said, making a contrite face. “I can restrain myself, even if I have broken all restraint this once.”

  Evelyn laughed. Inside her, there were fireworks going off. “Oh, Barrett! Really? Could I really come and visit?”

  He shrugged lightly. “Of course.”

  “I shall ask my parents,” she said demurely. “But I suspect Mother would be all too happy for me to visit you. And Father would not object so long as a chaperone accompanies me. Oh, Barrett!” She smiled, delighted. “I can scarce believe it!”

  He laughed too, and took her in his arms. This time it was a chaste embrace. He gripped her shoulder.

  “Until tomorrow then,” he said, his black eyes boring into hers. “When you can tell me the decision. Or not tomorrow, if that would be too difficult? Take as long as you wish,” he said quickly, seeing her bite her lip.

  “I will let you know by tomorrow,” Evelyn promised solemnly. Her mind was full of sudden misgivings, sudden worries. She tried not to let it show on her face.

  He must have guessed, though, for he stepped up and squeezed her hand. “Trust me?”

  Evelyn nodded mutely. “I do.”

  He kissed her again, a chaste kiss. Then he turned and walked away. “Until tomorrow?” he asked, pausing in the doorway.

  “Yes. Until tomorrow,” she whispered.

  When he had left, Evelyn felt as if she was frozen in the hallway, unable to move. London. With Barrett. Her soul was soaring, yet she was terrified. She would be entering the abode of darkness.

  She tried to laugh at herself and her misgivings. It was all nonsense, all malicious rumors. Nevertheless, she still felt scared. She wanted to uncover the secrets. This was her best chance, she insisted to herself. She should take the plunge.

  Still feeling uncertain, Evelyn forced herself to walk upstairs. She pulled the bell for Stella to help her dress, her mind whirling as if a snowstorm of black and white played through her head.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TRAVELING TO LONDON

  TRAVELING TO LONDON

  Evelyn stood in the stables, feeling a sense of trepidation. She coughed, not quite sure if she should call out or not. Bronson was here somewhere, and she wanted to talk to him. It was the day before she left for London. She had to say goodbye.

  She moved out of the beam of light that shone through the windows. It was the first sunny day for weeks, the light falling on the straw and turning it to gold. “Bronson?”

  He was there, she knew it. A shape moved in the shadows. “Yes, Lady Evelyn?”

  Evelyn swallowed. “Bronson. I came to say goodbye.”

  He looked at her a little wildly. Then he swallowed, his handsome face working. He smiled, or tried to. “You're leaving so soon, lass?”

  Evelyn closed her eyes. “Yes.” She was so excited, but the sudden sadness on his face made her realize how much she would miss him. She had hardly seen him this visit, but she had planned to make up for that in the last three weeks. Only now she was leaving early.

  “Where to?” he asked brokenly.

  “London. I...I shan't be gone long, I suspect. Oh, Bronson!”

  Evelyn was not aware that she’d collapsed into his arms, but she had. She felt his arms hold her – strong, warm and safe – and she melted into them, feeling his heart beating under her cheek. He was not a servant. He was a brother, a friend. A beloved?

  Evelyn dismissed the thought harshly. He was not for her. Barrett was. He was perfect for her, as her mother had said. Noble, witty and wise. He was the son of the Earl of Norwich. He was her equal. And Bronson is....is....

  Before she could even complete the thought, Bronson gently extracted himself from the embrace. He looked down at her, his brown eyes wide and confused, an uncertain smile on his lips. She thought she could see tears in his eyes, but dismissed the thought harshly. Why would there be?

  “What is the matter, Evvie? If there is something troubling you, please tell me. Sorrow divides in sharing. Joy doubles.” He grinned hopefully.

  “Oh, Bronson,” she sighed again. Collapsing onto the hay-bale, she felt him join her, sitting beside her. He took her hand. “I...” Evelyn sighed, unsure how to begin. “It's complicated.”

  “I'm sure it is, lass. Anything that's stumping you must be hard indeed. You're the brightest lass I ever saw.”

  Evelyn smiled at him wanly. “Bronson. You should not be so kind.”

  “Why not, lass?” he looked bemused. “You are such a dear person. Why would I wish not to be kind to you? Why would anyone wish not to be?”

  “I don't deserve it,” Evelyn whispered, feeling her own tears prick her eyes. “I...I have not been honest. Not to you, nor to anyone else.”

  “You've never lied to me, lass,” he said quietly. His big hand enveloped hers, holding it and keeping it warm against the biting cold.

  “I don't know that,” Evelyn whispered. Have I? I have always said I loved him. Is it a lie? Or is what I feel for Barrett a lie? Oh, I don't know! She looked up at him with a frown on her pale face.

  “I know that,” he said softly. “Everything you tell me is true. Not that I don't know you've told some whoppers, like: ‘I didn't go for a ride this morning early,” or “Cook gave me this cake,’” he grinned. “But even as you said it, I could always see what you really meant. It is in your body – the way you look, how you move.” he grinned. “Like horses,” he added. “They don't lie – thei
r whole bodies tell you what they mean. And horses can only tell the truth.”

  Evelyn leaned against him. At that moment, her body felt safe, warm. Loved. She felt at home with Bronson, as if her soul knew him. His hand on hers was like her own touch – familiar and easy. When Barrett touched her, it was like fireworks going off, but it also felt dangerous, as if she rested her hand in the mouth of a crocodile – a mix of elation and terror. So, so different.

  “Do you believe that?” Evelyn asked in a small voice. “That bodies don't lie, I mean?”

  Bronson squeezed her hand, looking down at the delicate fingers. He stroked her palm. “Yes,” he said at last. He looked down into her eyes. Evelyn felt the moment when the air around them shifted and changed, warming like a fire burned somewhere. He kissed her.

  When he had done it, he drew back, gasping. He turned from her. “I am sorry. My lady.” He closed his eyes. “It was wrong. Forgive me?” He was still struggling to control his breathing, and Evelyn knew how he felt. Her own heart was pounding. “Please forgive me?”

  Evelyn felt her heart ache, the strings of it tearing as if it was a harp, and someone broke the frame. She closed her eyes and felt as if her soul wept. “Oh, Bronson,” she whispered. She looked away, not sure what to say, where to begin. She barely understood her own feelings, so how was she supposed to know what to say? I thought I loved Barrett, and now...

  He stood and turned, turning his back to her. He seemed ready to run away. “I did not mean to impose,” he said stiffly. “I know you are a lady, and...”

  Evelyn stood. Something in her snapped. “Impose?” she said harshly.

  He flinched like she’d slapped him. He turned around. When he faced her, he was sickly-pale. His eyes were huge and very black. “I am sorry,” he whispered, as if his words had all fled, leaving only abjectness behind them.

  “You cannot be sorry,” Evelyn said in a small voice. “You have no idea what you have done. You have made me doubt everything!”

  He nodded, and, to her horror, sank into the straw at her feet, kneeling there. “I took liberties, my lady. I beg pardon.”

  Evelyn felt all the pain and sadness inside her coagulate into rage. How dare he confuse her, confess his love, and then demean the gesture, robbing it of meaning? “You cannot be pardoned,” she said harshly. “I do not think I can forgive you, or myself.”

  He looked up at her with utter confusion and the pain in his eyes only made her feel worse. She did not want to cry, so she tried to fan her anger. It would not ignite. “Oh, Bronson,” she said. She felt her knees bend, and she reached down a hand to him, reaching to raise him up. “I am sorry.”

  He took her hand and stood, though he would not meet her gaze. His hand held hers, stroking it. “My lady,” he said quietly, “I should leave. I swore to myself I would never besmirch you like that. Never demean you. I promised. I should go.”

  Evelyn felt a sudden compassion. He was crying. He still had absolutely no idea what he had done. She gently lifted her hand and stroked his hair. She leaned against him and kissed his lips. Her lips slid over his and lingered, clinging like rain to rock before she stood back.

  He looked with utter confusion after her as she walked back and resolutely headed to the doorway of the stable.

  “Goodbye,” she whispered under her breath. She turned away sharply.

  “Evelyn!” he shouted brokenly. She did not turn around. Breath heaving in her chest, her heart aching, eyes tear-blind, she walked across the icy courtyard and back to the house.

  Inside, she stood in the hallway, shivering.

  “Miss Evelyn?” the housemaid, Peterson, stared at her. “You must be freezing, lass! Go and sit by the fire, do. You'll catch your death of cold!”

  “I am not cold,” she whispered. It was a lie. Her whole body felt encased in ice. She licked her lips, and they felt numb and blue. She hugged herself, but the cold was in her body and would not be warmed.

  Forcing herself to move, Evelyn went upstairs to her bedchamber. In the close, white sanctuary of her bedroom, she settled herself at the fireplace, holding out long, pale hands to the dancing flames.

  I love him. I love Bronson. And he loves me. That is love. That tender, gentle sapling that blossomed instantly and yet bloomed so gradually that I missed when it happened.

  Evelyn shook her head, feeling the realization like a pain. She moaned. The ridiculous irony was that he was a servant. She could not have married him anyway.

  Now I have told Mother I am in love with Barrett. Am I?

  Evelyn sat back and thought about it. She was fascinated by him, it was true. She felt a draw to him like a magnet draws nails. She felt her body ignite in his presence. Yes, it could be that I love him. It is an incandescent madness, a fire in which I might burn.

  Evelyn closed her eyes. She had promised herself to Barrett. Moreover, her parents were overjoyed. She was going to visit him, putting herself in the depths of the Brokeridge mystery. She still had no idea why they were considered evil, what the mystery was. Whose blood stained their hands?

  I am going to walk headlong into hell, she thought, unexplainably afraid. All I can hope is that, while there, I solve the mystery.

  Feeling herself still icy inside, she reached for a shawl. She should be getting ready to leave – they would leave that evening, heading to Donnleigh. They would stay at the wayside inn that night, and then depart early the next morning for Belfast. From there, they would depart by sea to White-haven, and then the true length of the journey would begin.

  She pulled the bell for Stella to help her dress. She arrived and was full of exuberance and excitement, chattering away as if Evelyn would be heading on the journey of her life, as if she and Barrett were wed already. She listened and was simply pleased that Stella had not noticed her misery.

  When Stella had gone, Evelyn sat a long moment, contemplating her reflection. Her face was blank. Her eyes were empty.

  As she crossed the threshold to head downstairs – the family was waiting to see her off, and the thought brought fresh pain to her heart – she noticed something at the threshold of her room. She bent to lift it. It was a piece of paper – a note. It bore her name.

  Evelyn opened it and read the words there, written in a neat and flamboyant script.

  Evelyn. I am leaving. I have to go. Please – it is not because of what I did. It is because there are too many questions. Too many answers I must seek. I am going North to seek my family. If I am not there when you return, know either that I shall, or that my answers were too awful and I can never return. I love you.

  Bronson.

  Evelyn looked at the letter, but it made no sense to her, her mind refusing to understand it. She tried to read it again, but her eyes were full of tears, distorting the script. I love you.

  She folded it and put it in the velvet purse that hung from her wrist, feeling the same mix of anger and torment well up within her again.

  He was leaving. Why? How dare he leave her? How dare she try to make him stay? And what were these questions? Why was he seeking answers?

  As she walked down the stairs, she considered his letter over and over again. I want to say so many things. Now he has left, and left me with an armful of unsaid words.

  He had only signed it “Bronson”. She knew why – he had no surname to speak of. He had been fostered by a family called o’ Donegal, but had chosen not to take their name. He was Bronson, and that was all.

  I wish, just once, that I was simply Evelyn. Not Lady Evelyn, daughter of a noble house. Heir to everything except my own heart.

  Looking up to stop the tears from falling she walked into the hallway. Her mother took her hand and embraced her, and then she was crying, sobbing onto the satin of her shoulder.

  “Take care, my darling?” Ada said, smiling into her face. “I am so happy for you!”

  “Take care, Mother. I shall see you sooner than you think.”

  Ada smiled. “Three weeks is a long time, my dear. But I s
hall bear it.”

  Evelyn nodded and squeezed her mother's hand. She could not force out any words.

  “Take care, Evelyn,” her father said gently. He clasped her shoulder and then drew her into a brief embrace, all the more poignant for the fact that he was usually so hesitant to show affection.

  “Au revoir, my dear!”

  “Blessed journey!”

  “Take care!”

  All the assembled relatives and guests saw her off, and then Evelyn was sliding into the carriage, closing the door and sitting back as Mr. Gilchrist drove the coach away.

  Evelyn closed her eyes, feeling the horses draw her closer and closer to London with every step they took. They drew her to her fate, whatever it was.

  Whatever happened, she had a mystery to solve.

  Reaching for her notebook, she read through her notes, and thought about the next question. Where did the Brokeridges acquire their awesome wealth?

  It was something she was ideally-placed to find out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MANOR OF MYSTERY

  MANOR OF MYSTERY

  Evelyn sat in the dining room of the Wheat-sheaf Inn in Cambridge. She was sharing a table with Mr. Gilchrist, whose solid, unsmiling presence served to scare away any brigands who might have taken advantage of a lady.

  “Noisy in here, isn't it?” Mr. Gilchrist commented, reaching for a slice of the steaming fresh bread that lay on a salver between them.

  “Mm,” Evelyn agreed, her mouth full of beef stew. “It is, but at least it is warm.”

  “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.”