An Earl To Remember

by Jasmine Ashford

  She sat up. The clock on the mantel said nine o' clock. She slid to the edge of the bed and pulled the bell-rope to summon someone to help her dress. This morning I can see Barrett! The thought of seeing him made her feel excited.

  And, she thought as she slid on some slippers, I can find out more about the Closed Room.

  She chuckled to herself. She was sure that she was being melodramatic. There was probably some simple explanation. Perhaps the room was moldy and unhealthy to enter. Perhaps it was structurally unsafe. Perhaps it was simply because Lord Brokeridge was too distraught ever to want to see his wife's quarters again.

  How did she die? Did she take her own life? Why would she have?

  A knock on the door distracted her.

  “Morning, milady!” a stranger with a kindly, apple-cheeked face said happily. “I'm Sutton, your maid for while you stay here. I suppose you'd like something for breakfast before anything else?”

  Evelyn bit her lip, suddenly realizing how very hungry she was. She had been too tired to eat much yesterday. “Yes, please!” she smiled. “A tray with, perhaps, some pastries? And tea?”

  The woman beamed. “I think we can manage that, milady.”

  When breakfast – a delicious array of pastries and fragrant tea – was finished, Sutton helped Evelyn dress. She chose a new day-dress of white muslin, patterned with china-blue sprigs and flowers. With her gold hair glossed and styled in ringlets, she felt quite pleased with her appearance.

  The instant she came downstairs, she was met by Barrett. Dashing in a dark day-jacket and hose, he bowed over her hand. “My lady Evelyn! I have been impatient to catch sight of you! You slept well?”

  Evelyn blushed. “My lord Barrett! I am pleased to report I did sleep well.”

  He laughed. “Capital! You were so tired yesterday! I had hoped we could go for a carriage ride, but with this rain, I thought perhaps I could show you the rooms we didn't visit yesterday.”

  Evelyn looked surprised. There are more? “That sounds intriguing,” she said cautiously.

  He gave a chuckle. “Good. You needn't be cautious, my dear – I did not mean the dungeons!”

  Evelyn tried to look casual. “I wasn't cautious. Merely surprised that there are any rooms we didn't see yesterday! I have never before walked so much in a single house!”

  “You have Father to blame for its extent,” he grinned. “He began restorations on the whole place about fifteen years ago – the building only finished two years before this!”

  “I can imagine,” Evelyn observed.

  “After I've shown you the portraits, and maybe the summer house, we could take a coach ride into the city itself? There are so many diversions there! I had thought maybe to Castallion for a dish of chocolate? And we could visit the park, if this dashed rain clears.”

  “I would like that,” Evelyn agreed warmly.

  “Well then! To the gallery.”

  As Evelyn followed him up the stairs, she could not help thinking about his revelations. Barrett himself was four and twenty. His mother had died sixteen years ago – he told her she had died when he was eight. So all the restorations happened the year following her death?

  Evelyn bit her lip. It did seem rather odd. She could not imagine that most men went into such a frenzy of rebuilding following their wife's death.

  “Come on!” Barrett called down the stairway ahead of her. He sounded excited.

  “Coming,” Evelyn agreed and took her skirt in one hand, lifting it out of her way and walking quickly after him.

  At the top of the staircase, Evelyn reached an archway leading to a long gallery. It had windows down one side and down the other hung the family portraits. It was a long room, carpeted and light, and it seemed to stretch the length of the east wing. The morning sunlight shone in, the windows angled such that the portraits were illuminated, but did not risk exposure to the glare.

  “We should start at this end, closest to the door,” Barrett was explaining. “Here is my great-great-great...ever so many greats...grandfather, John Brokeridge, the third Earl of Norwich. And this is his son, my one-great-less grandfather, Edgar.”

  Evelyn scrutinized the portraits. “He looks a little like you,” she admitted. “But she, even more so.” She pointed at the frame next door, the painting inside it depicting a narrow-faced, black-eyed woman with a cascade of dark hair. If the Brokeridge lords looked like anyone, they all looked uncannily like the woman in that portrait. The eyes, the hair, the hawkish arrogance, were identical.

  “Oh,” he smiled. “That's John's wife. Lady Arabella, third Countess. They say she was a witch. That, apparently, is why we all take after her in appearance.” He raised his brows and grinned. “Can you believe it?”

  Evelyn laughed lightly. “What a strange thing to say! Superstitions can be very odd.”

  She couldn't help a shiver as she looked at the dark-haired woman. The black eyes haunted her. It was as if the woman looked at her directly, the gaze following her as she walked along the row as she progressed along the line of ancestors.

  She dismissed the thought. It's a painting. And people are superstitious. Let them believe their nonsense. She focused on the paintings she was walking past: men with a vague resemblance to Barrett and his father, women of various descriptions, almost all beautiful in one way or another. All wore beautiful dresses and had contented smiles.

  “...and this is my father. You'd recognize him anywhere, of course!” Barrett laughed. They had reached the end of the line of paintings. They were still almost twenty feet from the large window at the end of the gallery, a long space still open.

  “Yes,” Evelyn smiled. “He looks just like you.”

  “Well, I look like him would be the better way of saying it!” He chuckled.

  Evelyn bit back a smile. “Quite.”

  She turned her attention to the woman in the next portrait. A pale, gentle face and a cascade of red-gold hair, the woman looked nothing like Barrett. Her eyes were pale brown and strangely sad, her mouth a full red rosebud. She was beautiful, and something about the tender expression on her face touched Evelyn's heart.

  “This is my mother,” Barrett said, voice choked. “Lady Euphemia.”

  “She is beautiful,” Evelyn murmured. She wanted to reach out and touch the woman. She looked no older than Evelyn in the picture, and it was so well-executed that it seemed she could reach out and touch her, her skin warmly-alive.

  “She is,” Barrett said, looking at his hands.

  “Was she ill before she died?” Evelyn asked softly. “She is very pale.”

  Barrett blinked. “How would I know if she was ill? I was a child! An eight-year old boy. All I knew was that she was gone.” His face flushed and he looked upset.

  “I'm sorry,” Evelyn said, inclining her head. “It was a stupid question.”

  “No,” Barrett mumbled. “You do not ask stupid questions. I just...” He sighed.

  Evelyn sensed he wanted to change the subject, so she stepped across to point to the nearby wall. “And that space is for you?” she asked, teasing. “It's awfully big for a portrait!”

  “That one is for me, and my wife. And our children,” he added in a small voice. When he looked up at her, his eyes were glowing tenderly.

  Evelyn swallowed hard. “Whoever she is, she will be a lucky woman.”

  Barrett blushed. “I hope you feel fortunate then.”

  Evelyn felt her whole body suffused with warmth. He really meant that. “Barrett...”

  “Evelyn.”

  They kissed.

  When they had broken free of the embrace, they ran downstairs together, Barrett laughing like a child, shouting that they had to leave early if they wished to have a place at the chocolate house.

  CHAPTER NINE

  DAY IN LONDON

  DAY IN LONDON

  Evelyn leaned back in her seat and surveyed Castallion, one of the most stylish chocolate houses in London. The room was full at this time and elegant ladies in bea
utifully-worked day-dresses and gentleman in velvet coats sat about at the wrought-iron tables, discussing the latest scandals in urbane voices.

  Opposite Evelyn, Barrett stirred his drink absently and, like her, seemed to be listening to the conversations flowing around them.

  Outside, an open carriage rolled up, the sound not reaching them through the thick windows and the chatter inside. The road running past the coffee house was one of the most fashionable ones, and ladies and gentlemen sauntered past on their way to the theater or to the tailor, or simply seeing the sights.

  “My lord Barrett!” a man said, approaching their table. He was a tall man with tea-brown hair and a mustache. Evelyn thought he looked unctuous and untrustworthy, simply to judge by his posture and eagerness upon seeing her friend.

  “Yes, Everidge?” Barrett asked. He sounded tired, and Evelyn guessed that whoever this was, he was someone who often tried to curry favor.

  “I am so pleased to see you safely back from hunting! Lionel and I and some of the group are headed to Almacks this evening. If you would join us?”

  Barrett looked to Evelyn. “My lady? Would you like to have an evening party?”

  Evelyn smiled warmly. “That would be very nice, thank you, dear.”

  Barrett went pink at the endearment and his irritation turned to a smile. “Thank you, Everidge,” he said, much more graciously than before. “We would be pleased to attend.”

  “Well then,” he replied, extending the smile to Evelyn now, who thought he looked much better when he smiled. “I shall add you to the guest list.”

  “Very good,” Barrett said formally. He looked away from the man to Evelyn, his body stiff. If he had meant to say in the clearest terms possible, “Go away, you are not welcome,” he did it well.

  Evelyn inclined her head to the man and smiled. He left.

  When he had gone, Barrett took her hands. “So, my dear,” he said gently. “An evening party at Almacks. Not too terrible a way to spend the evening, yes?”

  Evelyn grinned. “I should say not.”

  “Well, then, since we shall want to return a little earlier to have time to make ready, perhaps we should take a walk in St. James' Park. We could dine at Overham Inn on the way home. That would leave us with, say, four hours before the party starts?”

  “That sounds perfect,” Evelyn agreed amiably.

  “Well, then,” he inclined his head. “When we have finished our chocolate, off we go!”

  Evelyn smiled and lifted the dish of chocolate to her lips, marveling at the creamy, sweet taste. It was one of her favorite things, though she had never tasted it prepared as well as they did it here. She could understand why this was the most famous chocolate house in London.

  They left for a walk in the park, which was exquisite, the newly-apparent sunshine gilding the raindrops to a field of rainbows. Evelyn walked with her arm linked into Barrett’s and felt as if she walked in a story book.

  At home once more, she felt slightly weary. “I think I shall retire to my room for an hour or so, my dear?” she asked Barrett as they climbed the stairs. “I am afraid I have a headache.”

  “Of course, dear,” he agreed. “It has been a long day. It is remiss of me to forget you have just recently traveled far.”

  Evelyn smiled. “Oh, Barrett! You treat me like I am made of china!”

  “As I should.” He spoke gravely, and leaned forward, taking her hand. He kissed her.

  When he broke the kiss, leaving Evelyn's lips bruised with wanting, he looked into her eyes. “Have a rest, dear. I look forward to your company at Almacks this evening. Will you make ready to leave by six of the clock?”

  “Of course.”

  Evelyn shut the door of her bedchamber carefully. Then she sank onto the bed, exhausted. She had not been lying – she really did feel strange. Her whole body seemed to ache, her head pounding. She felt tired, cold, and hollow.

  It is all this uncertainty, she reasoned. It was not just the uncertainty of Barrett's family history, or his mother's death. It was her own uncertainty.

  Am I really in love with Barrett? Sitting up on the bed, her arms wrapped around herself, Evelyn thought about that. When she was with him, she felt alive, excited. A little bit afraid. Is that love? She thought about the only other time she had felt anything even close to being similar for a man: Bronson. With him, she felt warm, safe, and free to be herself. I love Bronson. I know I do. The conviction with which she knew that surprised Evelyn. I trust him.

  I absolutely do not trust Barrett.

  “You are believing silly rumors,” Evelyn chided herself aloud. She stood and reached for her notebook. The only way to dismiss this feeling of uncertainty was to find out the truth. If she could prove to herself that Lady Brokeridge, Barrett's mother, had died of natural causes, that the family was not evil, then she would feel confident and be able to trust this fascinating, compelling man.

  Evelyn read over the notes she had made before she even came to the house. Reaching for the quill-pen she had brought with her, she took the book to the small desk set up in the corner and added another line.

  Barrett's mother died sixteen years ago. The house was restored afterward. Her name was Euphemia and she was beautiful.

  On its own, those facts made their own kind of sense. Lost in grief, the distraught Earl of Norwich had ordered the house completely refurbished following his wife's death. He had also ordered that her quarters be shut off from intrusion.

  I am sure it was just the orders of a grieving husband.

  Evelyn laid aside the pen. She considered writing something down about the witch in the Brokeridge ancestry, but decided that was childish nonsense. There were no such things.

  She decided to slip outside and take a walk in the gardens. The rose garden looked particularly lovely and, though it was not warm outside, she could at least sit in the sunshine.

  Donning coat and bonnet, she walked briskly down the hallway and down the stairs.

  In the garden, she found a bench in the rose arbor, just before the high box-hedge. As she sat reading, she heard two voices.

  “...and the races have given me nothing but ill luck!” a drawling voice had said behind her.

  Evelyn, naturally inquisitive, tuned into the conversation. They must have been visitors of Lord Brokeridge's – she had noticed that coaches often came and went. Naturally-inquisitive, she listened in.

  “Me too! That damn Tallinn has won the most of us!” his companion exclaimed.

  “Tallinn? Yes! Though that poor bastard's robbed, I take it.”

  “You mean by Brokeridge?” the man asked hesitantly.

  “Barrett? Quite. I think he's angling to inherit.”

  “He can't!”

  The other man snorted. “Trust Brokeridge. I mean, Lord Brokeridge. Richard. He'll get it right. He isn't one to be stopped by trifles like the law.”

  The two men were silent for a while, as if contemplating the horror that was the Brokeridges. Then they seemed to decide to talk of something else.

  “The weather's been dashed awful, eh, my friend?”

  “Terrible!”

  Evelyn tuned out the conversation, hands sweating and heart thumping as she considered the news. He isn't one to be stopped by trifles like the law. Would he murder someone? Is that what they were saying? The death of Barrett's mother took on a significance she had hoped it did not have.

  She put the book aside and, feeling suddenly chilly, went inside. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece as she passed.

  “Oh, Heavens!” Evelyn exclaimed. “Time to make ready for the party.”

  She hurried back to her rooms and ran for the bell-rope, summoning her maid, Sutton.

  Almost an hour later, she bit her lip as she glanced in the mirror. The floor-length blue muslin gown hung in soft folds from a high waist, accenting her tall, slender frame. Her hair was glossy gold, the ringlets tumbling down to below her shoulders despite the elaborate up-do, held in place with silver pins
. Her blue eyes shone serenely.

  Not too bad.

  Smiling shyly once more at her reflection, she danced down the stairs on satin-shod feet.

  At the base of the staircase, she was met by Barrett, resplendent in a black-velvet coat and matching velvet knee-breeches, white silk hose beneath. His black hair was tied back in a riband and he smoldered with a dark beauty. Evelyn took his hand and he kissed it.

  “You look ravishing.”

  “You're rather good yourself,” Evelyn said, blushing redly.

  He laughed and the two of them climbed down the shallow flight of stairs to the awaiting carriage, arm in arm.

  The ballroom, when they arrived, was already packed with people. The footman announced them boldly to the room, and Evelyn practiced un-focusing her eyes and looking distant. If she were to marry this man, she would have to get used to society and public entrances like this one. Everyone was staring at her, and Evelyn felt intimidated.

  Barrett squeezed her arm reassuringly and sauntered on.

  “Lord Barrett,” someone greeted him.

  “Lord Everidge,” he inclined his head to the man they had met earlier. He carried on past him to the refreshments table, clearly avoiding him while it was polite to do so.

  Evelyn bit back a grin. There's always someone one wants to avoid, she thought amused.

  At the table, she selected some delicious-looking slices of cold meat and a glass of Malmsey. Barrett took a brandy and stood beside her as they ate and drank.

  “Lord Barrett!”

  “Lord Asquith.”

  The two men were soon talking amiably about some business of Barrett's, and Evelyn looked about the room. “Alexandra!” she cried, seeing her old friend. She had no idea she was in London.

  Glancing at Barrett, who saw her and nodded, she walked quickly across the room to where Alexandra, clad in a pale green gown, was standing alone.