Sherbrooke Twins tb-8

by Catherine Coulter

  He’d heard his cousin Rory say several days before, “Jason must really like to hunt grouse. He not only hunts during the day with you, Papa, then he’s out most nights as well, until nearly dawn.” Thank the heavens that no one had asked him if this was indeed true.

  This morning, over kippers and clooties, he told them he’d had a visit from the Virgin Bride. His reverend uncle didn’t say anything, just chewed thoughtfully on a slice of toast. Aunt Mary Rose, her glorious red hair rioting around her head, frowned. “Tysen, do you think God knows the Virgin Bride?”

  Her husband didn’t laugh. He continued to look thoughtful. “I would never say this to Douglas or to Ryder, but I’ve sometimes thought there’s a sort of window that isn’t completely shut and sometimes spirits slip back into our world. Does God know her? Perhaps if she ever visits me, I’ll ask her.”

  Mary Rose said, “I’ve never had a visit from her either, and that’s not fair. You’re not even a lady, Jason, yet she came to you. Did she say anything?”

  Jason said, “She said there was trouble at home. Nothing else, just that, but the funny thing was that I saw my father’s face clear as day. I must leave, of course.”

  Jason was on his way south by eight o’clock that morning, thankful that he’d managed to talk his aunt and uncle out of coming with him. He thought endlessly about what the trouble at home could be, and how his father was involved, and he thought about his uncle’s words-a window not quite shut between our world and the next. It gave a man pause.

  Life, he thought as he nudged Dodger’s sleek sides with his boot heels, could be going along nicely when suddenly the road closed, and you suddenly had to travel another direction. He wondered if the Virgin Bride had visited his mother. Very probably. Had she visited James? Well, he’d know soon enough.

  He worried and rode and wished he could use the spirit window. It had to be faster.

  On the sixth day, he rode a tired Dodger past the massive front steps of Northcliffe Hall toward the stables.

  Lovejoy, a youth of sixteen summers, and Dodger’s favorite stable lad, came running out, yelping, “My glorious big boy! Yer home, yer home, at last. Ah, would ye look at yer coat, all dirty and filled with stinging ickles.”

  Jason said, grinning down at Lovejoy, “Are you talking to me or my horse, Lovejoy?”

  “Dodger’s me boy, Master Jason. ’Tis yer mither who’ll welcome ye awright ’n’ proper.”

  Dodger, sixteen hands high, black as a moonless night except for the lightning streak of white down his nose, whinnied, and stuck his face in Lovejoy’s shoulder and lipped his musty shirt.

  When Jason walked into Northcliffe Hall, he stopped and looked around. No one seemed to be about. Where was Hollis? Hollis was always near the front door. Oh no, he was ill, or he’d died. No, Jason couldn’t bear that. He knew Hollis was older than the oak tree he’d carved his initials on in the east lawn, but he belonged here, in Northcliffe Hall, alive and scolding and calming everyone.

  “My sweet boy! You’re home! Oh goodness, how dirty you are. I didn’t expect you for another sennight. What’s the matter?”

  “Where’s Hollis? Is he all right?”

  His mother said, “Why yes, Jason. I believe he’s in the village. Ah, I’m so glad you’re home. Now, what’s wrong?”

  Hollis was alive and kicking, thank God. And Lovejoy was right. His mother had welcomed him all right and proper. Jason went forward to hug his laughing mother. He said against her ear, “The Virgin Bride told me to come home, said there’s trouble. And I saw father’s face, so he’s got to be the one.”

  His mother stepped back and looked up at him. “Oh dear, it’s lovely to have one’s own visit confirmed, but still, this isn’t good at all. Your father, you know how he scoffs.” She tapped her fingertips to her chin. “Well, she came to you as well. We’ll have to see what your father has to say now.”

  His father had hardly a thing to say, other than, “You ate turnips for dinner, didn’t you, Jason?”

  He assured his sire that he hadn’t. He knew his father wanted to ask him if he’d been carousing, but he couldn’t, not in front of his mother.

  His father grunted, and waved him away. “Go take a bath. It will get rid of all your dirt and hopefully set your brain on the right track again.”

  As for James, he listened to what Jason said, then replied, “I don’t understand this, I really don’t. It makes my brain ache, Jase. She said there was trouble at home, nothing more, and then you saw Father? That’s exactly what she felt to Mother too, but Mother didn’t see Father’s face, she said she just knew he was the one in danger. We shall have to be vigilant. Now, about this Elanora, did you buy her any clothes?”

  “Clothes?” Jason’s dark brow shot up. “Well, no, I don’t believe I bought her anything at all.”

  “Hmm. I wonder what father would say about that,” James said and walked away, whistling.

  THERE WAS NO sign of trouble until two afternoons later.

  Douglas Sherbrooke was breaking in his new gelding, Henry VIII, meaner than Douglas’s mother when the mood struck. Henry was bucking, rearing on his hind legs, corkscrewing, and Douglas was having a fine time when suddenly there was a loud popping sound. Henry bucked wildly, and Douglas, distracted, was hurled out of the saddle onto his back into a mess of low-lying yews that broke his fall. He didn’t move, just lay there, looking up into the blue summer sky, querying his parts. Someone had shot him in his upper arm. Just a graze, really. It was the fall that could have killed him. He admired yew bushes more than he ever had in the past.

  He got to his feet, felt the sting in his arm, looked around for a sign of the man who’d fired the shot, then walked to where Henry was standing. The big horse was frightened and sweating. Douglas wrapped his handkerchief around his arm, hoping Henry wouldn’t smell the blood.

  Douglas spoke to him, soothed him as best he could, took off his riding jacket, and rubbed him down. He didn’t know what his valet Peabody would have to say about that. “We’re both all right now, Henry. Don’t fret, boy, we pulled through this. I’m going to give you a nice bucket of oats when we get home. As for me, well I suppose I’ll have to get that miserable Dr. Milton here, Alex will demand it. Then she’ll hover over me, and she won’t say it, but she’ll give me that look that says very clearly, ‘I told you she said there’d be trouble. I said it was you and I was right.’

  “Now, the question is, who shot me and why? Was it an accident? Some poacher whose finger slipped on the trigger? And if it was someone who for whatever reason hates my guts, then why did he fire only one shot? That seems ill thought-out, doesn’t it, Henry, if he was after me? Well, let’s see if he left something behind that could be useful.”

  As he rode back to Northcliffe Hall, his arm burning, he thought again of the Virgin Bride and her warning.

  When he walked through the front door, it was to hear raised voices, several of them, all arguing. He was carrying his riding jacket since it was covered with Henry’s sweat. He hoped no one would notice that he had a bloody handkerchief tied around his upper arm.

  He saw Corrie Tybourne-Barrett standing in the middle of the vast central hall, looking as disreputable as a village boy in her ridiculous old breeches and boots, that old hat pulled down low on her forehead, her dusty braid hanging down her back. Shaking his fist at her was Mr. Josiah Marker, owner of a mill on the Alsop River.

  “Ye went flying right into the mill, that horse o’ yers spraying grain all over the place! Fer shame, missy! Fer shame!”

  Corrie yelled back, waving her own fist in Mr. Marker’s face, “Don’t you dare say that Darlene sprayed your grain any place, she didn’t! It was your son Willie, that good-for-nothing little blighter! I hit him when he tried to kiss me, and he’s paying me back! Darlene wasn’t near your mill!”

  Douglas didn’t raise his voice, he’d never had to. He simply said, “Quiet, everyone. That is quite enough.”

  He realized then that Corrie and Mr.
Marker and four servants were standing in the great hall entrance. Where were his sons, his wife, for God’s sake, even his damned mother? Where was Hollis, who could have dealt with this in a matter of three very calm seconds?

  There was instant silence, but anger vibrated in the air. Douglas dismissed the servants and was just turning to Mr. Marker when James came through the front doors, windblown, lightly slapping his riding crop against his thigh. He stopped cold. “What is going on, Father? Corrie, what are you doing here?”

  Mr. Marker started to open his mouth, but Douglas merely raised his hand. “No, no more. James, would you please deal with this? It’s some sort of spurned suitor revenge, I gather.”

  “My boy would never seek revenge,” said Mr. Marker furiously. “He’s a sweet-tempered saint, my lord.” Mr. Marker added, his voice lower now because no one ever yelled in the vicinity of the earl of Northcliffe, “He doesn’t even like girls, told me he didn’t, so he would never try to kiss Miss Corrie. And jest look at her, not even a girl, if ye take me meaning. My Willie’s niver done anything wrong in his whole little life, bless him and bless his mother fer birthing him.”

  James was staring at the handkerchief tied around his father’s arm, and the blood soaking it. The Virgin Bride was right. What had happened? He watched his father walk up the stairs, Mr. Marker’s words flowing over him, but he had no choice but to remain and deal with this idiocy. He didn’t like this one bit, but he had no choice. He turned and smiled at Mr. Marker.

  “I would like to hear what both of you have to say. Would you please come into the estate room?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  What a woman wants is what you’re out of.

  O. HENRY

  IT REQUIRED TEN minutes to pin down the basic facts. James finally said to Mr. Marker, “I regret to tell you, sir, that Willie, your sweet boy, has a very long road to travel if he is to attain sainthood in the next six lifetimes.”

  “Impossible, my lord. He tells me everything, Willie does, and he’s a good boy, thoughtful and kind, even to this missy over here.”

  “You force me to be blunt, sir. Willie is known throughout the area as a young man who kisses any girl who isn’t fast enough to get away from him. There is no doubt in my mind that Corrie smacked him, and that he wanted revenge. I suggest you make him work off what he has done. Now, good day to you, and I wish you luck with Willie.”

  “But, my sweet boy-”

  “Good day, Mr. Marker. Corrie, you stay.”

  Hollis magically appeared in the doorway of the estate room. “Mr. Marker, it seems to me that you would like a nice glass of ale before you confront William. Isn’t it always so that a man, regardless of his own high moral standing, must face bad behavior in his children? I do have some suggestions for how you might deal with him.”

  Mr. Marker folded his tent. He followed Hollis from the estate room, his old hat clutched in his fingers.

  “Did Willie really try to kiss you?”

  Corrie shuddered. “Yes, it was awful. I turned my head really fast and he kissed my ear. James, I had to do something-”

  “Yes, I know. You clouted him.”

  “Right in the nose. Then I kicked him in the shin. You know these boots, the toes are really sharp.”

  “No wonder he wanted to get back at you. At least you didn’t knee him in his-”

  “What? You mean-” Her eyes fell, looking directly at his crotch. She frowned. “Why would I do that?”

  “Never mind. Now, you look a fright. Go home and take a nice bath and get all the dust off your face and out of your hair. Why did you come here, Corrie?”

  She fidgeted a moment, then whispered, “I came here to Northcliffe because I couldn’t imagine what my aunt and uncle would have done faced with Mr. Marker. But I knew you would take care of things, or your father. Thank you, James.”

  Suddenly, the dowager countess of Northcliffe, a big woman with more than ample padding, who would outlive them all, appeared in the estate room door, pumped herself up, and bellowed, “James!”

  “Yes, Grandmother?” It needed but this, he thought, dutifully turning to give his grandmother his full attention, hoping it would focus her eye and tongue on him. But of course it didn’t. She was still tall and straight, her white hair thinning now, her blue eyes faded, but there was nothing at all wrong with the workings of her mouth, her brain, or her diction, unfortunately.

  If a voice could be said to ring, hers did. “Coriander Tybourne-Bennett, your dead parents would be appalled! Look at you-you’re a disgrace. You look like a ruffian. I must speak to your aunt and uncle, even though both of them are feckless creatures, but they must do something.”

  Corrie stuck her chin in the air. “They are.”

  “They are what, miss?”

  “They are doing something. I’m going to London for the Little Season. They are not feckless.”

  The dowager’s blue eyes glittered with anticipation. She saw fresh prey and wanted to dig in her claws and bring it down. She opened her mouth, but her grandson dared to insert himself.

  “Grandmother, Corrie will be all ready to go to London. My mother will assist her aunt in seeing that she knows things and dresses appropriately.”

  The dowager turned on her grandson. “Your mother? That redheaded girl your father was forced to keep when that bad boy Tony Parrish stole your father’s real bride, Melissande? No one can believe they are sisters. Why, all you have to do is look into the mirror to see the face of the glorious creature your father should have married. But no, he was tricked into remaining with your mother. May I ask, young man, just what your mother knows about anything at all? Why, it is your dear father who dresses her, who tells her how to behave, who scolds her, but not often enough, the good Lord knows, only he can’t control her cutting her gowns down to her ankles. How many times have I told him-”

  “Madam, that is quite enough!” James was so angry he was shaking with it. He’d never in his life interrupted his grandmother, but he couldn’t stop himself. Corrie was forgotten as his brain sharpened itself up to go toe-to-toe with the old besom. “Madam, you are speaking about the countess of Northcliffe-my mother. She is the most beautiful lady I have ever met, she is loving and kind and makes my father very happy and-”

  “Ha! Loving is right, or something far more lewd. Why, at her age, she still sneaks up on my dear Douglas and kisses his ear. It is disgraceful. Never would I have done that to your grandfather-”

  “I am sure you would not, Grandmother. However, my mother and father, despite their advanced years, quite love each other. I do not wish for you to speak ill of her again.”

  “I like her too,” Corrie said.

  The dowager turned her cannon on Corrie. “You dare to interrupt me, missy? A grandson, the future earl, is one rudeness I must accept, but not you. Goodness, just look at you, a viscount’s daughter and you’re-” Words failed her, but only for a moment. “I don’t believe for an instant that little Willie Marker kissed you. He’s a sweet little boy. You probably tried to kiss him.”

  James said more calmly now, “He’s sweet to you, madam, because he knows if he weren’t, you’d have him boiled in oil. Fact is, he’s a bully. He is the scourge of the neighborhood.”

  Corrie said, “And I would rather kiss a toad than Willie Marker.”

  “I don’t believe that, James. He is a precious little fellow.” She whirled on Corrie. “When he kissed you, you struck him? There, doesn’t that show that you have no breeding, no sense of who or what you’re supposed to be? You, supposedly a lady, struck him? That proves what I think-you are a pathetic ragamuffin.”

  With that parting shot, she flounced out of the estate room, her petticoats flapping.

  Corrie whispered, “I’m not. I’m not pathetic or a ragamuffin.”

  James looked after his grandmother, shook his head. It was the very first time in his entire life he’d dished back some of her own sauce, and she appeared not to even have noticed. He felt like he’d fail
ed. Upon brief reflection, James realized that if his grandmother were to apologize to anyone for her rudeness, such an extraordinary event would likely signal the end of the world. Still, to attack both his mother and Corrie like that. He said, “I’m sorry, Corrie, but if it makes you feel any better, she treats my mother worse.”

  “But I don’t understand, James. Why would she be so nasty to your poor mother?” Why hasn’t the old bat croaked it? That was what she really wanted to say.

  “She’s nasty to all her daughters-in-law,” James said. “Her own daughter, my Aunt Sinjun, as well. She’s nasty to any woman who walks into Northcliffe, except for my Aunt Melissande. If it was a matter of not wanting any competition why would she be kind to Aunt Melissande?”

  “Maybe it’s because you and Jason look exactly like her. That is so very strange, isn’t it?”

  James winced. “Yes. Now, is your name really Coriander?”

  Corrie looked down at her scuffed and dirty boots. “So I’ve been told.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Yes.”

  He sighed and lightly laid his hand on her arm. “You don’t look like a ragamuffin.” It was possible she looked worse, he thought, but she also looked flattened, and he’d known her forever, and oddly, he felt responsible for her. Why, he didn’t know. Then he saw a little girl in his mind’s eye, beaming up at him, wetter than the captured frog she held in her hand, a gift, from her to him.

  Corrie blinked up at him even as she tugged on her old brown waistcoat, doubtless worn in a previous life by a stable lad. “What do I look like?”

  James stalled. He wanted to go study all the farm accounts for the last decade, he wanted to calculate the price of oats and wheat for the next twenty quarters, he wanted to go count the sheep in the east pasture all by himself, anything but answer her.

  She said slowly, “You don’t know what to say, do you, James?”

  “You look like you, dammit. You look like Corrie, not this wretched Coriander. Were your parents drinking too much brandy when they named you?”