by Anne O'Brien
Frances flinched at the searing pain underlying the turbulence in his voice.
‘Hugh—I never believed that. How could—?’
‘And I do not want your pity!’ He turned from her, releasing her wrist, and in a violent movement swept the papers from the desk in a maëlstrom of scattered sheets. ‘I never wanted this. Neither his death nor his birthright.’
Instinctively Frances put out a hand to restrain him, to break the hold of the desire to destroy, but he stepped back from her, fighting to regain control and dispel the vicious mist that clouded his vision. She saw the effort it cost him in his clenched fists and the pulse beating rapidly in his throat.
‘Forgive me. It was not my intention to inflict my family’s private problems on you. I expect I should apologise for my unseemly behaviour.’ His voice was flat and empty of emotion after the storm as he wilfully closed his mind to the flare of grief in her eyes at his deliberate distancing of her from his past. ‘But not yet!’
He flung down the forgotten papers, still grasped in one hand and now hopelessly mangled, and strode to the door, wrenching it open, but not before she had seen the anguish beneath the anger in his eyes.
‘Where are you going?’ She followed him to the door, hand outstretched to detain him.
‘Out!’
He slammed out of the library, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving her bereft and bewildered. What had she said? She had never even mentioned Richard. And what had his mother to do with it? Penelope’s flippant comment edged back into her mind.
Take care if you are travelling with Aldeborough. History has a habit of repeating itself.
But what had she meant about history repeating itself? Frances’s mind flew back to the conversation with Matthew in Hyde Park, when she had asked him about the fate of his eldest brother. He had been very non-committal about Richard, reluctant to go into any detail, leaving her dangerously ignorant of an event that clearly had torn the family apart—and still had a desperate effect on Hugh. She smoothed her fingers gently over her wrist, which he had clasped so passionately. It was time that she found out the answers to a few pertinent questions.
Ambrose arrived unannounced in the library as Frances lingered, picking up the ill-used documents, undecided on her next move.
‘Good morning, Frances. Where’s Hugh? I agreed to ride out with him to inspect some project or other on the estate.’ He smiled and kissed her hand with easy familiarity.
‘You’ve just missed him. I expect he has gone to the stables to meet Kington. Matthew is there as well, I think.’
‘Right. I’ll catch up with them.’ He turned to go.
‘Ambrose. Before you go, I need …’ She hesitated, unsure what to say next.
Ambrose turned back, surprised at the tension in her voice, and noticed her anxious expression for the first time.
‘Are you quite well? You look a little pale.’
‘I am perfectly well. Only … Ambrose, can I ask you to tell me about Richard—how did he die?’
A wary expression crossed Ambrose’s face. ‘Why? What has Hugh said?’
‘Nothing. That is the whole problem. No one will talk to me about it, other than in vague hints and innuendo about gossip and scandal that leave me in the dark. And I think I’ve just said something terrible.’
‘Well, I would tell you, but I think it would be better coming from someone in the family. I know Hugh would not want me to gossip about it and as a friend I should respect his wishes.’ Ambrose considered the matter for a moment. ‘But I agree that you should know. Why don’t you ask Lady Cotherstone? She will be a fount of all knowledge.’
‘Yes. I will. I think I have hurt him very badly, Ambrose. I’ve never seen him so angry.’
He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘I will go after him. Don’t worry over it. You did not know, so how can you blame yourself?’
‘Ambrose …’ Frances hesitated and then continued. ‘I would rather you did not tell him that I spoke to you. I would not wish him to think that I was gossiping behind his back.’
‘Of course. If that is your wish.’
Frances was waiting impatiently for Aunt May when she eventually emerged from her bedchamber, Wellington puffing at her heels.
‘Good morning, my dear. Where is everyone?’ Her toilette was even more bizarre, a stiff creation with a demi-train in figured puce damask, her hair secured under a tiny lace cap. A powdered wig, thought Frances, would not have been out of place. But she was far too anxious to be diverted by Aunt May’s antique outfit.
‘Out. But never mind that.’ She raised her hands in exasperated frustration. ‘Forgive me, Aunt May. You have got to tell me the truth about Richard—what happened to him? Was it an accident? Where does Hugh fit into it? No one will tell me the truth. I asked Ambrose, but he said I should ask you.’
‘What a sensible young man. Still letting it fester, are they? And I don’t suppose Hugh will talk about it at all. What has happened to put you in such a state?’
‘I suggested, in a jest, you understand, that the highwaymen’s attack on us yesterday could have been an attempt by him to get rid of a troublesome wife.’
‘Which attack? You had better tell me from the beginning. Let us go into the morning room and fortify ourselves with a glass of port. Don’t be so unhappy—it can all be straightened out. You learn that when you have lived as long as I have. Now, my dear. From the beginning.’
‘I killed a man.’ Frances looked anxiously at Aunt May, expecting to read condemnation in her face.
‘Did you, my dear? I am sure you had your reasons. You must tell me all about it. Drink this and relax a little.’ Soothed by Aunt May’s calm acceptance, she sipped a little port and calmly told all.
Frances described the events of the previous day, including Aldeborough’s reluctance to discuss the danger and finally her own inappropriate words, in jest but inflicting so much harm. And she told her about Penelope’s mischief-making words, although at the time she had not realised their significance. ‘So I need to know,’ she finished.
‘Of course you do, my dear. Where shall I start? With Richard, I suppose. I never knew him as well as I know Hugh. He was a bright, lively boy, always bursting with energy and the apple of his mother’s eye. He was quick to realise this, of course, and was clever enough to use it to his own advantage. He did everything to keep his mother sweet and she would hear no wrong of him. Not that there was any wrong to tell—unless he was a little too selfish and careless of others. Reckless, too, I dare say. He was always into scrapes. But then, young men often are.’ She sighed, her eyes unfocused as her mind travelled back over the years. ‘He was very much like my brother, their grandfather. They say it runs in families. Well, Richard was the reckless one. I don’t know if he would have made a good Marquis. He had only just inherited the title and he was very young. I don’t really think he cared enough for the duties and responsibilities involved, only for the consequence and the money, of course. There was plenty of that.’
‘So how did he die? It must have been quite recently.’
‘Less than a year ago. Richard and Hugh were very close. There was only a year between them in age so they grew up together. It was a curricle race. Hugh was on furlough and, as I understand, Richard challenged him to a race. There was an accident. Richard’s curricle was attempting to overtake Hugh’s on a bend. The wheel went into a ditch at the side of the road and the curricle overturned. It was as simple as that and pure chance that Richard hit his head when he was flung out on to the verge. He struck a tree root or a hidden boulder—I don’t know the detail—but he never recovered consciousness. I always thought curricles were too dangerous by half, but you cannot stop young men from indulging in risky sports.’
‘But if it was an accident as you describe, I don’t understand the problem.’
‘There was none. But the Marchioness, God rot her soul, was beside herself with some extreme emotion—anguish, she claimed, but
I thought it more likely to be frustrated ambition. She had always been able to influence Richard far more easily than Hugh, which was useful since she had no intention of giving up her guiding hands on the reins of the family. But now she was about to be thwarted with Hugh in the saddle. Anyway, she uttered some very unwise observations, loudly and publicly. She never did have any integrity. She hinted that the race was all Hugh’s idea in the first place and that Richard had been forced off the road. That he was too good a driver to have made such a mistake. And Hugh had benefited, of course, inheriting the title and the fortune on his brother’s untimely death. If you say things like that often enough, people begin to gossip and put two and two together, even if the sum does not add up. It was the on-dit of the Season.’
‘But what a terrible thing to do!’ Frances’s eyes widened in horror as she now realised the pain her words would have unwittingly inflicted. ‘Did she not realise the damage it would cause?’
‘Of course she did. She blames Hugh and has left him in no doubt of it. She resents that he has inherited everything when her favourite boy is dead. And he has gone his own way, making changes without consulting her. There is no wonder he has become cynical and as reckless as Richard. If people believe ill of him, he’ll give them something to blame him for. It is natural enough.’
‘I suppose so. And I accused him of trying to kill me. I am not surprised he stormed out. And I am not sure how I can put it right.’
‘Difficult, I agree. And with a mischief making little cat like Penelope Vowchurch stirring the waters with her pretty paws … well. She wanted the marriage with Hugh so she will be driven by envy. Women with so much self-control are always trouble. But as for Hugh—if you take my advice, I would leave him to simmer a little before I prostrated myself in abject mortification! He can be an uncomfortable opponent when he is feeling aggrieved.’
Frances laughed ruefully. ‘I know. I am hoping that a ride round the estate will help. And I think I am a coward on this occasion.’
‘I don’t believe that for a moment.’ Aunt May leaned across to pat her hand bracingly. ‘You strike me as a very resourceful young lady. Come on.’ She surged to her feet, dislodging Wellington, who had been snoring fitfully on the flounces of her dress. ‘Since the sun is shining, let us go and inspect the formal flower beds. They are sadly neglected, you know, but the snowdrops should give a good show. There is nothing like fresh air to lift your spirits. Are you interested in restoring the gardens? They used to be beautiful in my younger days.’
Ambrose caught up with Aldeborough in the stables where he and Matthew were inspecting the hooves of one of his hunters. His greeting was perfectly civil, but his expression was shuttered and Matthew’s silence and raised eyebrows said it all.
After five minutes of monosyllabic conversation, Ambrose had had enough, and decided to break his promise to Frances.
‘She did not know, Hugh. You can hardly blame her.’
‘Ah. I see you have had communication with my wife this morning. And I suppose she told you all about our exchange of views.’
‘No, she did not. You have to give her credit for more loyalty than that. But she knew she had said the wrong thing and stirred you up. What she did not know was why. She was very upset, so I sent her to talk to Lady Cotherstone.’
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Matthew, coming into the conversation halfway through, as he returned from the saddle room with a hoof pick and proceeded to inspect the problem foot.
‘Richard’s accident,’ stated Ambrose baldly when Hugh chose not to reply.
‘What about it?’
‘Not a thing,’ interjected Aldeborough with self-mockery. ‘Except that my wife seems to believe that I might have murdered my brother.’
‘Oh, is that all! She asked me about it weeks ago. I gather Mama had been giving her the family history and dropping her usual vague hints. I did not tell her very much. We should have told her the truth, Hugh. It would have prevented this.’
‘It seems that everyone has been conversing with my wife except me.’ Hugh’s lips thinned with barely contained temper.
‘And look what happened when you did!’ Ambrose’s reply was brutal. ‘Look, Hugh, nobody believes that old scandal.’
‘Only Mama. And nobody listens to her anyway.’ Matthew stood up and shrugged.
‘And Penelope Vowchurch! Who had the kindness to warn my wife of the dangers of travelling in my company.’ Aldeborough’s bitter anger was hard held.
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘No? Well, perhaps Frances was making it up. Why not ask her? I’m sure she will confide in you. Now, if we have finished discussing the legs of this misbegotten animal I am going to meet Kington at Malton’s Cross. And before you ask,’ he snarled, ‘I don’t want your company. You wouldn’t want to ride with me today.’
He swung on to his bay gelding and rode out of the stableyard at a rigidly controlled canter.
‘We dealt with that well between us, didn’t we?’ Ambrose grimaced at Matthew.
Matthew sighed and began to lead the lame hunter back to its stable. ‘There is no reasoning with him and he will not talk about it.’
‘He was very close to Richard, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes. He loved him.’
‘Is it not surprising when you consider that they were not very alike?’
‘No, they were not,’ Matthew agreed. ‘Richard was the wild one. Always up for some adventure, some wager, whereas Hugh was steadier, more considerate. But Mama never saw that. The first born was the sun in her firmament. I did not really know Richard very well. He never had much time for me. I suppose I was too young and too much of a nuisance. I had a tendency to hero worship in those days but he soon cured me of that—his boredom made me see the light. So I transferred it to Hugh, especially when I saw him in his regimentals. It was enough to awaken envy in the heart of any boy.’ Matthew grinned. ‘Hugh always had time—he was amazingly tolerant of a brat who wanted to ride his horse across the formal lawns or try out his dress sword on the chickens at Home Farm. You know the sort of thing.’ He laughed at the memory.
‘I can imagine. I am surprised he didn’t bury you!’
Matthew laughed aloud, but quickly sobered again. ‘It is all still very recent, of course, and I suppose the wound is still raw. And to have Mama express her preference so cruelly, and accuse him of wanting the title and being responsible for the accident. He doesn’t care for the consequence at all. What he really wants is to take up his commission again.
He does not exactly enjoy estate matters. It must all seem very tame after Salamanca.’
‘But he does it well. Look at the improvements he has made in such a short time, and the new ideas and the repairs that had been neglected for years.’ Ambrose swept his gaze round the stable block, which looked the epitome of good management in the morning sun. ‘I remember when the roof here was almost in a state of total collapse. And the stable doors were rotting on their hinges.’
‘That’s Hugh.’ Matthew nodded. ‘He’ll be a better Marquis than Richard. Or our father, for that matter. At bottom, he cares more.’
Ambrose picked up the reins of his horse and prepared to mount. ‘You know that, I know that, but it does not make the situation any better for Hugh.’
Frances heard Aldeborough return in the early evening. She was in her bedroom when she heard his door open and close. She waited, but he made no attempt to communicate with her.
Now or never. She swallowed her nerves and walked through the adjoining dressing room, knocked firmly on his door and entered without waiting for a reply.
Things did not look promising. Aldeborough was standing with his back to the room looking out over the formal gardens. He did not turn round when she entered. Despite the early hour, he held a glass of brandy in one hand. He looked windswept and mud splattered, but had made no attempt to change his clothes. She could not see his expression.
‘I have come to ask your forgiveness. I did n
ot know about Richard.’ Her voice was soft but firm.
Still he did not turn to face her. ‘I believe that I should be the one apologising to you.’ His tone was bleak and insufferably polite. ‘Ambrose told me that it was an innocent comment. Indeed, I am sure it was.’
‘Oh.’
‘Did you talk to Aunt May?’
‘Yes.’
‘So now you know the whole sorry story.’
‘Yes. I could wish that you had told me.’
‘I did not see the need.’
‘No. You told me, as I remember, that it was none of my affair.’ Frances found it hard to contain her growing frustration.
He turned at that, his face pale, his expression stark.
‘And I would rather, in future, that you did not discuss my personal affairs with Ambrose.’
She drew in her breath before she could make a sharp reply. Now was not the time for temper.
‘Very well.’
Silence stretched between them.
‘Why will you not talk to me about your brother?’ She tried again. ‘You made me tell you about the marks on my back, the beatings. You gave me comfort.’
‘It is not the same.’
‘Why not?’ she persisted, hoping to break through the barrier that he had so effectively built around the painful wounds. ‘Scars are the same whether on the body or soul. Talk to me about Richard, Hugh.’ He noted her use of his given name, still something rare, but he still rejected her attempts at reconciliation.
‘You know all there is to know from Aunt May. I can tell you nothing more.’
‘But I care that you have been maligned. How could anyone possibly believe that you would harm your brother?’
‘You do not know me,’ he said bitterly. ‘How do you know what I am capable of?’
She put out a hand as if to touch him, to offer comfort. He drew back, imperceptibly, but she sensed his reaction. It hurt.
