Thornbrook Park

by Sherri Browning

  Three

  When Eve Kendal stepped off the train from London, she failed to notice Lady Averford’s driver waiting by the hackneys and horse-drawn carriages to take her to Thornbrook Park. The young fellow in the gray livery had to step forward and call her name from off to the side of the station, where he’d parked the motor car. She’d never thought to look for an automobile. But of course, Sophia, Lady Averford, had all the modern conveniences.

  “Mrs. Kendal,” he said, with a nod and a sweep of his just-removed cap.

  Eve had never ridden in a car. There were few of them in India, most in military use and not intended for civilian pleasure jaunts.

  “I am Mrs. Kendal.” Eve stepped forward and extended her hand. “And you are?”

  He looked at her gloved hand, as if a little taken aback by the gesture.

  “Dale. The chauffeur. Let me see to your bags.” He reached for her hand at last, a light touch before he brushed away and ran off to the porter.

  “Just the brown leather case, Mr. Dale,” she called after him. Her trunk had been shipped ahead, cargo class, but likely wouldn’t arrive for another week.

  Dale returned out of breath to help her into the car. The motor, once he started it up, purred like a hungry jungle cat from the wilds of Rajasthan. Other than the motor sounds and a faint petrol smell, the ride wasn’t much different than a ride in a horse-drawn carriage—slightly bumpy and not as fast as she’d hoped. But she could say she’d ridden in a car now, and that was something.

  They trundled through quintessential English pastoral scenes that cheered her, past white sheep grazing in green fields, broken intermittently by stretches of yellow rapeseed. The leaves had barely begun to turn, dots of gold and orange here and there scattered in the green. Home. How she had missed it all!

  In India, there was dust. Sand. Brown earth, water like clay. The people added color, though, wrapped in their hand-dyed silks and cottons, the same colorful fabrics that made up the tents of the bazaars. She already missed the spices, having been treated to last night’s bland English dinner. She’d finally acquired the skill to cook a long-simmering curry, rich and hot on the tongue, not that she would do much cooking now. It wasn’t proper for an Englishwoman to fuss in a kitchen with the help. On her own, though, she could break with convention—if the Dower House were far enough from the main house, and the staff could be trusted to keep secrets.

  Finally, they passed through the village, a quaint little square of shops, a tavern, and cobbled streets bustling with activity.

  “Thornbrook,” Dale said, with an edge of pride that suggested he might be a native.

  At the edge of the square, they passed a church and a manor house behind a low gate before pulling into a long, winding tree-lined drive.

  “The Dower House,” Dale tipped his head back in the direction of the manor house. Eve straightened up to get a better look, but they had already passed. “That’s the great house, up ahead.”

  All she could see were trees and a great stretch of green before they crested the hill and the rows of enormous gray chimneys came into view. Five, six, seven. She couldn’t count them all as the rest of the house gradually appeared, a veritable wonder of rose stone, standing in the middle of a hundred acres of good, green land. There would be farms not far off, surrounded by woods, and lakes well-stocked for hunting and fishing.

  A good old English country estate, Thornbrook Park, larger than she’d imagined but just as imposing. She should have felt at home, having grown up in such places, being doted upon and handed everything she could ever want. Everything except love, which she had found with Ben and lost again. Running off with him had been like escaping the pages of one book for another, a traditional fairy tale for a romantic adventure. Turn the page, and she was back in the traditional story, just like that, but it was hardly a fairy tale now.

  Her clothes weren’t up to princess quality, to be sure. She hadn’t shopped in ages. A number of her dresses were simple and black, dyed for mourning, and the rest were out of date. The old Eve, the girl, might have been mortified at not keeping up appearances. The new Eve, the woman, found she did not care. She would write a brand-new story of her own, a new beginning.

  The chauffeur came around to open the door and Eve stepped out, adjusted the coat over her black traveling dress, and inhaled deeply of the country air, a dank, earthy aroma she had never forgotten but missed more than she knew until now. Similarly, her heart surged when she caught sight of Sophia making her way down the steps to stand at the head of the few servants lined up along the drive.

  Sophia might be Lady Averford now, a countess, but she was still Lady Sophia, the graceful girl with the loping gait, as she crossed the drive to greet Eve, her once dearest friend. The old, familiar feelings came back to Eve: warmth, love, and the pang of inadequacy she felt standing next to her friend. Some things would never change.

  Eve wasn’t plain by most standards. Some had even called her pretty—golden-haired, rosy-cheeked, petite-framed. But Sophia was one of those rare breathtaking beauties, a glorious star shining bright enough to cast shadows over anyone in her proximity. The afternoon sun paused at the perfect juncture to frame Sophia in a halo of light as she stepped away from the house. The pale sky set off Sophia’s lustrous jet black curls, falling artfully from their chignon and not drooping like Eve’s own hair, which refused to stay put after hours of travel.

  Eve’s breath caught as she remembered the last time she’d seen Sophia, and the differences that had parted them.

  “Think of everything you’re giving up. Your family. Your friends.” Sophia had given Eve’s hand a tight squeeze. “For an army captain?”

  “For love, Sophia.” Eve had pulled her hand away. “True love. He’s the air I breathe. I can’t live without him. You, of all people, should understand.”

  Sophia hadn’t understood. She had already given up on their youthful “true love or die” pact, made over their dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre, when she consented to marry the Earl of Averford for fortune and position over love.

  “Eve Sinclair.” There was no sign of any lingering tension to cloud Sophia’s blue eyes as they exchanged cheek kisses and she stepped back to survey her friend. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Eve Kendal.” Eve studied Sophia’s elegant ensemble: a high-necked blouse tucked into a purple sash nipping in her tiny waist, and a long skirt of violet satin striped with orchid velvet, the height of fashion. “Lady Averford.”

  “Oh, my.” Sophia laughed and embraced Eve again. “Sophia, please. Let’s go inside. You’ve had a long journey. You’ll need some tea. And rest.”

  The butler greeted them as they neared the front door.

  “Welcome to Thornbrook Park, Mrs. Kendal.”

  “Mr. Finch, our butler.” Sophia gestured to him and walked on by, as if she were pointing out a hat stand or a new chair.

  Eve reached for his hand, apparently startling him. His gray eyebrows rose an inch, looking like the fuzzy caterpillars she used to hunt in the woods with her brother. She dropped her hand, realizing that she’d blundered in extending such courtesy to the butler, but she couldn’t muster any remorse. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Finch.”

  He was only slightly taller than Eve’s five feet two inches, with a few wisps remaining of his hair, a double chin, and kind eyes. “And you, Mrs. Kendal.”

  Eve had to run to catch up to Sophia, who hadn’t stopped. They walked down a short hall, over polished wood floors and oriental carpets, past a grand staircase, and through a wide double doorway into the drawing room, probably twice as large as the entire first floor of Eve’s house in Raipur.

  The tea cart was set up in one corner of the room, which had soft peach-colored walls, mauve velvet drapes, and an enormous window overlooking the gardens. There were two fireplaces and three separate seating areas including a grand piano in the far corner of
the room. With heavy wood accents, columns, large carved mahogany mantels, oriental carpets over wood floors, pastel-striped and floral upholstered furnishings, and fresh flower arrangements all around, the room was pleasing to both masculine and feminine sensibilities.

  “Your mother-in-law?” Eve paused at the portrait over the central fireplace. “The Dowager Countess of Averford?”

  Sophia turned, a flush on her cheeks. “How I would like to take it down and replace it with one of my own. But you know men and their mothers.”

  “No, I’m afraid that I don’t. Ben’s parents had passed away before we met. Is the earl devoted to her?”

  Sophia laughed. “Not exactly, but he feels the need to keep her portrait there. Perhaps he’s a little in awe of her.”

  “She looks harmless enough,” Eve said, trying to be friendly. “Sweet smile, gentle eyes. And that figure? Enviable for a woman her age.”

  “It was painted some twenty years ago. And clearly, you haven’t met her. The woman is a dragon, but I should keep my voice down. Some of the staff remain devoted to her. Let’s just say I’m pleased that she’s enjoying a prolonged stay in Italy.” She waved a hand dismissively and took a seat near the tea cart.

  Eve sighed and took a seat beside her friend. “You’ll laugh when I tell you that I envy you the mother-in-law, no matter how monstrous. I wish I had someone to love or despise, a connection. It’s better than being all alone.”

  Sophia patted Eve’s hand. “Easy to say when you’re safely removed from the situation. Strong or weak?”

  “I could do with a good strong cup today.” Anything to help rouse her. She’d barely slept last night, but it wouldn’t do to mention that Sophia’s brother-in-law had kept her up. She blushed at the very recollection. “With lemon.”

  “I still take mine the same.” Sophia poured. “Creature of habit. Splash of milk, two lumps.”

  Eve took the offered delicate porcelain cup. “And you used to spill some milk into a saucer for your aunt’s cat. You spoiled that cat when you thought no one was looking.”

  “Too true. No cats around here. Well, maybe in the barn. But Aunt Agatha is with me. And Alice.” Sophia nibbled her lip, as she always did when she was holding something back. Creature of habit, indeed.

  “Agatha and Alice, what a treat. I will get to see them soon, I hope.”

  “Soon enough.” Sophia twisted her fingers in her long strand of aquamarine beads. “They’re at the Dower House.”

  “The Dower House?” About to sip, Eve looked over the edge of her cup, then set it down. “Oh. I’ll have company. Is it large enough for the three of us to share comfortably?”

  Sophia met her gaze. “Eve, I’m so sorry. I offered you the Dower House, but then Alice and Agatha came along. I’m hoping to see Alice married, and of course, Aunt Agatha never had any proper place to be, having never married, so it seemed perfectly ideal to take her on as a sort of guardian for young Alice and—”

  “You set them up in the Dower House. Of course. They’re family. You’re saying there’s no room for me, then? I understand.” Her mind raced. Without the Dower House, what was she to do for accommodations? How much further could she stretch her dwindling widow’s pension?

  Sophia sat straighter, gaining height as she gained confidence. She placed her hand over Eve’s. “I don’t mean to turn you out, Eve. My goodness. What did you think?”

  “I don’t want to be a nuisance. I’ll find other arrangements.” It was just like Sophia to make promises she couldn’t keep and think nothing of the inconvenience to others. Eve shouldn’t have been so trusting, but she’d been in such a bind.

  “You’ll stay here, of course. In the house with me. It will be like old times. We’ll have adventures.”

  Adventures were often short-lived. If only she could have stayed at the Dower House, as they’d planned. She wouldn’t feel so in the way. “Young Alice, you said. Alice is one-and-twenty, is she not? We’re not speaking of a child. She doesn’t need constant supervision, one might hope.”

  Eve took a sip of tea and hoped she didn’t sound too judgmental. After all these years, Sophia apparently still treated her younger sister as if she were a babe and not a mere four years their junior.

  “One might.” Sophia shrugged. “But you know Alice. She never acts in her own best interests. To be honest, I had to take Agatha off Mother’s hands. Agatha has been having more of her spells. Father was threatening an exorcism. Bringing her here, with Alice, seemed to make the most sense.”

  “Agatha’s spells, yes. She’s still channeling the spirits?” Even as Eve put down her cup, she couldn’t help but wonder what Agatha might read in the tea leaves. Sophia’s eccentric aunt claimed to be in communication with the dearly departed as well as having a touch of the second sight. In fact, she had predicted that Sophia’s father would take a late-night tumble down the stairs, breaking his foot—and he had, keeping the family at home for most of the season, to Sophia’s relief. Sophia hated London. Agatha had also foreseen great tragedy in Eve’s life, though Eve and Sophia had laughed it off at the time.

  Agatha had been a great source of amusement and wonder to the two of them as girls. As they matured, though, the wonder faded and only amusement remained. The worst kind of amusement, Eve remembered with some regret. They’d been unkind to poor Agatha more than a few times. Eve felt all resentment dissipate. The obligation to protect Agatha from Sophia’s cantankerous father should take precedence over accommodating an old friend, even if that friend was Eve.

  “You know, I’ve come to admire Aunt Agatha,” Eve said. “Never married, she does what she likes, no concern for fashion or public opinion. We should all be more like Agatha, perhaps.”

  Eve meant to be. Why should she care what others thought or said about her? Except for the people who mattered, and Eve had precious few of those. Fortunately, she did have Sophia, who might raise an eyebrow at the state of Eve’s wardrobe but would never judge her for it. Not too harshly, anyway.

  Sophia leaned across the table and touched Eve’s leg-of-mutton sleeve. “She’s more insistent than ever that the dead speak through her. She held a séance with the servants. The table shook. A dish flew and crashed into a wall. The dogs in the kennel clear across the field started howling so loudly that you couldn’t hear yourself think. My maid quit on the spot and refused even to stay through the night.”

  “What fun!” Eve clapped. “Who needs a horrid old maid, afraid of a few ghosts? Good riddance. You do have a new maid?”

  “Mrs. Jenks.” Sophia nodded, pouring out more tea. “She’s not as meticulous as Bowles, but she’s skilled with a needle and thread. I’d hired her for Alice but ended up keeping her for myself and sending one of the housemaids over to tend the ladies of the Dower House. Speaking of Alice, I have a plan. It involves you.”

  “Aha. So we come to the heart of it, at last.” It wasn’t friendly generosity alone that had inclined Sophia to invite Eve to come and stay. Sophia needed her. The news actually soothed Eve a bit. It was better to be needed than to be tolerated.

  “Your letters from India were beautiful. I’ve never wanted to go there, but you made me dream of bazaars, spices, and men in turbans.” Sophia sighed. “The romance of it all. You were painting with words.”

  “I’m afraid I used rather broad strokes.” Eve shrugged. She hadn’t mentioned the fleas, the rats, the sandstorms, the riots, the Indians who were not at all pleased to have the British in their midst.

  Caught up in her plan, Sophia paid no attention. “I need you to write a letter to Lord Averford’s brother. I think he would be perfect for Alice, if only I could get him to visit. I’ve written a few times and he never answers. You might succeed where I have failed. Captain Thorne is an army man, like your Ben.” Sophia didn’t say more, but Eve detected the rest of the thought. Like your Ben, only from a noble family. “Oh, but you were at Averf
ord House. Did you meet him?”

  Eve hesitated. What could she say? If he did come, and she said that they’d met but he didn’t know her, one or both of them would look a fool. But if he remembered her? She suddenly felt weak, out of breath. She inhaled deeply to try and steady her nerves.

  “No, I didn’t have the opportunity. He got in quite late, and I was up and out so early. Our paths never crossed.” There. Perhaps that would serve. She prayed he had no recollection of her.

  “What a shame,” Sophia said.

  “Yes. A shame.” Eve wondered what it might have been like to meet Captain Thorne properly, perhaps over the breakfast table. She would ask if he wanted any butter for his toast, and he would look at her with those amber eyes and say please, before accidently brushing her hand when he reached for it. “Why don’t you tell me what you know of Captain Thorne? To help formulate this letter.”

  “Oh, you will do it then? I knew you would. Thank you, Eve. How I’ve missed you!” Sophia clapped, excited. “Come, to the writing desk.”

  ***

  The night air was chill and dank, and the reek of the Thames lingered thick in his nostrils well after his return to Mayfair from Bloomsbury and the Strand. Tonight, free of any sign of a black rage, he had only wagered on the fights instead of taking part, a good thing because his ribs were still sore from Harris’s hammering blows. He had done well, too. The Coopers would be set for the month, maybe two, on his winnings from the last match alone.

  He had set Prue’s mind at ease and ensured that her son wouldn’t have to return to work at the millinery, for now. But how long could he keep Brandon from falling in with a bad crowd, from growing up too fast on the streets of London? And after Brandon, what of Finn and the girls? The responsibility weighed on him. He’d never had to worry about anyone other than himself until he’d gone to war. Now, after the war, he had a whole family to consider and not even a wife of his own. Not that he wanted another obligation.