Lady August
Becky Michaels
Mildred Press
LADY AUGUST
Copyright © 2021 by Becky Michaels
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Cover Illustration and Design by Leni Kauffman
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E-Book: 978-1-7351401-2-4
Paperback: 978-1-7351401-3-1
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By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, by any means, is forbidden without written permission from the author/publisher.
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Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, by any means, is forbidden without written permission from the author/publisher.
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CONTENT WARNING: Domestic violence; drinking; bullying; parent death; sibling death; child abuse; attempted sexual assault; miscarriage-related depression; possible suicide by overdose
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www.MildredPress.com
For my mom
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Becky Michaels
Prologue
Kent, England
August 1795
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It all started with a dare. Samuel Brooks sat beneath Lord Bolton’s desk with his knees pulled into his chest, arms tightly wrapped around them, desperately attempting to make himself as small as possible. If Lord Bolton had discovered him five minutes earlier, perhaps the man wouldn’t have been upset with him. But now that Lord and Lady Bolton had launched into a vicious row, Samuel desperately wanted to disappear. He pulled his knees in tighter, holding his breath as he listened.
“How could you?” Lady Bolton asked. She spoke loudly; her husband had closed the study door behind them when they first entered so no one else would hear—no one else except Samuel, out of sight underneath the man’s desk. “And with Sarah Rowe, too! She is practically a child, barely out of her leading strings. Have you no respect for me at all?”
Although he couldn’t see him, Samuel was sure Lord Bolton was glaring at his wife the same way his father often looked at his mother. “How could I?” Lord Bolton echoed incredulously. He laughed slightly. “An easy question, Charlotte, with an obvious answer. At least Miss Rowe lets me into her bed!”
Lady Bolton groaned. Samuel thought he heard her sit down on the settee across from the desk. He inhaled sharply, moving his hand to cover his mouth. There was a small space between the floor and the desk. If Lady Bolton’s eyes drifted downward, she might notice him there if she looked closely enough. He tried to stay very still.
“When are you in Linfield long enough to take advantage of such pleasures?” Lady Bolton asked. “I never let you in my bed because you are never here. You spend half your year in London!”
Lord Bolton gave an annoyed huff. “What would you have me do? Relinquish my seat in the House of Lords?”
“Of course not!” Lady Bolton exclaimed. “But you could at least give up your mistress and make an effort to spend more time here with your wife and children. You may not realize it, but when you are not here, they do miss you. I miss you.”
There was a brief silence. “Do not bring Charles and Rosamund into this.”
“How can I not?” Lady Bolton sniffed. “They are your children, and you would rather gad about with an eighteen-year-old chit than spend time with either of them—or me for that matter.”
Samuel frowned. Lady Bolton sounded like she was on the verge of tears. He wanted to crawl out from under the desk and comfort her—like he often did for his mother in uncomfortable and tense moments like these—but he feared Lord Bolton’s reaction if he showed himself now.
If Lord Bolton were anything like his father, Samuel would be in for an awful thrashing after overhearing all that. His parents had similar conversations back home at Dover Street—loud and angry, with the same wild accusations over and over again, often ending with his mother crying. Unfortunately, Dover Street was much smaller than Linfield Hall, and there were fewer places to hide and not listen, so Samuel received many thrashings as a result, for he was always overhearing things he shouldn’t. He shuddered only thinking about the beatings. He often wished he could stay at Linfield long after the summer, but now he wasn’t so sure.
The conversation between Lord and Lady Bolton continued for a few more minutes until Lord Bolton finally left the room, slamming the door behind him. Lady Bolton began to sob soon afterward, and Samuel debated what to do next. He eventually resolved to stay hidden beneath the desk where it was safe until she left.
Samuel remained quiet for a few moments, listening to Lady Bolton cry, feeling as though he might soon start crying himself when he felt a tickle in his throat. He tried to silence himself, but it was too late. He let out a small cough. Lady Bolton stopped crying right away.
“W-who is there?” she asked, her voice cracking as she spoke.
Samuel shut his eyes tightly, fearing what would come next. He heard Lady Bolton stand up, her emerald-colored skirts swishing around her feet as she walked from the settee to behind the desk. She pulled out Lord Bolton’s leather chair, then bent at the waist, meeting Samuel’s frightful gaze with one of her own.
“Samuel?” she asked, her look softening.
To Samuel’s relief, she sounded more confused than angry. He offered her a sheepish glance, then crawled out from underneath the desk. Standing in front of Lady Bolton, he slowly looked up at her, an obvious timidness to his movement. Her eyes were as red from crying as her hair, and she held a crumpled silk handkerchief in her hand. She tilted her head to the side, mouth slightly open as she regarded the young boy in front of her.
“Have you been here all this time?” she asked.
Samuel looked down again, then slowly nodded.
“Oh, Samuel,” she breathed. She knelt, making herself the same height as him before reaching out to hold him gently by his shoulders. “What were you doing in Lord Bolton’s study in the first place?”
Although Samuel was eight and didn’t like to cry—his father explicitly forbade it—he found himself bursting into tears at the question. “R-Robert dared me to take one of L-Lord Bolton’s bottles of brandy. I am s-so sorry, Lady B-Bolton. I promise I didn’t hear anything. I swear!”
“Oh, dear,” Lady Bolton said, taking Samuel by the hand before standing up. She led him to the settee where they could sit together. “Do not cry, Samuel. I am not angry.”
“You aren’t?” Samuel asked, hiccupping.
He watched, bewildered, as Lady Bolton dabbed his tearstained cheeks with a dry patch of her handkerchief. She smiled at him, and Samuel slowly stopped crying. He remembered why he loved coming to Linfield every summer, even if it meant playing with Charles’s annoying neighbor Robert from time to time. Linfield was a peaceful respite from his ow
n home’s harshness back on Dover Street in London. Even his younger sister, Lucy, seemed happier at Linfield, riding ponies or playing dolls with Rosamund, Lady Bolton’s daughter.
“No,” she replied with a sigh before shooting a pointed look at him. “Although I do wish you had not overheard all of that. In the future, Samuel, if you ever find yourself in a similar situation, you should make yourself known.”
“You’re right, Lady Bolton,” Samuel said, sniffing and nodding. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was only afraid of what you and Lord Bolton might do if you discovered me.”
“Afraid?” Lady Bolton asked, furrowing her brow. She studied him carefully. “Whatever for?”
Samuel looked down, frowning. “Bad things happen when adults argue.” He shyly glanced up at Lady Bolton, who studied him closely, her eyes filled with concern. “For instance, when my parents argue, I take Lucy to the attic. Mama says it’s best to hide whenever Father’s in one of his moods.”
As he spoke, Lady Bolton began chewing her bottom lip as if she were thinking very carefully. “Do your parents often argue, Samuel?” she finally asked, speaking slowly. When he hesitated in answering, she swiftly added, “You can be honest with me.”
Still, Samuel found himself unable to answer. He wasn’t sure why. Lady Bolton sighed.
“Fine. If you don’t wish to speak to me, then we must come to some sort of agreement if I’m to let you leave this study.” Samuel’s eyes widened, but Lady Bolton remained calm and spoke very softly. “If you promise not to tell Charles and Rosamund what you heard today, I will let you take one of Lord Bolton’s bottles of brandy. And if you ever want to speak to me about your parents, I promise not to tell anyone, either.”
His eyes still wide, Samuel watched as Lady Bolton stood up and moved to the sideboard where Lord Bolton kept an array of liquor bottles and glassware. She reached for a mostly empty bottle and brought it back to where Samuel sat on the settee.
“I am afraid motherly duty only allows me to help you so much,” Lady Bolton said as she handed the bottle to him. Samuel inspected the inch of amber-colored liquid swirling at the bottom of the bottle, then looked back at Lady Bolton.
“What do you think of Robert?” she asked suddenly, moving to the window behind the settee. She crossed her arms, looking across Linfield’s massive lawn toward the patch of trees in the distance, where his friends were playing in the old forester’s lodge.
Lady Bolton looked back at Samuel, who was peering at her over the back of the settee. He shrugged. He didn’t particularly care for Robert, but Charles and Charles’s cousin, Edward, seemed to enjoy his company.
“I never realized a child of eight could be such a brute,” she said, coming back around to the front of the settee and sitting beside Samuel once more. Samuel wasn’t familiar with the word, but it did sound like the right way to describe Robert. “Lord Bolton is already trying to arrange a match between him and Rosamund.”
“A match?” Samuel echoed.
“Ah—he speaks. A match means marriage, my dear. An arranged marriage seems rather primeval in this day and age, though.”
Samuel made a face of disgust, causing Lady Bolton to laugh. Samuel ignored her.
Robert and Rosamund? He couldn’t imagine them being husband and wife; Robert was five years older than Rosamund! And Samuel was sure he was a brute like Lady Bolton said—whatever that meant.
Although most eight-year-old boys didn’t dream of marriage, Samuel already abhorred the idea. His parents always seemed so unhappy, and now he realized Lord and Lady Bolton were no different. Were all marriages so disastrous?
“Well,” Lady Bolton said with a sigh, “I suppose all that is not your concern.” She eyed the bottle of brandy that Samuel now held, then looked back at him. She waved her hands. “Run along now. And do make sure no one sees you with that.” He moved to get up, but Lady Bolton stopped him, placing a gentle hand on his forearm. She leaned in close, giving him a warning look. “And do not let Charles have any.”
Samuel nodded, though he knew there was no chance of that. Charles tended to do whatever Robert did, even if it meant risking bodily harm. He recalled last year when Robert dared Charles to climb the tallest tree at Linfield. Halfway up, Charles slipped and fell. The result? A broken arm. The rest of the summer was spent inside the nursery, having tea parties with Lucy, Rosamund, and Rosamund’s numerous dolls.
Truthfully, it was one of the best summers of Samuel’s life, and if he were honest, he thought he might prefer Rosamund’s dolls to Robert.
Bottle of brandy in hand, Samuel left the study, dashing through Linfield’s halls and out the front doors before making his way across the estate’s massive green lawn toward the forest at its edge. The sun hung high in the sky, beating down on Samuel, his face and neck tanned from what had been a dry and hot summer. When he reached the trail that led into the forest, he found himself thankful for the shade from the trees towering above him.
The lodge, long abandoned by the earl for more profitable pursuits across other parts of the estate, sat on the side of a small hill five minutes down the trail. Samuel slowed when he reached it, carefully climbing the rocky path that led to the lodge’s front porch. He gave the special knock at the door, then listened. He heard the other boys whispering inside, a shuffle of movement, then the unlatching of the lock. Charles was the one who opened the door, just a crack at first. His eyes drifted down toward the bottle of brandy in Samuel’s hand. When their eyes met again, Charles was smiling.
“You did it,” he said, pulling open the door all the way. He turned back to the other boys. Robert and Edward were sitting on a blanket spread out on the floor between the unlit hearth and a dusty old settee.
“He did it,” Charles repeated, walking back toward the boys and sitting on the floor with them. Samuel stepped into the lodge, joining the others after latching the front door behind him. He glanced at Robert, who looked unimpressed.
“Took you long enough,” Robert said with a scowl. He leaned across the blanket, snatching the almost empty bottle of brandy from Samuel’s hands. “Was this the best you could do?”
Samuel glanced at Charles and Edward, who sat at his sides. Robert seemed to tower over them, even when they were sitting. His size was intimidating, but Samuel still met Robert’s critical gaze directly.
“Yes,” he replied, not daring to mention the scene with Lord and Lady Bolton in the study or that Lady Bolton chose a bottle that was nearly empty on purpose. His eyes nervously shifted from Robert to Charles and then Edward, who gave him an encouraging look. With bright red hair that rivaled his aunt’s, Edward had been on the receiving end of one of Robert’s ridiculous dares on more than one occasion himself.
Samuel turned back to Robert, swallowing. “That was all I could find.”
Robert rolled his eyes at Samuel’s response, taking the bottle’s cork between his fingers and thumb and yanking it free. He took a swig, then offered the rest to Charles. Samuel held out his hand in protest. “Wait!” he exclaimed.
Charles turned and looked at him, confused. Lady Bolton’s face flashed in Samuel’s mind. He saw her blue eyes, swollen from crying. Do not let Charles have any.
Samuel blinked. Robert’s face came into focus once more, and he was looking at Samuel as if he were mad. “Are you sure we should be drinking it?” Samuel asked, his words rushed yet apprehensive at the same time.
“Why else would I dare you to go get it?” Robert asked, grinning as if Samuel was a prize idiot. Charles remained quiet, staring at the bottle in Robert’s outstretched hand. Samuel decided he would have to appeal to his friend directly.
“Your mother wouldn’t want—” He was interrupted by Robert, who began guffawing as if Samuel were a court jester. Samuel did his best to ignore him, Charles’s gaze meeting his. “Your mother would be furious if she found us drinking your father’s brandy.”
Charles’s brow knitted, and there was a sharp twist in Samuel’s gut. Even without him
saying anything, Samuel already knew his friend would take Robert’s side on this.
“Why would we want you to steal it if we didn’t mean to drink it?” Charles asked. He started to laugh, turning back to Robert and taking the liquor bottle from him. “My friend Brooks is a strange one, isn’t he?”
Samuel watched as Charles brought the bottle to his lips. Without thinking, Samuel abruptly reached forward and pushed the bottle from his hands. It fell to the ground and shattered, the amber liquid spilling onto the blanket, staining it. The boys sat in silence, staring at the broken glass. One by one, they turned and looked at Samuel.
“What the hell, Brooks?”
“For God’s sake, Brooks!”
“What were you thinking?”
Samuel’s heart started to race. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking. Samuel didn’t want Charles to drink the brandy—he knew that much—probably because he didn’t want to disappoint Lady Bolton after the kindness she showed him earlier. Not to mention brandy always made his father angry and irritable, and Samuel already wondered if it would have the same effect on Charles. But how could he tell them that? They would call him all sorts of names, especially Robert.
In the end, Samuel stood up and ran out of the lodge instead of answering, the sound of Robert’s laughter following him to Linfield Hall. When he reached the safety of the empty nursery on the second floor, he walked to the window, where he could see Charles and the others coming from the forest across the lawn. Robert split off from Charles and Edward, probably returning to his family’s home, Sedgewick Park. Samuel turned away, frowning.
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