We have been close since the incident, and I have been reunited with my family since my father’s death. One of the initial attractions to restoring Dunstanburgh is its proximity to my family. It is naught but 15 miles from Lyonn Manor.
I recently finished reading The Castle of Otranto and am starting The Surprising Adventures of Baron Munchausen. Have you read either by chance? I would welcome your thoughts. To this day, I remain
Your greatest admirer,
Sebastian
To my admirer from afar,
I am touched you shared the personal memory. Annick does sound more than fluff from your estimation. I wish I could thank him for saving you, for without him, you would not be in my life. Why were you estranged from your family? You’ve not mentioned an uncle. Did he pass some time ago?
I have not read either of the books you mentioned in your correspondence. Shall I? I will check the circulating library, although our collection is dismally small. I’ve been reading Thomas Clarkson’s essay on slavery and am currently reading William Blake’s Song of Innocence. I doubt you’ll have heard of Blake. Papa met him at an intellectual meeting this Season, and he was kind enough to gift Papa a book.
Papa says Blake has ideas about women’s rights to happiness and marrying without love that moved him to tears and helped him better understand my views. While I found the poems beautiful, they are tragically sad and hit close to home, for a great many of the tin mines in Cornwall still use children as laborers. Speaking of slavery, Papa wants me to inform you he has been working with William Wilberforce MP on a bill to abolish the slave trade. I believe he valued your conversation in London and would wish to know your thoughts. This is where I prompt you to write to Papa.
Yours,
Lizbeth
My dearest Lizbeth,
I don’t wish to be a naysayer, but the bill will never pass the House of Lords. I have penned a letter to your father, as requested, with humble insight that may strengthen his cause. In the letter, I warn him that while there are potential advocates of such a bill in the Lords, the current majority will never pass it.
You’ll be interested to know, I live not far from the North Sea. You missed a coastal walk today that would rival your cliff of myths. All it lacked was you by my side.
I have enclosed with this letter a gift. You should know that I am
Always yours,
Sebastian
Chapter 16
With a bonnet for a pillow and the grass for a chaise, Lizbeth lounged at the top of a cliff, re-reading Sebastian’s letters for the hundredth time. The edges were creased and the ink smudged. He had written faithfully every week.
The autumn winds of mid-August and the song of the seagulls dampened all sounds aside the rustle of letters in her hands. The letters had become her lifeline to a fairy tale. For all her dogged determination to forget him, the possibility of a second chance began to overshadow her deepest fears of unrequited love.
Perhaps he hadn’t spurned her after all. Perhaps she had read too much into his actions after the kiss, expected too much from him. His renewed attentions enlivened the fantasy of the perfect mate. These letters made her giddy, fluttering her heart as an eclosed butterfly.
It all seemed ridiculously silly to be infatuated with a man who twice had turned his back after sharing moments of intimacy, but she justified his actions so as not to spoil his renewed attentions. After all, he may feel the same reservations as she, the same fears of commitment, all of which could be overcome in time as they established trust.
She laughed to learn her sister lived in a home named Lyonn Manor when she would have guessed Sebastian would live in a Lyonn Manor and Drake in a Duckling Park. Unlike his many letters, her sister had written only once, informing Liz the new marriage was going splendidly, better than she could have dreamed. Liz doubted her sister’s professions, but she did respect her sister’s decision to make the best of her choice without hints of regret.
She held Sebastian’s letter to her nose, the scent of him lingering to the pages. She imagined him sitting on a stone throne in his castle, his mane loose about his shoulders, lips curved in a sardonic smile, affectionately seducing her with his eyes.
The plan to be a lady’s companion was still viable, certainly the most realistic plan, more so than a future with him. But what if Sebastian renewed his attentions with fervor? What if he increased his flirtations? What if he showed up at her doorstep to sweep her off her feet?
She feared hoping too deeply. He could close the door again at any moment. Or even worse, he could continue to write to her forever into their dotage, only ever teasing, only ever a friend.
All her foot stomping that he would only ever be a friend now stirred anxiety that her original wish may be granted. She didn’t want to be proven right. She wanted to be proven that love was real, that fairy tales do come true.
As if to declare his affection, three gifts accompanied his most recent letter.
Two custom bound books, Estoire de Merlin and Suite du Merlin, both written in French and both containing the handwritten inscription “To My Lady of the Lake,” had already been read and re-read enough times she could recite from them by heart.
She liked the Estoire de Merlin the best, for it contained the early history of Arthur and Merlin. The Suite du Merlin introduced Excalibur and the Lady of the Lake. She needed to acquaint herself better with the legend to keep up with Sebastian’s passion for the lore, especially if that passion had helped him see the light during a time of darkness, as he had mentioned in London.
The third gift lay against her chest, a miniature painting the size of her thumb of the churning sea with hurling mist and foam mid-splash against a rock.
He had given her the sea.
On the days she wore her cameo, she slipped the miniature into her stays so it would remain close to her heart. On other days, she fastened it to a chain to wear as a necklace. Sebastian understood her kinship to the sea. For a man to recognize her love for the sea surely meant him destined for more than friendship.
Salt permeated the air, tickling her nose. Lizbeth closed her eyes and listened to the wind whipping around the cliff, the water licking the rocks, the sheep bleating in the pasture.
Rising from euphoria, she packed the now empty basket with her letters and the Estoire de Merlin, donning her bonnet. The sun played hide and seek in the low-lying clouds above, threatening to overcast the hills and valley below.
Anxious to reach home before the rain, she started on her trek. She wanted to write him a letter before dinner, telling of her exploits with the miners. Three times a week she brought them baskets of food. The week before, she had done more than bring sandwiches, pasties, and well wishes. She spent every morning of her visit that week with a small hammer in hand working alongside the Bal Maidens as they broke apart the ore brought up by the men in the mines.
While Mama and Papa had always taught her respect for the workers, it was Sebastian she thought of when she made the decision to dirty her hands and soil her gown.
His words of building houses and plowing fields sunk deep into her soul, showing her there was more to being a kind employer than bringing treats and smiles. The nights she spent crying over Blake’s poetry and listening to Papa talk about the slavery abolition bill strengthened her resolve to do more for the miners so they would know appreciation for their work.
There was still a difference, despite her good intentions. She could work for a few hours, then go home to comfort and a lady’s maid. Her livelihood didn’t depend on a day’s worth of dirty and dangerous work. The crossing of the line between master and servant was a step in the right direction, all the same, and she knew Sebastian would appreciate her efforts, although she didn’t want her kindness to be construed as bragging.
No sooner had she walked into Teghyiy Hall than she spotted a letter from Charlotte. The ducal
seal emblazoned in red wax distinguished it from the other missives. She set her basket and bonnet on a table and shrugged out of her pelisse, laying it next to the other discarded items.
As she picked up the letter, Papa descended the stairs.
“Myttin da, my bird. Good mornin’! ‘ave ye been at the mines all mornin’ like?” He squeezed his widened girth between the snug arms of his favorite chair.
“I have. Eseld should be having her baby soon. I caught her hammering again and walked her home myself for rest and a fresh cuppa. I told her no working until the baby comes.”
“Ah. Old ‘abits die hard, and Eseld is some hard worker. Is that another letter from yer man then?” He nodded to the still unopened letter in her hand.
“He’s not my man, Papa. And no, it’s a letter from Charlotte. Would you like me to read it aloud?”
“Ya! Read it, my dove. Let’s see what she says now that she’s paused in ‘er busy life to send word. Maybe a happy word about a babe herself, eh?” He winked. “Wouldna’ be grand? I’d be a grandpapa!”
Liz broke the seal and unfolded the stationary with the engraved house name in gold under the ducal cornet.
My dearest sister, Lizbeth,
I fear I’ve made a terrible mistake. I loathe it here. Drake ignores me as though I were not here. I see him only at dinner because his mother requires attendance. I am nothing more than her puppet. I despise her. She controls everything I do, watching me, berating me, reminding me of my duties. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. Please come to me. You’ll know what to do. I’ve taken the liberty to send a missive to Aunt Hazel, along with a banknote to cover costs of transport, inns, et cetera. Please say you’ll come, Lizbeth. Awaiting your response, I am
Your grieved sister,
Charlotte Annick
After a tangible silence, Papa spoke first. “We can be assured never to say he’s a pinch-penny.”
“Oh, Papa. I feared this would happen. I was doubtful about her first letter, but I was so proud of her for taking the situation into her own hands. There’s nothing I can do for her now!” Lizbeth waved her hands in exasperation, letter clenched in her fist.
“Go to her. Bring a piece of home to her. Help her turn this into a life she’ll love. Only you can do that, my bird, and Charlotte knows that. While yer there, see about sweethearting that fellow of yours.”
“Papa! Charlotte is grieving and all you can think of is that?”
He shrugged exaggeratedly, smiling wickedly. “Charlotte made ‘er choice and will soon see how ‘appy she can be. A babe is what she needs ter set things ter right. You, my bird, ‘ave a second chance to snare that man o’ yers. I expect the first letter from ye to be a marriage announcement like.”
Chapter 17
The coachman rapped against the top of the carriage. In an unintelligible northern accent, he shouted, “Look tae ye left, marm! Ye’s’ll sae herry coos! Bet ye no’ be sae’n’em afore!”
Lizbeth stared wide eyed at Aunt Hazel. “What did that man say?”
The coachman continued bellowing at them. “Fella’ breeds ‘em, brought dern from Scotland. No’ but a wee bit farther north ye’s’ll sae wild whi’ chattel.”
Hearing only a series of grunting from the man, Liz raised her brows at her aunt.
“I believe, love, he’s talking about cows and cattle, though I’ve no idea why. Where did the good Lord send our Charlotte, I wonder.” Hazel peered outside, on the lookout for peculiar cows.
After a fortnight of traveling rough roads, first by Walter’s ambling carriage from Exeter to Birmingham, and then by post to expedite their travel, Lizbeth was desperate to stretch her legs with a walk and sit without being bounced and jostled like a rag doll.
At least she enjoyed seeing so much of the countryside. She did not, however, enjoy seeing the inside of the country inns along the way. Her aunt was right; bringing their own linens and cutlery for the overnight restorations saved them from a dirty fate. They had made good timing, all things considered, but this last leg of the journey had her feeling cramped.
Her legs ached, her back stiff, her priority a hot bath. Never again would she dare complain about the much shorter ride from London to Cornwall. Within the hour, she would have the ducal estate in sight.
She gazed out the window to admire the sea of heather, a blanket of fading purple on the land, the summer blooms shading to dull brown in patches.
They had passed undulating dales, oceans of flowers, small and flat hills, bubbling rivers along valleys, sunken hollows, brown moorlands, and now a vibrantly colored painting of wide meadows with clumps of autumn leaves nestled between high, rolling hills.
Lizbeth didn’t know what to expect when she arrived. It had been over two weeks since she received the letter from Charlotte. She could only imagine what state her sister would be in after two more weeks of misery. Much discussion had occurred during the trip, as Aunt Hazel and Lizbeth tried to develop a plan of action to help Charlotte come to terms with her new life.
They couldn’t save her from a poor decision. All they could offer was support and guidance on how to accept her decision and move forward with her life despite an inattentive husband and overbearing mother-in-law.
Walter and Hazel wanted to convince her to fall in love and make the duke love her in return, but that had been met with boos from Liz, as no one could make someone fall in love. Shushing Liz’s naysaying, Hazel said, in time, Charlotte and Annick would come to an understanding, just as all ton spouses did, and with a little encouragement from Charlotte, love would blossom.
That morning, over breakfast at the Black Swan Inn, they jotted a brief note to the manor of their pending arrival. Liz hadn’t slept a wink thanks to the boisterous voices from downstairs. Her stomach was knotted and her head ached.
The carriage banged and groaned as it descended a steep hill. Through a gap in a cedar grove, Liz glimpsed tall black spires, but before she could nudge Aunt Hazel to look, the view disappeared behind the tree tops.
Along the road, she spotted other hidden gems peeking through trees, a narrow river with a little walking bridge, a few garden follies, and a columned rotunda. The park surrounding the manor was rustic, naturalistic, with hints of luxury, rewarding those who investigated the wilderness walks. As much as she should be thinking of her sister, she already itched to explore.
After another turn, the manor rose in sight of the carriage, a gothic palace. Rounded towers ornamented the otherwise flat-fronted facade; spires reached skyward; a staircase tower wound upwards three stories to the right of the front door. Liz counted fifteen windows across the front, but part of the house was obscured by a handful of trees, so there could have been more. A far cry from their humble five-bay hall.
Hazel tapped Lizbeth’s knee with her fan. “Lizbeth, darling, close your mouth before you drool on your dress. You’re gawking.”
Liz leaned back against the seat, embarrassed. The clop-clop of the horses slowed as they descended the drive. A row of servants standing at the front awaited the coach’s approach.
“Oh, Aunt Hazel. I had no idea it would be so grand. I feel silly for not expecting this.”
“Imagine living here. No less than 200 servants I would wager.” Hazel fidgeted with the plumes on her wide-brimmed hat.
“I wouldn’t want to live here. I would feel insignificant.” Liz touched her cameo to draw inner strength.
“We’ll live in the finest luxury has to offer for the next month, perhaps a touch longer, depending on Charlotte’s state, and then it’ll be home again before winter.”
The carriage lurched to a halt at the queue of servants. A footman rushed to the door to place steps and help down the women.
Charlotte stepped forward, beaming at her guests. Beside her stood Annick, as laced as ever with skin-tight buckskins and Hessian boots with silver tassels. Liz groaned at the sight o
f him.
On the other side stood two ladies Liz had never met, but it wasn’t difficult to surmise who was who. A haughty looking albeit impressively handsome older woman with a gold handled cane stood next to a bashful girl who could barely be sixteen years of age. The family resemblance was startling. Both ladies favored Sebastian with raven black hair, dark eyes, and the aristocratic nose, but their frames favored Annick, all with striking lithe figures.
It took a few moments to recover from the dowager duchess’ handsomeness, tall and graceful with high cheekbones and commanding eyes. She defined elegance and demanded admiration. The closer Lizbeth drew to her, the better she could see the signs of age, but such were limited and sparse, a bit of gray lacing the black hair, a few creases between her brows and around her mouth.
Next to her, Charlotte looked simply pretty, which Liz found shocking since Charlotte was considered the beauty of the coast back home.
Charlotte approached them, arms stretched to clasp hands. “I’m so happy you’ve arrived. Please, come meet my mother- and sister-in-law.” Holding their hands, she led Hazel and Liz towards the ladies.
Lady Mary eyed them curiously, Annick smiled gaily, and the dowager duchess scowled.
“My two favorite beauties!” Annick pulled both into an unexpected hug that defied genteel greetings. “Allow me, my wife.” He turned towards his mother, an arm wrapped around Lizbeth’s shoulders. “Mother, this is Miss Trethow. And this is Hazel, The Lady Collingwood.” He turned back to Hazel and Liz, relinquishing his grip at last. “And this is my mother, The Dowager Duchess of Annick, and my sister, Lady Mary.”
The widowed duchess condescended to incline her head a nearly imperceptible fraction of an inch.
Lady Mary’s welcome tumbled in a waterfall of excitement. “I’ve heard ever so much about you both. I believe we’ll all be the best of friends!”
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