by Amelia Smith
“What happened?”
“Pneumonia, of course. What else? Least Richard had a hunting accident. Damned more manly way to go than in a sickbed all your life.”
“So Father...”
“Is learning the ropes up at Windcastle, or will be as soon as he's well enough to travel. I'm s'posed to go there, too, but now you're here.”
Thomas's heart sank.
“Don't look so cheerful, man. It's the richest estate in half of England!” Nathan said, squinting at Thomas's beard. “I was just about to step out to my club. Care to come along?”
Nathan’s horse snorted and stomped on the cobblestones. The gig looked as if it would be even faster than the mail coach, and not much more comfortable.
“I’ve just come up from Portsmouth,” Thomas said. “I thought I’d have a quiet drink here and collapse into a well-stuffed bed for the first time in a few months.”
Nathan shook his head. “Shame, it’s a very good club. I s'pose you can come another night?”
“I could,” Thomas said.
Nathan paused, looking less than pleased. “Harry, be a good man and hold the horse there for a moment.” He nodded to Thomas. “Come on in, then, Tom, if that really is who you are, and we’ll have a drink here.”
Thomas laughed. “I assure you, I am. And there’s no need to stay to greet me if you don’t want to. I'll still be here in the morning.”
Nathan followed him into the grand entry hall, where lamplight cast its sallow glow on Nathan's face. He was recognizable, but when Thomas had left England, Nate was a boy of fifteen who scarcely needed his chin shaved. He'd always had a tendency to make mischief, without the wit or guile to get away with it. None of that seemed to have changed, nor had his taste for drink slackened any with age. He had the same blondish hair, a little darker now, or maybe it was the light, the same green eyes, a little bloodshot already, maybe from the previous night's outing. He'd grown into an indolent drunkard, a perfect model of the Pently family's men.
“You do look quite dark, I do say,” Nate commented as they came inside. “I don’t remember Tom being so dark.”
Thomas sighed. “Of course I wasn’t. I hadn’t been four months on ships then, after a decade in the tropics. Even you would be darker after all that, if you weren’t cooked outright.”
“Sorry, old man,” Nathan said. “I didn’t mean it that way.” He looked Thomas up and down. “You do look different, though.”
“Well, you look a good bit different, too. Heavier, for one,” Thomas said.
“I suppose I do,” Nathan said. “Come on into the library,” he invited. He tried the handle of a massive oak door, and, finding it locked, looked about for the man with the key.
“Where is that confounded Harry when I need him?” he said.
“Outside, holding your horse, I believe,” Thomas said.
“Oh, confound it!” Nathan said. “I really didn’t expect you tonight. I suppose I knew you were coming back sometime, since Jones mentioned that your trunks had arrived…”
“They’re here, then?” Thomas said. “Well, that’s one bit of good news.”
Nathan stood awkwardly in front of the library doors, the massive house looming around them. Portraits and carpets lined long corridors stretching into the far reaches of the house. A light bobbed up from the servants' stairs.
“Look,” Thomas said, “I’m sure the servants will be able to look after me tonight, and I’ll see you at breakfast.”
“Ha,” Nathan said. “I don’t breakfast. But tea. We’ll have tea tomorrow.” He was halfway out the door before he finished speaking, but hesitated there until the man carrying the light had bustled up the hallway and bowed to Thomas.
Mr. Samuel Jones was a bit greyer around the temples than when Thomas had last seen him, but his suit was as impeccable as ever, even at this late hour.
The butler smiled. “You return at last, Sir Thomas,” he said.
“I was told I might have pressing business here,” Thomas answered.
“I’ve called for a room to be prepared for you. Have you dined?”
“No,” Thomas said, “but I won't want much. Bread, maybe.”
“Bread?” Nathan snorted.
Jones looked enquiringly at Nathan. “Would you like it here in the library?”
“No,” Thomas cut in. “Nate was just about to step out to his club, I believe.”
Nathan nodded. “So I was. Good night, Mr. Jones, Tom.” He nodded again to each of them and hurried to his gig.
Thomas tried to remember if he’d crossed swords with Nathan before he left, too. If he had, he'd forgotten it in the shadow of his quarrel with their father. He didn't expect a gushing welcome, but Nate had been nearly rude. No, he had been rude. But he was drunk. The morning would tell.
“Sir?” Mr. Jones said.
“Yes?”
“You must be very tired from your journey.”
“I am,” Thomas said. “And I’m sorry to have roused you from your rest.”
“It’s no trouble at all, I assure you,” the butler said. “We’re glad to have you back, Sir.”
“It is quiet here, now,” Thomas said.
“It always is, this time of year. We don’t expect your father or the duke to return until the season, but now that you're here... Will you be going to Windcastle?”
Thomas considered his options. If he wanted to play the part of the dutiful son, it would be best to go straight up to Windcastle, but it was four days' journey in summer, likelier six at this time of year, and he could justify a week’s rest in London. By that time it would be nearly Christmas, and by the time he reached Windcastle, his father and uncle could be on their way to London, depending on Parliament.
“I’ll write them a letter in the morning,” he said, “but for now, a good night’s rest is all I can think of.”
“Excellent. I’ll show you to your room.”
Thomas followed the butler up the once-familiar stairs to the second floor.
The butler paused at the top of the stairs and looked Thomas over. “Do you have a valet?” he asked.
“No, I come quite unencumbered,” Thomas said.
“I will send one of the men to you in the morning, and help you to make more permanent arrangements. I'll have the tailor call before nuncheon, with your permission.”
“I’m not up to standard, am I?” Thomas said.
The butler shrugged. “You can hardly have been expected to keep up in India, but you’re back in London now.”
“Yes,” Thomas said, “I suppose I am.” Jones would bring him up to scratch, and make sure he had the attire to uphold the family name, even if he went and forgot all his manners, like Nate had. The thought of a few new suits of clothes did have some appeal, after living out of one small trunk for months.
He slumped onto the sofa in front of the fire and sipped a glass of port. By the time the butler returned from the kitchen with a platter of bread and cheese, Thomas was snoring, his barely-touched drink at his side.
#
Aunt Celia's carriage collected Hyacinth and Maria late the next morning. They set off for Brighton after a quick farewell to Mrs. Hotham and a last glance in at Mr. Portnoy's school. The school was as promised; a decent establishment, clean but cheerful, and full of boys. George disappeared into their midst, emerging only for a quick goodbye. Mr. Portnoy proclaimed himself satisfied with George's intelligence and deportment and promised to send Hyacinth word if there was any need for her help, and to compel George to write to her fortnightly.
That was all. Hyacinth felt... empty. There was nothing for her to do. She didn't have to take care of George and she scarcely knew what would be expected of her at Aunt Celia's. Besides, Thomas was gone. She missed him. She shouldn't have, but she'd been kissed, if only that once. The other time, when she was younger, that hardly counted, now that she knew what a real kiss could be like, even if it did happen under cover of night, and for all the wrong reasons.
; She watched the countryside roll by while Maria dozed beside her.
“It's so bleak, isn't it?” Hyacinth said, when Maria roused a little.
“It will be beautiful in springtime, Mrs. Hotham said,” Maria mumbled, unconvinced.
They reached the outskirts of Brighton at early dusk. It was a smaller town that Portsmouth, but had more grand-looking houses than Hyacinth had ever seen all together.
The carriage drew up in front of a perfectly symmetrical brick house with gleaming white pilasters and an impeccably maintained front garden. The door swung open at their approach. By the time the coachman had set out a step for Hyacinth, Aunt Celia had emerged to greet her.
“My dear Hyacinth,” she exclaimed as she rushed to the carriage. “How are you?” She paused to look Hyacinth up and down, narrowing her eyes slightly. “You've grown into a rather beautiful young lady, I see.”
Hyacinth blushed and shook her head.
“You must be exhausted from your journey,” Aunt Celia said.
Although she was widowed and near forty, Aunt Celia was still rosy-cheeked and ebullient, clad in a trim-fitting gown with a low neckline, even when at home for an evening. A very young lady in a pink gown trailed her, and it took Hyacinth a moment to realize that this was her cousin Sophie, who she’d last seen as a toddling baby.
“I confess I am a little tired, but we had a good rest at Portsmouth last night,” Hyacinth said as Maria climbed down behind her.
“We?” Aunt Celia said.
“This is my maid, Maria,” Hyacinth explained.
Aunt Celia frowned. “We may have a spare bed in the servant's quarters. Does she speak English?”
“I do, M'um,” Maria said, curtsying awkwardly.
“Harold! Take the Spanish girl to the kitchens and have Mrs. Murphy find her a place to sleep.” Maria glanced briefly at Aunt Celia then retreated with the servants. Harold, the coachman, shouldered her trunk and led her off without so much as a smile. Hyacinth looked after them until they rounded the corner of the house, then her attention was drawn back to the young lady in the pink gown, hovering behind her mother.
Celia allowed her daughter to step forward.
“Cousin Sophie!” Hyacinth said. “You've grown so much. I wouldn't have known you.”
Sophie blushed. “I don’t remember when you were here before, but I’ve heard so much about you that I am quite looking forward to getting to know you better.”
“And I am glad to meet you again, too,” Hyacinth said. “You're only a few years older than George, but you're certainly much more grown-up!”
“Who's George?” Sophie asked.
Aunt Celia froze, frowned, then glared at Hyacinth.
“Sophie,” she said quietly, “would you please step inside and tell Mrs. Murphy that your cousin has arrived?”
“But she already knows that!” Sophie protested.
“Sophie!” Aunt Celia raised her eyebrows.
Sophie’s shoulders slumped and she gave Hyacinth a timid smile before dragging her feet back up the steps and closing the door behind her.
Aunt Celia took Hyacinth by the arm and led her towards the house, one slow step at a time.
“My dear,” she said, “you are always welcome in my house, and it is understandable that you would want to bring your maid along, but please do not mention that... boy. I’m afraid I cannot countenance it.”
“He’s your nephew,” Hyacinth said.
Aunt Celia raised her left eyebrow again and shooed the servants away. “That is beside the point. He is none of my business.”
“Well, he is mine,” Hyacinth said. “Father charged me with the task of seeing George settled in a school here. I've been looking after him since his mother died four years ago.”
Aunt Celia shook her head. “Well, maybe you have developed some attachment to him, but I simply can’t have people talking about it. I have mentioned to several acquaintances that you are coming, and it was hard enough to distract them from the old scandals, not to mention your… mother’s name, which is still remembered.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Hyacinth said.
“You shouldn’t be,” Aunt Celia said with a frown. “You’ll see, if you're not careful, but I hope to shelter you from all that. It will be quite impossible if people, the right people, the people you ought to be on the best of terms with, learn that my brother’s Spanish by-blow has come to roost in England.”
“I’m sorry that you feel that way,” Hyacinth said. Surely her aunt knew that half the men in the Navy, not to mention merchants and seamen, left children scattered around the globe, and it didn't seem to bother them in the slightest? Of course women, especially society women, were held to a different standard, but George was still her brother, and she cared more for him than she did for Society's opinion. Clearly, Aunt Celia had other ideas.
“I have only your best interests at heart, Hyacinth,” Aunt Celia said. “I presume your father sent funds to provide for his by-blow?”
“For George. Yes, he did,” Hyacinth said. “And it is a good school.”
“Well.” Aunt Celia hesitated at the door of the house. “Well, you had better just leave it at that, then, and do not mention the boy in polite society. Which includes my house.”
“I suppose,” Hyacinth said.
“Good.” Aunt Celia took a deep breath. “Now, let's go in and prepare for supper. Mrs. Murphy will show you to your room and your maid will be along shortly, I'm sure,” she said. She had a tone of voice which suggested a suspicion of all things foreign, especially foreign maids. Harold had re-appeared from the direction of the kitchen and picked up Hyacinth's trunk.
Hyacinth was halfway up the stairs when Aunt Celia called to her again.
“Oh, and dear?” she said cheerily. “There's a letter that came for you last week. I've left it on your table. A Mr. Butler. I hope you don't have an understanding with him. You have all the eligible bachelors in London still to meet. Wouldn't do to make your choice too soon!”
Mr. Butler? Hyacinth thought. Oh! Her grandmother's solicitor. She laughed, but fortunately Aunt Celia was already halfway down to the kitchen. She didn't need to reply to her aunt's concerns about Mr. Butler. Yet. Whatever he was, he certainly wasn't a suitor.
#
The letter was a curt note asking her to send word once she had arrived in England, and saying that Mr. Butler would not be able to make the journey to Brighton to meet her, and could she come to London at her earliest convenience. Hyacinth wondered, for the first time since coming to shore, what her grandmother had left her, and why.
She had hardly even met her maternal grandmother. Although her grandmother had visited them often when she was an infant, she remembered nothing from those years in Portsmouth. Hyacinth’s earliest memories were of playing beside her mother in their walled garden on Malta, with the bright sunshine bouncing off the whitewash and cheerful bougainvillea climbing up the walls.
There was one memory, though. It came from that summer she had spent with Aunt Celia, after her mother had died.
From the nursery window at the Talbot estate, Hyacinth saw a post-chaise drive in through the gates. A tall lady sat at the reigns, and a pair of grooms followed on horseback. It was a curious sight, so Hyacinth dropped her book and ran to the top of the stairs, where she could observe without being seen.
The butler opened the door.
“Please inform Lady Talbot that I am here to see my granddaughter,” the woman said.
“I hardly think that would be a…” the butler stopped in mid-sentence. There was a long silence before Hyacinth heard his heels click down the corridor to the breakfast room.
She peered over the banister, but only managed to see the lady’s purply-blue gown. Aunt Celia had been teaching her about fashion, and she could tell that it was exquisite, just the kind of thing Aunt Celia would praise, and yet the butler had been practically uncivil to the visitor. It was all quite curious.
At the sound of Aunt Celia
’s footsteps on the carpet below, Hyacinth darted back from the edge.
“I should think you would know better than to come here,” Aunt Celia said, without preamble.
Hyacinth was shocked. She’d never heard Aunt Celia be so rude.
“I was merely passing,” the woman said, her voice clear and calm. “I would like to see my granddaughter.”
“Well. This is my house, and it’s up to me to decide whom Hyacinth sees when she’s in my charge. I hardly think it would be appropriate…”
Hyacinth’s pulse thumped in her ears. She could hardly believe it. Was this her other grandmother, the one her mother had told her so much about? She froze for a moment, torn between fear of Aunt Celia’s displeasure and curiosity. Curiosity won.
Hyacinth, who was small for her age but quick, dashed down the stairs and ran for the door.
“Hyacinth!” Aunt Celia screeched.
The other lady turned to Hyacinth and smiled as Aunt Celia reached out to restrain her niece. The visitor raised her eyebrows. Aunt Celia stepped back.
Hyacinth’s Grandmother Miller was tall for a lady. She powdered her hair in the fashion of her youth, and she might have worn paint, but none that was obvious to Hyacinth’s untutored eye.
“You are the image of your mother when she was a girl,” the old lady said.
“But with her father’s nose,” Aunt Celia said coldly. “I beg you, leave at once! If you do not, I will have you bodily removed.”
Grandmother Miller knelt down so that she was at eye level with Hyacinth. “I am glad that I have had a chance to see you, if only for a moment, but it appears I am not welcome to stay,” she said. “Send my regards to your father. I hope we may meet again some day.”
“So do I,” Hyacinth said.
Grandmother Miller squeezed her hand and left without a word, taking up the reins and driving straight-backed away from the Talbot house.
Aunt Celia was in a high temper after that, but did not punish Hyacinth except to give her a stern warning:
“You will not speak of that woman again, not in this house, and above all not with my neighbours. Is that understood?”
Hyacinth had nodded, not understanding why her aunt’s wrath was so dire. She was not prepared to face it again, not now, when she was only just setting foot in England.
