‘Then I shall leave you the carriage. If you need me, send word and I will be here in a flash.’
He kissed her hand, a polite nod to propriety in this, the home of it, then watched from the pavement as she climbed the three white steps to the house and she sensed him lingering even after the butler closed the door. Owen’s presence gave her strength, exactly as it always did, which was just as well because she would need it. The next few days would not be easy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘Is my brother here?’
‘He is, my lady. In the drawing room.’
‘And my father?’
‘Laid out in his bed. I expect you would prefer to visit him first…to pay your respects.’
‘Thank you, Maybury.’ At least she would get that over with first and perhaps see if she would feel something beyond the numbness which was all she seemed able to muster regarding his death. ‘Can you have some tea sent to the drawing room and tell my brother I shall be there presently.’
As was customary, a footman stood guard outside her father’s bedchamber. He bowed and opened the door, closing it quietly behind her as Lydia stepped inside. With the heavy velvet curtains drawn, it was dark, but even so the room still felt unfamiliar. Even when his health declined, she had only been invited in there a handful of times. This was very much his space, like so many rooms in this depressing house which no longer felt like home.
On the bed, still dressed in a nightgown, was the shadowy outline of her father and she walked towards it, waiting for some feeling, some remorse or grief to sting her, but when none came stared dispassionately at his corpse on the bed. Owen was right. Her father had been a difficult man to love. Impossible, in fact. In death, his face still appeared cruel and soulless. Deep frown lines were etched into his skin, a memorial to everything about life and people which had always disappointed him so.
Lydia allowed a minute to tick by, wondering how she was supposed to pay her proper respects when she had so little respect for the man in the bed. There were no tears. She was yet to shed a single one. Perhaps they would come later? And perhaps not. She was old enough to know duty and love were two entirely separate entities. As a Barton, she had always known her duty. As a daughter, she wasn’t sure she had ever felt love.
So many memories of this house flooded her mind—yet none of the scant few truly good ones involved him. All she could recall of her father seemed predominantly bad. There had been no laughter that she was sure of. She had never shared a joke with him, never whiled away a pleasant hour in conversation or they hadn’t even taken a walk together. He had never taken an interest in her and she knew better than to seek him out as that rarely ended well. He had been largely absent for so much of her childhood that as a girl she had always felt him a stranger. As an adult, she often wished he was still a stranger as she could only recall his disdain or his distance. He had never been a natural father.
Thank goodness Owen was. Seeing him with Gertie’s brood always brought a lump to her throat. And now they were lovers, perhaps one day soon she would be able to watch him with his own children. Perhaps that would help to heal the wounds in their past—although she could feel them already healing. This morning was a bump in the road, not a pothole…
With a sigh, she realised contemplating Owen was not what she was supposed to be there for and forced herself to stare back at the man who had fathered her for the last time. She didn’t hate him. How could one hate a stranger? She was detached. Indifferent. Eager to be gone.
In the hope she might feel some connection, she took his hand and still felt indifferent, the only thought entering her head was that she had no recollection of ever touching him before. His skin was papery, cold and alien. Not all of that could be blamed on death. If his blood ran through her veins, surely there would be something? But there wasn’t.
Then all at once the numbness lifted. Beneath it was still some residual anger for the shoddy and neglectful way he had treated her, but to her complete surprise, all that was being overshadowed as pity crept in. Not for all her father had suffered—more for all he had missed as she realised how dreadful it must have been to live a life completely devoid of love and laughter and joy, and all of that entirely self-inflicted. He had been too dictatorial. Too unforgiving. Too consumed in his own world, needs and ambitions to venture outwards to embrace anyone else’s.
What a sad waste of a life.
‘Rest in peace, Papa.’
She replaced his lifeless hand on his chest, thankful that she had failed to inherit any of those traits. She would have love and laughter and joy in spite of him and, thanks to this perennially detached and unsympathetic man, she would share those things with Owen. The one good thing he had done for her, for which she would be grateful to him for ever, albeit completely by accident. ‘Thank you.’
Respects, such as they were, paid, Lydia left him. Closing the door felt symbolic. Another pivotal moment. The decisive ending of her old life and a bold, fresh start to the new. In an odd sort of way it was like a weight being lifted from her shoulders, reminding her what was done was done. The past could not be altered, but the future could and would be shaped differently.
Back downstairs, she located her brother in their father’s study rather than the drawing room, rifling through the desk and, like her, he did not appear to be in the throes of deep mourning either.
‘I literally had to prise the key to this desk out of his cold, dead fingers, so hoped for a pleasant surprise or a hidden stash of money that he might have miraculously put by.’ He huffed and tossed a handful of papers to one side before he came towards her and kissed her cheek. ‘No such luck. Nothing but nonsense and more responsibilities. It’s going to take for ever to sort out.’
‘I could help if you wanted?’
‘Unless you have a spare thousand in your reticule, there’s nothing you can do… Although you could be the one to receive any visitors and show them Papa.’ He shuddered. ‘The sight of him dead turns my stomach.’ Then he glanced back at the papers as if they too greatly inconvenienced him.
‘Of course, he was too miserly and too suspicious to pay for a secretary, so he has left me a disorganised shambles to sort through on top of the shambles of the estate affairs he passed over to me when his health first failed. I suspect most of that is for the bonfire. Our father kept everything, it seems. Invitations and letters from eons ago. Every receipt and every bill. Everything, it turns out, except the thing we need the most—cold, hard cash to pay for his funeral.’ Twice in that unfeeling sentence he had alluded to the need for money. Did he expect her to lend him some when he hadn’t even had the decency to enquire after her health in the month she had been gone? Or to ask Owen when he couldn’t even utter her husband’s name without showing his complete disdain for him?
Before it showed on her face, she banished the irritation. Justin was her brother and therefore completely entitled to speak plainly. Knowing their father, he had left him a huge mess to sort out and her brother was probably not asking for a loan at all, merely venting out loud to the one person he could be entirely honest with.
‘There is bound to be some money, although I doubt he kept it lying around the house. It’s probably in a bank somewhere.’
‘Unlikely. He distrusted banks almost as much as he distrusted his family.’ There was no denying that. ‘But enough of that. Let’s have tea. I haven’t seen you in ages.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to respond with a terse “whose fault is that?”, but today wasn’t the day. Instead, she followed him into the drawing room. Unlike her husband, her brother would never dream of pouring the tea, so she took charge, all the while pondering how odd it felt to be back here. This house had been her home for six and twenty years, yet she had no attachment to it. It was bleak and soulless in comparison to her new home, the mantel clock ticking loudly in the void left by the distinct lack of conversatio
n. It was staggering how distant they had become as adults when as children they had got on so well.
‘How are you, Justin?’
‘As well as can be expected given the circumstances.’
‘I suppose you will be moving out of the Albany now that you are the Earl of Fulbrook?’
‘Yes. I shall have my things transferred back here while we are away. To inconvenience us as much as possible from the hereafter, Papa stipulated Cheshire as his final resting place, although Lord only knows why. He hated the dreary place and it takes for ever to get there. Not to mention how expensive it is going to be to deliver him there. I cannot imagine what he was thinking.’
‘It’s where Mama is buried.’ Lydia had only been back once since that funeral. Her father had little time for the family seat and had always resented the expense of opening it up for her mother every summer. In view of the debts he had burdened them with, his thriftiness concerning that huge Tudor manor now made perfect sense. ‘And all his ancestors.’
‘Still—it’s a dreadful inconvenience. And costly. Burying him here in town would be much cheaper.’
There had been so many hints now, she couldn’t ignore it. ‘I could ask Owen to lend you some money if funds are short.’ Although why funds were still short when Owen had already paid all her father’s debts was a concern. It had only been a month. And how Owen would take it, when he had already coughed up thirteen thousand pounds to bail the family out of trouble, she had no idea. Not well, she assumed. But she would ask if she had to, knowing he would help simply because she’d asked.
Justin looked appalled. ‘Oh, he’d love that, wouldn’t he? I’d rather borrow from a backstreet money lender than give that scoundrel the satisfaction! And while we are on the subject of your husband, I shall say plainly he is not welcome at either this house or the funeral.’
‘That is a bit harsh!’ Her brother might well have some prejudices against him—all, it seemed, were unfounded—but he was still her husband, one who had alleviated her family’s huge financial burdens considerably. ‘While I am not blaming you, I do think we have misjudged him. Owen is generous of nature. Very thoughtful and with more humility and understanding than I fear this family deserves. Why, not ten minutes ago he offered to arrange Papa’s funeral for us, to save us the burden.’ His humility, decency and ability to let bygones be bygones was humbling.
‘I’ll bet he did! He does so enjoy publicity.’
‘He absolutely does not.’ If anything he was the exact opposite.
‘Not a day goes by without some story splashed all over the papers aggrandising his achievements. He’s a shameless self-publicist and slimy social climber.’
‘How dare you!’ Lydia shot up from her seat. ‘I shall only grant you the benefit of the doubt so far, Brother! He is my husband, has been nothing but decent and kind to me since our marriage, and I will not sit here and listen to him maligned. If the newspapers publish stories about him, that is hardly his fault. His good reputation precedes him.’
‘Good reputation!’
‘Yes. Good. He’s defied all expectations, built a business from scratch and impressed a great many people since his return and that is admirable.’ He had certainly impressed her—but more with his character than his fortune. Owen was not like any of the men she was used to and absolutely nothing like the males in her family. He wouldn’t be moaning and griping were he in Justin’s shoes—he would roll up his sleeves and do whatever needed to be done to fix the mess he’d been left with. And he would do so without complaining and still be the one to show visitors to their father’s bedchamber.
‘He runs a gaming hell, Lydia. A den of iniquity.’
‘It’s a gentlemen’s club, Justin. No different from White’s or Brooks’s and nobody would call those hells. And as for it being a den of iniquity—nothing could be further from the truth. I should know. I do live there. All the staff adore him.’ She doubted her brother would understand why she thought that detail important, but it was. It said everything one needed to know about the excellent character of Owen Wolfe. ‘The truth is the newspapers do not know the half of it. Nobody knows how philanthropic he is. He keeps all that quiet and never brags about anything. He left the Antipodes a hero. The governor himself praised him as one of the best men he had ever known.’
Her brother rolled his eyes and it took all her strength not to shake him by the shoulders. Instead, she took a deep breath and tried to make him see reason. He was the last of her blood until she and Owen had children. Families were supposed to stick together. Like Owen’s, who did not have the luxury of blood to bind them. ‘Give him a chance, Justin. Get to know him. I think you will be pleasantly surprised…’
‘Oh, good Lord!’ The patronising and dismissive tone galled. ‘He’s seduced you into believing he walks on water again, hasn’t he? That he is completely above reproach…the Messiah. Or more likely Machiavelli!’ He stood, too, and waved a disapproving finger at her as if she were a naughty child.
‘He is the master of deception and manipulation! A puppeteer of the worst sort who uses his charm, good looks and silver tongue to get precisely what he wants as the success of his filthy hell is doubtless testament.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Now you are his willing marionette once again, Lydia.’ He had the audacity to smile as he patronised her. ‘Didn’t you learn your lesson last time?’
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ Although with a sinking feeling she knew exactly what was coming. Her brother had known about them.
Justin scoffed and then shook his head. ‘Our mother’s jewellery? Or did you think nobody realised you had practically led him into her bedchamber when you carelessly invited him into yours?’ He stared at her stunned face, eyebrows raised, then shook his head in disappointment.
‘I let it slide then. You were young, impressionable and I knew full well Papa would throw you out if he knew the extent of your involvement. As your elder brother I couldn’t let that happen. People in glass houses and all that… And who hasn’t dallied with a servant to relieve the tedium? But you’d have to be a complete imbecile to be hoodwinked by the blackguard again. Wolfe cannot be trusted, Lydia.’
His finger waved imperiously again, his tone and mannerisms more akin to their father’s now than the brother she wanted. ‘He is such an arch manipulator, he almost walked away scot-free. Did you know that?’
She hadn’t.
‘He defended himself and practically had the judge eating out of his hand with his practised falsehoods. Circumstantial evidence be damned! And he’d have got away with it all to if we hadn’t—’ He suddenly clamped his jaws shut.
‘Hadn’t what, Justin?’
He pulled himself up to his full height, bristling, as if she had no right to question him. ‘Given the court a cast-iron witness who could prove your dirty little secret a barefaced liar.’
Dirty little secret. Guilty secret.
Owen’s words, too. Words that had wounded him deeply just as they did her now.
‘What witness?’
‘Argent. The stable master. Saw him creeping out of the house with a sack full of loot.’
‘I don’t believe it.’ Her heart denounced it as a shocking lie. ‘Mr Argent obviously perjured himself in court.’
‘Are you so bewitched you can no longer see the truth, Lydia? He is a fraudster. A crook. A dirty thief and a callous manipulator. You used to hate him.’
She had never hated him. Because her heart had known. ‘Do not insult him. He is my husband!’
‘Not of my choosing. I begged you not to marry him. Since you have, I absolutely refuse to suffer his presence or his interference.’
‘It was an offer of help.’
‘You can call it help if it makes you feel better, but I see it for what it is. Just another bargaining chip. One he’ll ultimately use against me,
like he did with Papa, and I’d sooner take myself on to the streets than give him the satisfaction of feeling superior and turning me out. I know full well he is merely waiting for the perfect moment to pounce as it is. Wolf by name, wolf by nature. And your wolf wants his revenge because we bested him and dared to call a spade a spade.’
Lydia turned on her heel and marched to the door. She couldn’t believe how quickly things had deteriorated. All the vitriol and malicious spite coming out of her brother’s mouth. He was no better than their father!
Which made her pause.
These were fraught circumstances. Papa hadn’t been dead twenty-four hours and her brother had been left with a mess. He had never been good in a crisis. Never been good with responsibility. Now was a time to pour oil on troubled waters and mend things—not inflame them. Justin was usually a placid man. A weak and impressionable one who was clearly not himself. For the sake of what was left of her family, she had to try again.
‘This is nonsense, Justin. I cannot believe we are arguing about Owen or that you would speak of him in this way when thanks to him you have a fresh start. We should forget the past, for the sake of our family, and try to make amends.’
‘Amends!’ Again he scoffed, flatly refusing to be placated. ‘I will not dance to his tune like you or Papa. I refuse to be blackmailed by a jumped-up servant with ideas far above his station. He is not my family, Lydia. I want nothing to do with him.’
‘Blackmail?’ Her brother wasn’t quite himself—he had clearly gone mad. All the stress of their father’s sudden demise and the need to take on the mantle of responsibility had given him temporary leave of his senses. ‘He offered more money, Brother, and our father greedily took it. That hardly constitutes blackmail.’
Justin paused in his searching and stared at her as if she were mad. ‘He held us to ransom, Lydia. Either we gave you to him or he took the house.’
‘He paid the mortgage, Justin! He gave you back the house.’
Harlequin Historical July 2020 - Box Set 1 of 2 Page 22
