Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Author’s Note...
Thank you
The Resurrection of Lady Somerset
by
Nicola Beaumont
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Resurrection of Lady Somerset
COPYRIGHT © 2007, 2020 by Nicola Beaumont
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Pelican Ventures, LLC
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First English Tea Rose Edition, 2007
Second English Tea Rose Edition 2020
Trade Paperback ISBN 978-160154-0-669
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To J.C., my heart. Thanks for always holding my hand. Without You, I have nothing;
with You, I have my heart’s desire.
Prologue
England 1812
The potent scent of melted wax filtered into Jonathon’s mind. He struggled for consciousness. His head felt thick, his body heavy. He tried to moisten his lips, but his mouth was dry as wool. He pried open his eyelids and forced himself to focus.
Heavy bed curtains of deep green velvet edged in gold brocade hung open at the four mahogany bedposts. A candelabrum burned eight waxen tapers at his bedside.
Home. Confusion marred his understanding. This was not his usual home, but rather the one of his childhood. He coerced his thoughts into semblance.
Father had sent the phaeton for him.
A shiver tremored his body, reminding him of the awful fever that had left him weak.
He closed his eyes and his head lolled to one side. Sleep drifted over him, chased by a wakefulness which was, in turn, overcome by sleep.
Surreal images of white satin ribbon and lilacs invaded his dreams, and then something touched his face.
Gently.
A slow caress.
He forced open his eyes and focused on an ethereal creature with skin the colour of polished alabaster. Her hair flowed in platinum rivulets of silk; she was the most beautiful creation he had ever seen.
He reached out, tried to touch her, tried to speak, but she laid a softened fingertip on his lips and then faded into nothingness as his eyes fell closed.
Once again, he willed his leaden lids to separate. A ray of sunlight pierced a slight parting in the closed velvet draperies which hung at the window. Unrest and contentment warred inside him as the memory of the Somerset ghost lingered. Reason butted against hope.
Oh, how he knew the creature shouldn’t exist.
Oh, how he wanted to see that creature again.
He roused completely and then sat upon the edge of the bed to don a silk robe and heavy-soled slippers. As he stood, his head rippled like the Thames in a stiff breeze before righting itself again.
Carefully, he padded across the parquet floor and made his way below-stairs, a steady grip on the wooden banister.
“My lord, what do you propose you are doing?”
Jonathon eyed the butler at the bottom of the staircase. “Chauncy! Just the man to answer my query; where is my father?”
“My lord, you really should be abed.” Chauncy extended a steadying hand as Jonathon approached.
He gripped the curvature of the banister and ignored the servant’s offering. “I am quite all right. Please, where is Lord Somerset?”
Chauncy sighed, and Jonathon quelled the twitching at the corners of his mouth. He refused to smile even though Chauncy’s concern and attitude reminded him of a happy childhood—happy, at least, until his mother died.
“In the library, my lord.”
Jonathon dipped his head in response. “Thank you…no, no, I’m fine,” he added as Chauncy followed.
“Of course, my lord.” Chauncy’s footsteps faded as Jonathon approached the large mahogany doors which sequestered the library.
With more effort than he wished to acknowledge, he slid open the doors to find his father standing in front of a warm fire.
The man turned concerned eyes towards the door. “Jon! Gracious, what are you doing here?”
Jonathon crossed the threshold. “Did you not fetch me?”
His father’s gaze softened. “You know what I mean. I feared death’s knell, and here you are standing before me. How do you feel?”
Jonathon smiled. “I am well, Father. Well, indeed. Chauncy’s caretaking, rest, and something else as well, has recovered me.”
A crease formed in his father’s forehead. “Something else? What thing?”
“You will think me insane, but I care not; I know what I saw, what I felt.” He took a step towards his father, but went no closer. “The Somerset Ghost, Father. She is a vision.” He felt foolish actually speaking the words aloud, but the image of that alabaster face, had his heart swelling with appreciation.
“What?” His father pounded a boot against the floor. “Where have you been?”
Jonathon was stunned to momentary silence by his father’s sudden hostility. He retreated a step. “I—what—I have been bedridden. She came to me, cared for me. She is so beautiful, and I—”
“Silence!”
“But, I—”
“No! You mustn’t speak of it.” His father muttered something Jonathon couldn’t comprehend, and then stormed towards the door. “You must leave immediately. Immediately!”
Jonathon stepped aside to let his father pass, unable to fathom why the man was bothered so.
“Chauncy!”
The butler appeared in the doorway as Jonathon remained shocked to inactivity.
“Get Jarvey; my son goes home. Now!”
Chauncy cast Jonathon an odd look before retreating on a murmured, “Yes, m’lord.”
Jonathon found his voice. “I don’t understand.”
His father spun to face him. “No, I daresay you don’t. Get you to the door. I’ll have your clothes sent round later.”
“But—”
A stiff palm hushed Jonathon.
“You are not to return. Not without an invitation. Do you understand?” Lord Somerset’s voice was low, ominous.
<
br /> Jonathon blinked. He nodded. “Yes, Father.”
But he didn’t understand. He didn’t understand at all…
Chapter One
Some years later. . .
Lark Blackwell sat unobserved as Chauncy, the butler, escorted the family members one by one into the library. The dim sconce and fire light flicked shadows across the leather-spined books lining the walls, but did not illuminate her darkened corner. She was glad of that fact. The thought of being around people after so many years of seclusion was enough to bring her to panic.
The first to arrive was Harriet, Lady Wescotte of Chiswick. She flounced into the library on a dash of cold air and pushed her rather large bottom onto a gilt-edged chair with as much aplomb as a person of her girth could muster. Behind her trailed a young gentleman of an age not more than ten-and-four. His emaciated legs bobbled underneath him as he tried to make haste. They made an odd pair, Lark thought delightedly. Perhaps not having to hide any longer would prove to be more exciting than she had anticipated. She smiled to herself as she pressed her back into the chair, content to sit and watch her extended family for a little while longer before revealing her presence.
“Here, Mama, let me hold your things for you.” The young lad scampered to Lady Wescotte’s side and tried to remove a set of papers from her chubby, ring-endowed fingers.
The older woman snatched her hand from his grasp and swatted at his fingers. “Widgeon! As if I would entrust you to such weighty documents. These are your future, boy, and since you are so dim-witted, I trust it’s the only future you are likely to get.”
The lad’s dark head drooped as he silently made a place for himself beside the chair his mother had chosen. A pang of compassion pierced Lark’s heart. How harsh the woman was. And the poor boy, he seemed utterly crushed. Lark began to have second thoughts about revealing herself. She wasn’t equipped to spar with such a viperous tongue.
When next Chauncy slid open the carved mahogany doors, he graciously announced to Lady Wescotte the arrival of Cyril Rexley. Rexley wore a staid expression. His jaw was set in hard angles, and his aquiline nose came to a sharp edge at the tip, yet there was nothing harsh in his dark eyes. He bowed politely to Lady Wescotte. “Pleasure to see you again, Aunt Harriet. And you, too, my dear young Geoffry,” he added belatedly, as though it were an afterthought.
Lark’s heart silently screamed for the boy. Did everyone treat poor Geoffry as a burden? There seemed to be nothing wrong with him. Good gracious, if they rejected him for no apparent reason, what would they do to her when they discovered her deficiency?
A sudden chill tingled through her—little pins and needles of foreboding. This was all a terrible mistake. Regardless of being invited, she shouldn’t have come. She should have stayed in her suites and devised her own plan for the rest of her life—escaped Somerset Hall before anyone discovered her. But Lord Peter had seemed so positive, so enthusiastic.
Oh, why had she believed him?
She knew why. She’d believed him, because she’d wanted to. She wanted the life he offered.
Lady Wescotte waved away Cyril’s remark with a pudgy hand. “Oh, don’t waste your niceties on me, Cyril Rexley. We have a passion for hating one another, and I would rather share an honest antipathy than a cordial acquaintance with the likes of you. You are a wastrel. Everybody knows it. Your dear departed father,”—she bowed her head reverently—“my brother, rest his soul, knew it, too. If he has left you anything at all, it is probably only your right to go to debtor’s prison.” She glanced at the floor, draping her face with sympathy. “God knows what would have happened had you been the eldest son.”
Lark didn’t have much experience with people, but she didn’t believe for one minute that the look of sorrow on Lady Wescotte’s face was sincere.
“So you think Papa would disengage his own son in favour of yours, I take it?” Cyril, seemingly unaffected by Lady Wescotte’s disparagement, looked at the woman with an amusement in his eyes. Giving a practiced flip to the tail of his coat, he seated himself on a settee near the fireplace. “Jonathon is soon to be named the new Lord Somerset. What makes you think your son will inherit anything of value?” Cyril crossed one leg over the other and turned to Geoffry. “Sorry, chum, but it is the truth. Not exactly top of the crop, are you?”
Geoffry shifted his feet nervously and looked to his overbearing mother. His silent plea for support went untended as Lady Wescotte ignored her son and leveled her fierce retort at Cyril. “What I have in store for my son is nothing to do with you. My business is with Lord Somerset.”
“Ah, well in that case, Lady Wescotte, I shall leave you to it then,” Cyril replied with indignant formality. “Wouldn’t want to poke my nose in where it’s not wanted and get it tweaked off now, would I?”
Lark wanted to chuckle at Cyril’s riposte. He certainly displayed the rogue’s wit and tongue Lark had read about in books. His openness appealed to her, and she wondered if Jonathon Rexley would prove to be as honest. She hoped so. She tried to conjure his image from the recesses of her childhood memories but could not envision anything that would tell her if he were a gentleman or a rogue. He was handsome; she remembered as much.
Light streamed in from the great room as Chauncy escorted in yet another relative. Lark inhaled a quick, silent breath. Jonathon Rexley, the new Lord Somerset, stood with commanding presence on the threshold of the library. His breeches and dark coat defined his masculine form and the sight of him blanketed her with warmth. An impeccably tied cravat shimmered around his neck even in the dim light.
He resembled his brother—the rigid shape of their faces matched—yet Lord Somerset’s countenance seemed more stern and serious. His dark eyes scanned the room, and he smiled politely at his kinsmen.
“Show Mr. Smythe in the minute he arrives, Chauncy. We shall have this awful business over and done as quickly as possible.” Jonathon turned to face the butler.
“Yes, my lord.” Chauncy bowed out of the room, sliding the library doors closed behind him.
Jonathon made his way to Lady Wescotte. “Aunt Harriet.” He bowed slightly. “I certainly wish we were come together in better circumstances.”
“I, too, Jonathon. Your father was a good man. A trifle too good, at times,” she added as if she could not extend the compliment without, too, attaching a criticism.
Jonathon smiled wanly. “One can never be too good, Aunt Harriet.” He turned his attention to Geoffry.
Lord Somerset held out a hand and took the boy’s reluctant one. “And you, you have grown no less than a foot since last we saw one another. Why, you are practically a man now.” Jonathon shook the lad’s hand vigorously, evidently ignoring the faltering look Geoffry returned him. Lord Somerset gave the boy a reassuring smile and released his grip.
Nearing the fireplace, Jonathon turned his attention to his younger brother. “Still a regular at the clubs, I take it?”
“It has been less than a fortnight since you traveled to Leicester, surely you cannot expect I would turn about that quickly?” Cyril’s brows rose in amusement.
Jonathon sighed. “One can but hope, Cyril.”
He gave his brother a reproachful glance that made Lark wonder what thoughts traveled through Jonathon’s mind. A mixture of weariness and disappointment marred his handsome face, and she felt the odd urge to comfort him. Strange that he would still draw her so, since she hadn’t seen him in years.
“So how does it feel being back in the old lair?” Cyril asked, ignoring Jonathon’s reproof.
“This is our home, Cyril. Why do you insist on this constant cynicism?” Jonathon’s gaze locked with his brother’s in a challenge Lark remembered.
“You must admit, it’s not as if the old codger welcomed us back here with open arms. He practically turned us out at majority then bolted the door behind us. How often do you suppose a father refuses to see his children without appointment? Downright odd is what the man was.”
Jonathon’s mouth set in a
thin line. He started to speak but turned in silence to the blazing fire instead. The lapping flames captured his attention for a short time before he looked up to the portrait of his mother over the mantel. Again, his eyes became clouded with something Lark could not grasp but wished to understand.
She studied him intently, wanting to mark indelibly to memory his every curve and expression. She had dreamed of him for so long, it hardly seemed real that he was now standing in front of her. At this moment, he looked so helpless, like the time when he’d been ill and she’d made her way into his bedchamber to watch him sleep. His slumber then had been blemished by fever and distress. Now, with his countenance so marked with sadness, Lark wanted nothing more than to place a soothing caress across his cheek, just as she had then.
~*∞*~
Sadness swept over Jonathon. More than a decade had passed since his mother had been trapped in the fire that claimed her life and the lives and home of her dearest friends with her. Now his father was gone, too. He suddenly felt completely alone in the world. Cyril was more a burden than a brother, wasting his life at White’s and Tatt’s, leading the life of a rake with no responsibility. Such as it was for the second son who had no estate obligation.
Behind him sat Aunt Harriet, a vulture waiting for her meal to die in some faraway Arabian desert. He had never liked her much. A kind word rarely passed her lips. She was a harpy, but he would continue to tolerate her because she was his father’s sister—and Peter Rexley had always insisted on tolerance.
Cyril was right about the strange behaviour their father had embraced. But Jonathon had long since come to terms with that oddity and now could not blame the man for wanting to turn away from the harsh world that had consumed his only love.
Affairs of the heart were much too risky to one’s sanity. There were plenty of women to accommodate a man’s sensitivities who did not require the emotional attachment that had caused his father’s odd reclusiveness.
Besides, Peter Rexley had not been that standoffish with his sons. Jonathon distinctly remembered a time not five years past when he had been quite out of curl, and his father had sent Chauncy along to fetch him home. A man without his head wouldn’t have done that.
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