The Resurrection of Lady Somerset

by Nicola Beaumont

  “You flatter me excessively,” Lark signed. “But I shall miss you, also. These past days have been quite tolerable.”

  Jonathon laughed. “I know I have been a bit of a cad. But, was I so bad you deem ‘tolerable’ a realized goal?

  “I merely mean to say you have not treated me so much like a sister as a companion.”

  “I shall be honest with you. It is my very hope you are not my kin, dear Miss Lark. I quite hold you in high regard and do not wish for a...platonic marriage.”

  “You are reprehensible, my lord! To say such things to a lady.” She pouted sufficiently to show her disapproval, but then a smile broke her lips.

  It was unfathomable to him what her smile could do to his heart. “Your lips are so sweet. I am sure a sound uttered from them would be just as sweet. I do wish you could speak,” he said.

  Her smile faded. “I doubt I will ever be able to speak to you. Do not wish it so. I can’t bear the burden of knowing you are so disappointed with me.” She studied her hands, avoiding his eyes completely.

  Jonathon leaned over and took her hand, encapsulating it with both of his. “Remove the worry from your countenance. If you never utter a word, I shall marry you still. I merely mention it because I remember your impertinence as a child. You had no trouble voicing your opinion then.”

  She looked at him, her eyes shimmering beneath pools of unshed tears.

  “Please do not cry. I am ever so sorry. I shan’t mention it again,” he said at once.

  The dam broke and tears streamed down her face. He reached under her bonnet and wiped them dry with the pad of his thumb. He gently nudged her chin with the side of his hand. “Lark, please do not cry; it tears my heart.”

  She stared. The tears had stopped but the sorrow reflected in her eyes endured.

  He wished she could speak to him, tell him what she thought, how she felt. He wished it so much the ache of it seemed almost fatal.

  He could but hope.

  Perhaps one day she would.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It rained for a week. Lark’s despondency grew with each drop that soaked the ground. She had never before known the expanse of the estate, but now she roamed the halls freely, no one to hide from, no one to speak to. Jonathon was not due to return for ages, and Lark was unsure she would survive the time without him.

  Chauncy and Penelope were the utmost best, but she could not find the will to return their hospitality. Several times, Rebekka attempted to engage her in activities, but Lark did not have the heart to accomplish the goal. She had given her heart to Jonathon and he had truly taken it with him when he left.

  Cyril paid her a visit, saying he did not wish her to be lonely during Jonathon’s absence, but she sensed he was truly there to confirm her safety. This annoyed her, and she had demanded he take his leave.

  To her chagrin, Rebekka had seen fit to tone down her request during the translation and Cyril had stayed on much longer than Lark bided him welcome.

  How she wished to scream to the world that she was capable of taking care of herself. And had she a voice, she would have done so without one drop of remorse.

  Evening fell and the sun burst through the clouds with a red glow that proved hopeful. “Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,” Rebekka told Lark as she unfastened the buttons of her gown.

  “Fishwives!” Lark replied with vehement fingers.

  “Beg pardon, Miss?”

  “Fishwives tales. The sunset has absolutely nothing to do with the weather.”

  “Your lord will return shortly. ‘Tis no reason to take your grief out on others. We have looked after you rightly and you treat us like servants,” Rebekka replied indignantly.

  “You are servants,” Lark replied with rigid fingers.

  “You used to be a sweet girl. Now look at you.”

  Lark flopped onto the bed and turned a sour look on Rebekka. “I used to think I liked being locked in this house. I used to be a child.”

  “The manners you show me now, you are still a child,” Rebekka said without any sign of apology forthcoming. “Know your place. Lord Somerset is your fiancé. You must do what he says without question. He knows a great deal more than you.”

  Lark glared at Rebekka then shimmied under the bed covers. She flipped herself onto her side with a force that caused the entire bed to groan and creak in protest then closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.

  ~*∞*~

  So what if the morning broke with the sun showing a wondrous array of spiraling rainbows on the windowpane? It had nothing to do with Rebekka’s mindless superstition. Lark readied for the day without a word to Rebekka, purposefully wearing a frown that belied the secret optimism she held for the day. Today she was going to live for herself.

  Morning tea on the gazebo had become her ritual over the years, but she had fast become accustomed to Jonathon’s company and thus mornings now proved sadly lacking. Nevertheless, when Chauncy came with the tray, Lark tried to appear eager. She smiled at him just so.

  “Morning, Miss,” he said.

  She nodded her reply and he quickly set down the tray and left her as he did each morning.

  When Chauncey was out of sight, Lark left the gazebo, circumventing the house. With stealth, she tiptoed past the kitchen window, ducking low to keep her head from being seen through the pane. As she rounded the corner, she collided with none other than Cyril Rexley.

  He reached out to steady her. “Going somewhere?”

  She nodded and attempted to pass him.

  “I rather think you should turn your pretty self around this instant.”

  Irritation rolled like dice in her stomach. She shook her head and tried to pass him again.

  “No,” he said firmly.

  “Yes!” she signed, knowing he could not understand. She sighed heavily and tried to make him see her point. She pounded her chest with an open palm.

  “You…” he interpreted.

  She nodded and smiled then turned her fingers towards the ground and wiggled her index and middle fingers to and fro.

  “Walk. You walk?” He grinned. “By Jove! This is quite entertaining.”

  She glared at him askance then continued. She pointed to Cyril.

  “Me.”

  She grinned and then with all her might, pushed him with both palms flat against the breast of his overcoat.

  He laughed heartily. “You walk, me shove off!”

  She shouldered past him and continued on her way.

  “Hang on a minute.” He caught up with her. “I cannot allow you to go alone, you know. Jon would have my head.”

  She continued to walk.

  “Wait. Wait! Allow me to fetch my carriage, and I shall take you where you will, but you must take an oath to stay with me.”

  She gave in with a nod. At least she would get to leave the property, even if it were with a chaperone.

  After much squabbling about leaving her unattended, Cyril relented and returned presently with a nice baroque. He helped her into the seat, boarded the carriage himself and snapped the reins.

  He turned to her. “So where are we off to?”

  She shrugged.

  “Hyde Park?” He suggested. “If you would like to take a walk about that is quite a pleasant place to do so.”

  She smiled and nodded and enjoyed the gentle breeze fanning her face.

  Hyde Park awaited them virtually empty, the day too new to attract most. Thoroughly content, Lark took in the air with Cyril at her side, the silence between them not the least bit uncomfortable. She glanced up at Cyril, and he smiled at her.

  “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  She smiled an answer.

  “It is much more agreeable with company than without, wouldn’t you say?”

  Lark gave him a little laugh and a shy nod in answer. This was more enjoyable than skulking about Somerset Hall.

  They had not gone quite one quarter’s distance of the park when two young lads scurried over to them,
addressing Cyril.

  “Aye, guv’, vere’s a gent needs a word in your ear,” the taller of the two said.

  “Where?” Cyril looked about. “I see no one.”

  “Over there.” The boy pointed noncommittally. “’E gave me ’alf crown to take you.”

  “Can you not see I am quite preoccupied at the moment?”

  “I can look after the lady, guv’,” the shorter of the lads said, his chest puffed out in a show of manliness.

  “’E said to mention sumut ’bout a trip to Scotland and a couple’a gents by name of Aubury,” the other boy coaxed.

  At that, Lark’s blood ran cold and it did not escape her notice that Cyril seemed more alert.

  “The outspoken boy urged, “Said ’e’s got pert’nent infamation ’bout. . . ’bout. Aw, I ain’t rightly rememberin’ but give us a break, guv, would ya? ’E’s gunna make us give ’im back ’is money if we dan’ git ya.”

  Cyril turned to Lark and took up her hand. “Will you be all right with the lad? I fear if I do not attend this man, Jonathon will take me to task. This information may be of grave import.”

  Reluctantly, Lark nodded but then turned worried eyes to the shorter boy as Cyril was led away. She stepped down to stroll about.

  Cyril had gone not much farther than a stone’s throw when Lark heard horse’s hooves pounding the ground. She spun around to see a phaeton that looked as if it had seen better days coming straight towards her. If she did not move, it would intercept and run her down, she was sure. Fear bubbled within her chest, froze her to the spot. The youngster beside her yelled, tried to pull her out of the way, then tumbled and rolled himself to safety.

  Inside, her mind screamed for her to move out of the way, but her legs would not heed the warning.

  Closer and closer it came. She could see the flared nostrils of the horse, hear the rickety wheels abusing the ground. Cyril’s voice split the air as he yelled her name.

  She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. Her arms rose and crossed over her face in protection, and then the world went black.

  She awoke to the jostling of the phaeton rolling over a jutted road at breakneck speed. The vehicle took flight as it hit another rut. As the wheels kissed the earth once more, the punishment ricocheted through her body. Her aching head rattled like a baby’s toy.

  It was only when she tried to lift her hand to her head to quell the awful ringing, that she realized her wrists were bound.

  Fear gripped her like the hand of death. She focused on the driver not really wanting to know who had done this to her.

  Nigel Aubury.

  A new sense of dread swept over her. She squirmed in the seat, and he turned his face on her.

  “Be still!” He bit out the order as if he were talking to an animal. His eyes were full of hatred, and she knew immediately that there would be no reasoning with him for her safe return to Somerset Hall.

  She would have to wait it out until he decided to show his hand and reveal why he had seen fit to run her down and abduct her so unscrupulously.

  And then she caught a glimpse of it, Blackwell House. The spires rose into the sky on either end of the house, presenting a majestic figure. She had not known she even held the memory of this house. In all her years, she had never been able to conjure the image of her family’s home, but now it was as if she had never been gone.

  Aubury slowed the carriage not at all, as they clamored over the cobblestones to the house. He dropped the reins almost before the carriage came to a complete stop and jumped down.

  The sound of his boots upon the stones echoed in Lark’s head like the tolling of a bell. She urged herself to remain calm. It was the most difficult task she had ever undertaken.

  He grabbed her bound wrists and yanked her out of the phaeton. She fell into his chest, and he roughly pushed her away. The underarm of her dress tore and gave way, and the cold air chilled her bared skin.

  “Be careful and make haste,” he told her harshly.

  He thrust Lark through the front door and then pushed her into the vestibule without regard for her difficulty. The throbbing in her head intensified and she thought her skull might actually cave in. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer for her safety. Why had she not listened to Jonathon?

  “Come along.” He grabbed her elbow and hauled her up the stairs. The rope which bound her wrists began to cut into her skin even through the fabric of her gloves. She winced but refused to cry, for fear this madman would enjoy the knowledge of her pain.

  Through her panicky misgivings came the desire to roam her home once again. He had shoved her so quickly through the ground floor and up the stairs that she had barely had time to think about her steps let alone glimpse the house she had once called home. The last time she had seen it, it had been an inferno, yet here it stood, exacting memories for her.

  Almost to the end of the first floor corridor, he threw open a door and pushed her into the room. She stumbled over her skirt and only by the grace of God, managed to remain afoot.

  “If you are good, I may untie you later.”

  Why are you doing this to me her body screamed, but she had no voice with which to pose the question. She was his cousin; why would he apprehend and treat her thus?

  She eyed him, using every essence of her being to remain steadfast. She couldn’t ask her questions, and he obviously wasn’t going to volunteer the information, but God willing, she would not allow him to know the intimidation and worry that now seized her soul.

  He smiled, but it did not bring her comfort. He looked like a snarling beast. “I could kill you, you know. Everyone believes you are already dead. But I do not wish the Rexley wrath on my head. Do as I say—sign away your rights to Blackwell House and its holdings, and I shall let you live. Defy me, and I will have no qualms about slitting that delicate little throat of yours, Rexley wrath or none. Do you comprehend me?”

  She nodded emphatically and he closed the door, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the room. Desolation overflowed within her. It throbbed in her head, ran through her veins, one with her very blood.

  She heard a key turn in the lock, and only then did she allow the waterfall to flow unheeded down her face. She did not cry for long, however, before heated words filtered underneath the door. She quieted her sobs.

  “But, sir, you have never given everyone time off at once. I thought perhaps—”

  “You are not to think!” Aubury’s too-familiar voice abruptly cut off the unfamiliar one. “Do you understand? Instructed all to get out and I meant you all to get out. If I see you again before the three days are spent, I shall dismiss you immediately and make sure you never find a position in another household.”

  “Y-yes, Your Grace. I—I understand. Utmost.”

  Lark heard footsteps growing ever fainter and realized they were going below stairs. Soon, all was silent except for the muted tick of the mantel clock. Like cogs on a wheel, Lark turned her head machine-like to the fireplace. Twelve of the clock.

  As if on cue, her stomach protested with a loud groan. She was not hungry. It had only been a few hours since she had taken her morning meal, but the possibility that she may never eat again caused the pangs to intensify.

  She turned, scanning the room for means of escape. The tent bed was large, the covering an ornate Oriental pattern. No recollection of this room came to mind. Besides, with her wrists bound, escape was virtually impossible.

  She slumped onto the edge of the bed and stared at the cold, wooden floor beneath her feet. Why did I not listen to Jonathon? The thought implacably repeated to slap her squarely in the face.

  She lay on the bed and stared up at the canopy, her head still pounding. She raised her wrist-bound hands to her crown and felt a lump there the size of Wales. What had he done? Clobbered her with his cane?

  Unsolicited, the tears began to flow once again.

  Would she die on this bed, in this house, where once before her life had almost come to an end?<
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  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Chauncy! Fetch my bag from the carriage.” Jonathon slammed the front door.

  Cyril emerged from the library. “There you are, brother.”

  “Yes, here am I. Is there a problem?” Jonathon took one look at Cyril’s face and his own heart went stiff as a stone.

  Cyril sported a blue-black eye, and his bottom lip was split and swollen. His clothes were wrinkled and torn.

  “Tell me nothing has happened to Lark.” Jonathon’s breathing went on hiatus as he waited for his brother’s reply.

  Cyril’s mouth twitched. “Nothing has happened to Lark…”

  Jonathon’s lungs began to work.

  “…that we know of.”

  Jonathon died inside. His breathing stopped and he felt lightheaded and spongy-kneed. He found the nearest chair and lowered himself into it. “What happened?”

  Cyril came to stand in front of him.

  “I was duped,” Cyril told him quietly. “I am sorry. I thought I could be of some assistance to your investigation. I knew you were skulking out things on Aubury. They lied and I…I turned to see…” His voice broke. “And she was gone.”

  “Blast! Blast! Blast!” Jonathon flew out of the chair. “I should not have left her alone.”

  “Nonsense. You didn’t leave her alone. This is all my—”

  Jonathon let out an angry snarl, silencing his brother. He punished the floor with anxious steps. “Aubury’s own sire believed he was responsible for his brother’s death. I should have been more perceptive. If he harms Lark in any manner, I shall send him to hell myself!” He stormed out of the room, Cyril on his heels.

  Harnessing horses to a carriage would have taken much too long. They almost did not wait for the stable boy to saddle the bays. As they urged galloping horses onward there was no opportunity to speak. Jonathon could scarce believe the stories he had been told regarding the Aubury brothers. Horror gripped him at all the possibilities of Lark’s fate. He urged his horse to take on a faster pace, but the poor animal was already lathered in sweat.