Rite of Summer: Treading the Boards, Book 1 (3 page)

It was generally known that Stephen Ashbrook played only for Mr. Cade—or could it be that Cade wrote for Ashbrook? When they appeared together, when Cade’s music came to life under the rosin and horsehair in Ashbrook’s hand, angels themselves wept for the sheer beauty of the sound.

He had seen them once at a concert in the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. The trees had arched in dark, forbidding shapes above the walkways and paths, lit from below with gleaming golden lanterns. Four men stood arrayed with instruments and bows, the composer standing before them with his arms high. All were dressed and polished, handsome and skilled, but only one had drawn and held Joshua’s eye.

Ashbrook was dark seduction to Cade’s polished gold, his lips perfectly shaped, his shoulders broad. He played with his eyes closed, an expression of such ethereal joy on his face, as though he had been carried away in the ecstasy of sound.

Joshua’s hands had itched for paper, to limn him out in swift, bold strokes and commit the embodiment of
music
to the page.

His hands had been empty, and the moment passed uncaptured. He had tried, later on, in pencil and in charcoal, on pages that lay unfinished and tucked away inside a sketchbook on his shelf. Either his memory or his hands had failed him, because nothing he had drawn had come close.

That had been a year ago. Despite the distance of time, he still felt something indefinable twisting low in his gut at the thought of meeting the man face-to-face.

Perhaps it was indigestion.

Lady Horlock finished her circuit, apparently satisfied. “William will see to your clothes, and you must gather what supplies will be useful to you. Bring things for portrait taking, and silhouettes.” She tapped her gloves against her free hand again, lips pursed in thought. Little wrinkles were forming at the corners, catching the daylight in less flattering ways. “Coventry has Charlotte yet to marry off, and a pretty picture of her would likely not go amiss.”

“Bringing stretched canvases might seem a little presumptuous,” he felt obliged to point out.

“Nonsense,” she replied crisply, and he revised his mental tally from one canvas upward to four. “If Coventry wants artists, then a lawn full of artists he shall have. And,” she continued, her expression softening again into something that looked like nostalgia, “the grounds are beautiful. You shall have a chance to indulge in landscapes. Coventry may be louche and a libertine, but he has a lovely house. Be ready for the carriage after breakfast tomorrow.”

The door clicked shut behind her and Joshua was left in the company of his thoughts, his sketches and the dust motes sparkling in the sun. Summer in the country was not a terrible thing, despite his nerves.

No. He would not say “nerves”—that suggested that he expected something to happen. This was one party among many, and there was nothing to be nervous about.

At the barest minimum, despite his vague and probably baseless suspicions regarding Cade and Ashbrook, the trip would be entertaining. And that would have to do.

Chapter Three

The wide main road opened up to a long and winding drive as Coventry’s carriage began the turn. The trip had been as easy as these things ever were. That meant Evander and Stephen crammed cheek by jowl into the small carriage for two days, bumping along rough and muddy roads until Stephen had turned altogether green. It had taken over an hour for his stomach to resettle once they stopped for the night, despite the cold cloth that Evander had brought for his head and the cup of sweetened tea he’d pressed into Stephen’s hands.

At least this second day had been better, the air fresher and his innards no longer attempting to turn themselves into a knotted cravat along the way.

The sky stayed clear, a vibrant summer blue, only spotted by a handful of white clouds. A vast lawn extended up to the house, so carefully trimmed that it must take an army of gardeners to maintain its image of perfection. Small rocks kicked up around the carriage wheels as they approached the immense stone front of the house, wide white stairs angling down to meet the ground. Flowerbeds extending along the front displayed carefully planned bursts of brilliant color, all of it regulated, pruned and controlled to within an inch of its existence.

Stephen swung down from the coach and paused to breathe in the air. It was, he was forced to admit, far fresher than the smoke and grime of London would ever permit. For a moment his head actually seemed to swim, as though he were waking up from half sleep.

In the shelter of the coach, hidden from view of the house, Evander let his hand drop briefly to drift against Stephen’s arm. “Are you well?” Concern was written on his face, doing battle with anticipation and excitement.

Stephen nodded. He could hardly do otherwise, and the longer he stood in the drive, solid ground beneath him, the better he felt. “I am,” he said, and Evander brightened. “Go ahead; I’ll follow directly.”

Evander’s long, easy stride took him easily across the verge to where a trio of young women sat, their pastel gowns and bonnets arranged strikingly against the green of the grass. They had sketch pads and boxes of watercolors scattered around them, though only one seemed to be at all employed in their supposed pastime. Their chaperones, two older women, sat some distance away with sewing in hand, a veritable wall of dark-silk disapproval.

“Mr. Cade and Mr. Ashbrook, at last!” Lady Charlotte, Coventry’s daughter—and the only one of the girls whom Stephen could put name to—rose to greet Evander as he approached. She was honey-haired and gleaming in the sunlight, curls escaping from the bottom of the bonnet that framed an elfin, heart-shaped face. She curtsied low and he bowed, flashing all three of them that wide and generous smile.

Stephen followed in Evander’s trail, bowed as Lady Charlotte performed the introductions. It was to be Miss Talbot in the green shawl, her dress plainer than the others, and Lady Amelia Chalcroft with the darker hair and the purple ribbons. How on earth he was going to be able to tell them apart after they had changed for dinner, though—ah well. Take each challenge as it came.

“What a pretty picture you all make,” Evander said. “I wish I were a painter rather than a composer, that I might have a way to capture this moment for myself forever.”

Stephen would not roll his eyes. He would
not
.

Evander’s flattery had a different effect on the ladies, though, and Lady Charlotte tipped her chin up in an imperious lift that was so very like her father. “You shall have to compose a new dance for us then, Mr. Cade,” she declared, “and Mr. Ashbrook shall play.”

Stephen nodded in his turn. “It would be my honor. My regret shall be that it keeps me from joining you in the dance, but your pleasure itself shall be my reward.” Evander beamed at him, hands clasped behind his back and the sun gleaming off his hair, and all their ridiculous squabbles of weeks past were forgiven and forgotten.

Lady Charlotte clapped her hands together. “Oh, very prettily said!” she exclaimed with a girlish laugh. “You will give our dear Mr. Cade some competition this summer!”

“More than just Mr. Cade, I think. Did you know we have a painter here as well?” Miss Talbot interrupted, eager as a new puppy.

Lady Amelia cast her eyes up to the heavens, behind Miss Talbot’s head.

“Mr. Beaufort,” Miss Talbot continued on, oblivious, “who does such beautiful portraits. He came in with Her Ladyship, the Countess of Horlock yesterday. We were trying to convince him that it would only be proper if he were to give lessons! See? We have our paints and books.” She raised a hand to her lips in a gesture born more from practice than honesty, and her eyes lit up. “You must help us convince him!” She was addressing Stephen, for the most part, though her gaze kept wandering to Evander. “Won’t it be a lark?”

God help the poor man. It was only Stephen’s luck that none of them were angling for music lessons yet.

Evander was in his element, at least, his eyes alight. “I shall, but on one condition,” he promised.

Miss Talbot positively beamed. “Name it.”

“You’ll spend as much time at dancing practice as you do at painting, or I shall have been implicit in my own undoing.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake.

“If you’ll excuse us, ladies all,” Stephen interrupted before the chaperones could rise like storm clouds from their perches. Their weighty stares were enough—there was no need to court further danger. “I must drag Mr. Cade away to pay our respects to our host. We shall have the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight, I presume?”

“Indeed you shall,” Lady Amelia replied coolly, the only one of the three who didn’t seem entirely swayed by the meaningless social patter and Evander’s amiable charm. In a perverse sort of way, he liked her a little better for it.

Evander fell into step beside him as they crossed the lawn back towards the house. His ebullient mood was as infectious as ever, but, even so, Stephen could not resist a small poke. “Laying it on a bit thick, weren’t you?”

“I don’t know about that,” Evander replied, never breaking his easy saunter. “Lady Charlotte’s likely to oppose her father on the color of the sky, simply for the sake of opposing him. It’s better to stay on her good side than be caught between their swords.”

“Your mind is a labyrinth, my
dear
Mr. Cade.” He wasn’t wrong, though. There was every reason to suspect that Coventry would be happier than Charlotte herself, when some poor sap finally carried her off to another region of the country. At the very least, his house would be a great deal quieter.

“And yours entirely too guileless, my
dear
Mr. Ashbrook.” Evander smiled knowingly, casting a sidelong look at Stephen as they mounted the stairs. “I think the winsome Miss Talbot has her eye on you.”

He was teasing, the dreadful creature, but there was no time to respond. The door opened and the footman stepped aside to allow them entrance to the grand front hall of Coventry’s country house.

The hall was a marble-clad masterpiece of modern architecture, a winding staircase soaring up to a mezzanine on either side of the space and carved balustrades fencing off the gallery above. Tasteful statuary lined the pedestals in the hall, cherubs and seraphs in white draperies carved so fine as to appear as translucent as silk.

Age had not treated Coventry with all the kindness a devoted patron of the arts might have deserved. He was as broad of girth as of shoulder, though he had once been a sportsman to be envied. His suit was of the finest cut, and his light-brown hair had gone to white at the temples, his sideburns all to gray. He extended his arms to the two men as they approached, and they bowed, Stephen a half beat behind.

“Gentlemen, welcome.” Coventry clapped Evander on the shoulder as he straightened his head, and nodded affably to Stephen. “I trust your trip was uneventful?”

“Most comfortable, sir, thank you,” Evander lied without a flinch or flutter, sparing Stephen from having to comment. The state of the roads was hardly the earl’s fault, but discussing the first day of travel spent trying not to embarrass himself all over the coach was hardly scintillating conversation. “And thank you again for your kind invitation. We met the ladies outside—are there more guests yet to arrive?”

“There are indeed! This promises to be quite the party,” Coventry promised with a gleam in his eyes. “Viscount Downe and his sons will be arriving later. They’re Irish, you know, but Downe’s a pleasant fellow otherwise and we shan’t hold that against him. We shall have some excellent weather this week for hunting.” He rubbed his hands together in barely repressed excitement.

The thought of riding was an entertaining one, though Stephen would be happier to go without the hunting. Too many years of city living were going to be his downfall, especially if the aim was not to embarrass their host.

“We’re honored to be included among such august company, sir,” Stephen said, and Coventry preened.

“Not at all! The honor is all mine, I assure you. Now, you must be road weary, and I’m afraid you’ve entirely missed the sideboard. But Gregory will show you to your rooms and arrange for a tray to be sent up if you’re hungry.”

The livery-clad butler, as tall and stately as Coventry was gregarious and round, bowed, hands clasped behind his back. He looked askance at them over a great eagle’s beak of a nose, and whatever thoughts that passed behind his narrowed eyes, he betrayed nothing. “Sir.”

He escorted them up the long and winding staircase and past a gallery hung with portraits. They hardly had time to mark any of them as they were led along the hall. Another flight of stairs led to their suite of rooms, which turned out to be a pair of bedrooms and a sitting room with high, arched bay windows that caught the afternoon sun. The room was done in the pale yellows and greens that had been so fashionable a few years before. Their trunks had been brought up, one just beyond the open door to each bedchamber.

Stephen made his way to the window and twitched aside the curtain. Their view was of the back gardens, brilliantly colored flowerbeds leading the eye down a gravel path toward a copse of trees, and off to the left, a hedge maze of some complexity. It was brilliantly green, well tended and dreadfully pastoral. The countryside’s beauty paled in comparison to the vibrancy, the
urgency
of a single day in London.

His boyhood had been surrounded by a different sort of nature, the fenced-in swaths of crops and pasture on either side of the long dirt road that wound down to the schoolhouse. He’d seen them in the dark, half the time, trailing along behind his father with books wrapped in a leather belt to keep them from falling. He could still feel water seeping in through poorly patched holes in the bottoms of his boots, feel Margaret’s little hand clenched in his, hear the lowing of the cattle and Farmer Benton’s enormous mean, old bull that liked to charge the fence until it shook. The schoolhouse was always cold when they arrived, the room only beginning to warm hours after Father started the fire.

Stephen shivered. Oh, for the cozy closeness of their lodgings. It might not have brocade upholstery, but they had only a flight of stairs dividing them from tavern tables full of jolly companions and the pulsing heartbeat of the city.

“Dinner will be served at five,” Gregory said, not entering much farther than the door. “Clare shall be up to draw you baths in the meantime, that you may recover from the arduousness of your journey.” His message delivered, he retreated, closing the door behind him with a stately click.

Evander turned once to take it all in and flopped down on the ivory settee, still in his boots. He held out his hand and Stephen crossed the room to claim it, glancing back at the door over his shoulder. It remained closed, secure against intruding eyes.

He squeezed Evander’s ink-stained fingers in his own, and Evander beamed at him with satisfaction and wonder.

“We’ve managed it, Stephen—look at us. A vicar’s son and a schoolmaster’s boy, received by a peer of the realm and hosted in luxury. We are
here
.”

Later, the road dust washed away, Stephen stood in front of the glass and tugged his cravat into place. The suit was not a fancy, bespoke thing like Coventry’s, but it fit him well enough. The black-wool dress coat closed neatly across his chest, his frame trim but not overmuscled. The green waistcoat had been Evander’s suggestion. Something about bringing out the green flecks in his eyes, which he himself had always considered to be more of a muddy brown. Still, it all sat well enough that he could go down to dinner feeling rather dashing, rather than the awkward country boy he still was inside.

Evander wandered out of his bedroom then, looking as much the fashion plate as ever. His golden curls hung perfectly in place—all but one, which drooped ever so slightly across his forehead, as though daring someone to loop a finger in it and tug. He looked Stephen over, and all he said was “hm”.

Stephen frowned back, trepidation rising in his chest and squeezing gently at his throat. “What’s wrong with it?”

Evander stepped in closer and refolded his lapels, brushing away an invisible speck of dust from Stephen’s shoulder. “Nothing!” he replied, though he worried again at his lower lip. “Certainly nothing. Only— No, never you mind. It will be fine, I’m sure.”

And what good did that do, to hint that something was wrong but refuse to follow through? He bit back the urge to pursue the issue, tugging his coat into place with a sharp gesture instead. “We’ve a little time before dinner. I thought I might take a look around. Will you come?”

Evander shook his head and Stephen felt an odd twinge of relief. “I’ve a few things to take care of first, but I’ll be down shortly. Go on without me.”

Stephen let himself out, the hallway continuing on ahead for what seemed like half a mile. It was ludicrous to have a home so large that the only way that it could possibly be filled was by importing other families. A wealthy man with four children, say, or even five, could get along quite well in a house half the size, with six bedrooms, a suite for guests and six or seven staff to tend to it.

It was exactly the sort of property Evander yearned for and spoke of with longing that bordered on avarice. It was also the kind of place where, as Evander always managed to suggest through word, look and gesture, Stephen would never manage to fit in.