Jane said nothing, thinking the news exemplified how much they had lost touch with the Tremaines. They had not even known the elder son had been ill. She felt compassion for Lord and Lady Tremaine. She well knew what it was to worry about a seriously ill family member. A bell interrupted her thoughts.
"That'll be Miss Fanny, wanting to know where you are and all about the visitor at the gate,” Mrs. Reid said, wiping her floury hands on her apron. "You'd best go and satisfy her curiosity."
"Yes, although I doubt Fanny will be pleased at the news," Jane said with a sigh. She finished arranging the flowers and put on her brightest smile as she entered the drawing room where her sister lay curled up on the blue damask settee by the window, propped up by cushions so she could look outside. Although Fanny was mending slowly, she was still frail. Her face, framed by one of the caps she wore to conceal her short hair as it grew back, looked pinched and thin. At least, Jane thought, Fanny’s colour was much improved and she was beginning to gain back some weight. The thin arms that lay on top of the blue-and-white counterpane were not quite so skeletal. Jane felt Fanny would improve faster if she would make an attempt to go outside, if only to sit in the garden, but Fanny had resisted all her attempts to get her out of the house. She suspected Fanny's reason for not wanting to leave the cottage was a reluctance to be seen by those who had known her as a beautiful girl. That was the hardest thing, Jane reflected—the change in Fanny's character from a mischievous young girl to a withdrawn shadow reluctant to stir from the cottage.
"Are not these roses beautiful?" Jane asked as she placed the vase on a small mahogany table near the settee. "The blooms are especially fine this year." But her sister was not interested in the roses.
"Who was that on the horse stopped by our gate?" Fanny asked interestedly. "I could not see from this distance."
Jane pulled a ladder-back chair forward and settled next to her sister.
"It was Captain Edward Tremaine," she said reluctantly, and watched Fanny's interested expression become cold and closed.
"He stopped to admire the flowers because he said imagining the English countryside had helped to keep him alive when he was serving on the Peninsula," Jane continued. “He was so weak he could hardly handle his horse. Mrs. Reid told me he has been ill with dysentery."
There was still no comment forthcoming from her sister, and Jane leaned forward and took Fanny's hand. "Fanny, can you not forgive what is past?” she asked, looking at her sister earnestly. “All the Tremaines are not like Jamie."
The closed expression disappeared to be replaced by one of vulnerability. "Oh, Jane, I cannot!" Fanny cried.
Jane sensed her sister weakening and pressed on. "You need not see Jamie yet, you know. But what of Lord and Lady Tremaine? People are going to begin to wonder why no one from Haverton Park calls, when you must be recovering by now. And think of Father— he misses his friendship with Lord Tremaine."
For a moment Fanny said nothing, her eyes staring bleakly at something beyond the far corner of the room. Then she spoke, her voice barely audible.
"I am sorry, Jane, I cannot. I could not bear to see the pity in their eyes. I know people will think it odd the Tremaines do not call when I am supposed to be betrothed to Jamie, but I cannot see them."
She paused, but Jane said nothing, afraid to break Fanny's confiding mood.
"I shall never forget the look on Jamie's face that day," Fanny continued, her voice faltering. "If I could be beautiful again—but I never shall be. I know it makes things difficult for you and Father, but please give me more time," she finished, her dark eyes pleading.
"Of course," Jane answered, patting Fanny's hand, "but you will not be able to avoid him forever."
"I know," Fanny said with a sigh, closing her eyes as if to shut out the world. She did not open them again, and in a moment her breathing became soft and regular as Fanny fell into a light sleep. Thomas jumped up on the settee beside her and, turning around twice, joined Fanny in a nap.
Jane released Fanny's now-limp hand and returned to the kitchen to arrange the remaining flowers. Their situation was going to be more than difficult if Fanny continued to avoid the Tremaines. The Tremaine family was of great importance in their small country society, and was invited everywhere. If the Hamptons were observed to be on unfriendly terms with the Tremaines,
they
would be the ones to lose their status, not
the Tremaines. Nevertheless, Jane could not blame her sister for feeling as she did.
Jane sighed, her love for her sister warring with her affection for the Tremaines and the knowledge that Fanny must someday face going back into the world. Perhaps Captain Tremaine would call again. Fanny might be brought to accept a member of the family who had not known her before her illness and could not make unflattering comparisons.
Chapter Two
At Edward's first view of Haverton Park his heart beat fast with anticipation. And when he emerged through the trees and into the parkland that stretched before the house, the past six years were as though they had never been. Home at last! Edward surveyed Haverton Park with affection and pride as Ariel ambled towards it. The house had been built by the first viscount in the late fifteenth century. He had chosen Hugh May as his architect, a choice that proved to be felicitous. Mr. May had cleverly designed the house so that it appeared both homey and imposing, characteristics that might seem contradictory. Nevertheless, the warm stone and red brick with mullioned and transomed windows gave the house a cozy intimate look, while the imposing pilasters under the hipped roof imparted a stately air. Haverton Park was not the largest estate in the district, but Edward would not have traded his family home for any other.
As he rode up the neatly raked drive to the stone stairs in front of the house, the doors opened and several figures emerged to stand before the steps. A groom ran to take Ariel, and as Edward dismounted, he was surrounded by family and servants and practically fell into the waiting arms of his mother.
"Thank God you are home safe at last,” she said, holding her eldest son tightly. She then released him and held him at arms' length, looking intently into her son’s eyes as if she feared he would vanish should she look away.
Edward found his mother little changed, except that her chestnut hair, which proclaimed her Scots ancestry, contained a few more strands of gray. Lady Tremaine’s figure was still youthful, and her face unlined. Her clear hazel eyes glistened with suspicious moisture as they embraced once more before Edward turned to his father.
Lord Tremaine was in his early fifties. His blond hair had darkened over the years, but his figure was still trim and muscular. He was more restrained in his welcome and did not embrace his son, but the viscount’s hand gripped Edward's almost convulsively, and the emotion in his eyes could not be mistaken. Edward felt an obstruction in his throat, and turned to enter the house before his emotions got the better of him.
Dawkins, the butler, stood waiting to greet the returning captain on the steps, and Edward ignored custom to shake his hand warmly. Dawkins had been in the Tremaines’ service as long as Edward could remember. The housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, stood next to Dawkins, and Edward kissed her lined cheek affectionately.
The other member of his family who lived at Haverton Park waited to greet Edward in the large entrance hall. Edward remembered his younger brother as a gawky schoolboy of fifteen, and the foppish young man of twenty who stood before him bore little resemblance to that memory. James was evidently an aspiring dandy, for he was clad in the extreme styles which characterised that set: he wore a bright green coat, skin-tight canary-yellow pantaloons, a striped waistcoat and a perfectly creased and tied lavender neckcloth. His shining red-blond hair was carefully waved and arranged, and Edward could not tell whether his brother’s crimson cheeks owed their colour to rouge or chafing from the ridiculously high points of his shirt collar. The face was still boyish, but the frank schoolboy look had been replaced by an expression that managed to be both sulky and superior.
Sensing that his brother would not care to embrace, Edward held out his hand. James took it gingerly and, after a limp shake, allowed it to fall. He was staring with horrified fascination at something on Edward's coat, and looking down, Edward saw the rose he had placed there, now limp from and hanging drunkenly. He pulled the rose out of the buttonhole and addressed his brother, who appeared to be so shocked by the picture his elder brother presented that he was bereft of speech.
"Well, James, I see the schoolboy is gone and has been replaced by a man-about-town. It is good to see you again."
"Glad you have come back safely," James said briefly. "Your valet’s waiting in the front bedchamber," he added helpfully, certain that Edward must desire the ministrations of that servant before anything else.
Edward smiled wryly at his brother and decided to take his advice. Promising to join his family in the drawing room shortly, he left the room and went upstairs to have his valet help remove some of the grime of his long and tiring journey.
His old bedchamber was on the ground floor, just off the entrance hall, and Edward found it had been kept unchanged for him. Ames, his valet, had already put away his clothes and laid out fresh linen. He came forward to assist Edward out of his coat and then hesitated, looking at Edward's hand, and Edward realised he still held the drooping rose. Reluctant to throw it away, he placed it between the pages of a book lying on the desk beneath the window. Wordlessly, he then placed himself under the expert care of Ames.
* * * *
An hour later, feeling much refreshed, Edward joined his family in the green drawing room. He was grateful for the fire his mother had perceptively ordered to be lit, obviously sensing that in her son’s condition Edward would chill easily. He leaned back against the smooth green damask upholstery of the Hepplewhite sofa and savoured the excellent brandy his father handed him. Smuggled no doubt, but Edward drank it without any feelings of guilt. He had served his country well.
"How is Mary?" he asked. Mary, his elder sister, lived in Yorkshire with her husband, Squire Deane, and their two children.
"She is doing well," Lady Tremaine replied. "She and George plan to make a visit here later this summer. You will enjoy little Tad and Lydia."
"Yes," Edward confirmed, "I am looking forward to seeing them." He could barely remember his nephew, and had never even seen his niece. It was good being part of the family again.
As Edward took another relaxing sip of brandy, his gaze travelled up to the ceiling where the graceful white piaster floral border caught his attention and admiration. It was a moment before he was aware of the uncomfortable silence which had descended upon the room. Recalling himself, he observed that his parents were regarding him with concern evident on their faces. James stood by the fireplace and studiously avoided looking at him at all. Edward could not blame them for their reaction to his appearance. The coat and breeches he had put on fit him no better than his uniform. A glance in the mirror in his bedchamber had told him that all his valet's skill had not disguised the fact that he looked little better than a walking skeleton. Edward took another swallow of brandy and broke the silence.
"Are you acquainted with the Miss Hampton who lives in the large cottage on the outskirts of Staplefield? The cottage with all the roses and honeysuckle?" he asked to lighten the atmosphere and encourage a conversation. "I do not remember them living in the village before."
To his surprise, the question seemed to make his family more uncomfortable. His father cleared his throat noisily, and James appeared to be absorbed picking a speck off his coat sleeve. His mother answered, but her normally serene face appeared flustered as she spoke.
"Yes, we are acquainted with the Hamptons. John Hampton was the vicar of a parish near Bath. He came here about four years ago to complete a scholarly work he has been writing on Luke. His wife is deceased, but he has two daughters. Miss Hampton is the elder daughter, and there is a younger daughter, Miss Fanny Hampton."
Edward opened his mouth to ask more about them, but before he could speak, the viscount interrupted.
"Did you know there is a new Earl of Staplefield?"
Edward's eyebrows rose in surprise at this sudden change of topic. He determined to question his mother about the Hamptons later. There was some mystery there.
"So Louis Grandville, Earl of Staplefield, died," he said. "I am sorry to hear that." Edward had always admired Lord Staplefield, the local eccentric. The earl had felt that English culture had reached its zenith in 1773, and had refused to abandon his favourite year. He had continued to dress in the fashions in style that year, eaten foods in vogue then and refused to purchase anything invented after that date. Once a year in August he had held a large masquerade at his estate, Bramleigh, to which he invited all the local gentry and aristocracy to show them the proper way an entertainment should be conducted, circa 1773, of course.
"Who inherited the title?" he asked.
"A great-nephew, Charles Grandville," Lord Tremaine answered, visibly relaxing as his son accepted the change of topic. "Odd thing was the way the old earl left his estate. Although he could do nothing about the title, he provided that his heir would only receive the money and Bramleigh if he would continue his uncle's style of living whenever he would be in residence at Bramleigh."
James entered the conversation for the first time. "New earl's soft in the head if he don't contest the will. Look deuced silly in clothes more than two score and ten years out of fashion."
Edward looked at his brother consideringly. "They would not look that much out of fashion. It is still the style required of one at court."
"Court!" James scoffed at the thought of anything that fusty. He looked contentedly at his fashionable reflection in the glass above the fireplace and smoothed an invisible crease in his canary-yellow pantaloons.