Page 20 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #1)

‘Er – no, I can’t say I ever have,’ Giles said, a little embarrassed.

‘I know what you’re thinking. But I wasn’t always queer old Uncle Sebastian frowsting by the fireside, you know.

I was handsome enough when I was young, I had a comfortable house and a decent independence from my mother – there was no reason I shouldn’t marry.

’ He examined the end of his cigar, decided the ash could hold on for a little longer, and went on.

‘In fact, my father – your great-grandfather – was quite anxious that I should marry. He already had a son to carry the title, of course, but wanted a little insurance. He even found the girl for me, decent family, decent dowry, the right shape for breeding.’

Giles looked up with a frown, and Sebastian said, ‘You don’t like that, I see.

Customary or not. Well, neither did I. There was a young woman I had a fancy to.

Lived in the next village. Daughter of a major in the Foot Guards.

Hero of Sebastopol. No money, though. No name.

M’father didn’t approve. Talked to me like a Dutch uncle.

Imagine my dilemma. There was my duty on one side, and there was little Phyllis on the other.

I hesitated. And while I was hesitating, she caught putrid fever and died. ’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Giles, awkwardly. He was not used to such confidences.

‘So was I. Still am. I always blamed myself. If I’d married her and taken her away from the village, she wouldn’t have caught the fever. I see her eyes in my dreams. Reproaching me. They were grey, like rainy skies.’

‘So you never married.’ It was not a question, but a prompt.

‘Couldn’t do it,’ Sebastian said. ‘It seemed like a betrayal. In the end, it’s yourself you have to live with the longest.’

Giles sighed. ‘But, you see, it’s different for me. You weren’t the earl. I don’t see that I have any choice. My father—’

Sebastian tapped the ash off his cigar. ‘I’m well aware of the way the world goes.

Your father was a perfectly normal beef-witted country man.

But you are not in that mould. You have thoughts and feelings a fellow in your position can’t afford.

As an outsider myself, I recognise it in you.

You will not be happy doing what you don’t feel is right.

And this – quest,’ he waved his hand to indicate that he knew it was not the right word, ‘makes you uncomfortable. I just mention, while there is time for you to change your mind.’

Giles thought for a long moment. ‘I’m afraid there isn’t. The time has run out.’

‘As bad as that, is it?’

‘Every bit as bad.’

‘Then, my boy, you must do your duty, but do it with a whole heart. Don’t repine. Don’t sulk—’

‘Sulk?’ Giles was indignant.

‘—or you will poison not only yourself but all those around you.’

Giles pressed his lips together, resisting. He did not like being told what to do. Sebastian looked at him cannily, knowing what was in his mind. You can lead a horse to water … he thought. Time to lighten the atmosphere.

‘One more piece of advice I must give you, Giles. About marriage. Something you may not have thought about, but it’s damned important.’

‘Sir?’ said Giles coldly. Now what? he thought.

Sebastian leaned forward and placed both hands on his knees to emphasise his words.

His blue eyes bored into Giles’s. ‘Get a new cook,’ he said.

‘A man has to be comfortable at his own table, and you’re not a good doer anyway.

I’ve seen you losing ground since you got here.

Overrule your mother and get a new cook – before you bring a bride home.

Don’t want to poison the poor girl before she’s had a chance to whelp. ’

Crooks was fond of music, and liked to remain after Sunday service to listen to the voluntary, while the other servants from the Castle hurried from the church as soon as possible.

When the organ fell silent, he walked out, hat and prayer book in one hand, gloves and stick in the other, into a mild grey February day.

The ancient paving stones inside the porch were worn and uneven, and as he juggled with his burdens while trying to put his gloves on, he started to drop his cane, grabbed for it, struck his foot against the raised edge of a flag, and fell forward.

For a breathless moment he saw himself crashing face-first into the ground in humiliation, pain and blood, but a large hand grasped his upper arm, while his other outflung hand caught hold of a sleeve under which a forearm was firm and strong as rock.

Startled, he looked up into the face of a Greek god. Below a thick crest of red-gold hair were golden eyebrows and eyes of cerulean blue, a straight nose, sculpted lips and a firm chin. It was a brown face, but light brown and smooth, with a blush of youth over the cheekbones.

‘Wh-wh— Thank you! Thank you!’ Crooks stammered.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ the young Apollo asked, in a soft country accent.

‘I think so. Thank you so much. You saved me from a very nasty fall.’

‘Glad I could help, sir.’

The large, hard hand released Crooks’s upper arm, and reluctantly he let go of the stranger’s forearm. ‘May I know to whom I am indebted?’ he said. And seeing the stranger did not quite understand the question, rephrased it: ‘May I know your name?’

‘Axe Brandom, sir. Assistant blacksmith, along the forge at the end of the high street.’

‘Brandom?’ said Crooks. ‘Any relation to—?’

‘My little brother Josh, sir? He’s a groom up at the Castle.’

‘That’s where I live,’ Crooks began.

The young man smiled, a thing of particular beauty, and said shyly, ‘I know who you are, sir – his lordship’s valet.

I seen you many a time, in church and in the carriage.

And one time you come looking for his lordship in the stable-yard when I was there.

His late lordship, I mean. I go up the Castle now and then to see to the horses. ’

Crooks had never paid particular attention – the stables were not his natural milieu – but when he thought about it he was aware that, like many great houses, the Castle had its own forge at the end of the stable-yard, though not its own blacksmith.

A smith, he supposed, could easily be summoned when there was work to do, but there was not sufficient work to justify employing one full-time.

Crooks stooped to pick up his hat, gloves and stick, which had all gone flying when he thought he was falling. At the same time, Brandom stooped to pick up his prayer book for him, and caressed it briefly with one gentle finger as he handed it over. ‘It’s a beautiful thing, sir,’ he said.

It was indeed a lovely thing, leather-bound and beautifully tooled, with a filigree brass binding to the spine. Crooks loved it. ‘It belonged to my father and grandfather before me,’ he said.

‘It must be a wonderful thing,’ said Brandom, ‘to be book-learned. I learned to read and write at school, but I’m no scholard. It must be grand to …’ He hesitated, as if unsure how to express it.

‘To read for pleasure?’ Crooks suggested. ‘Yes, it is the finest thing in the world. It opens up such vistas, like being able to travel the whole world without rising from your chair. The thoughts and visions of all mankind are laid before you, at your fingertips.’

Brandom gazed down at him, seeming transported by the words. Two stragglers came out of the church door behind him and said, ‘Excuse me,’ as they edged past on either side, breaking the spell.

Crooks recollected himself, his duties, and the hour, juggled again briefly with his belongings as he donned his hat, and said, ‘Well, I must be off. Thank you again for your prompt assistance. I am very much in your debt.’

‘Oh, no, sir,’ Brandom said. ‘There’s no debt.’

Crooks met the wide blue eyes for an instant, then dragged away his gaze. ‘Good day to you.’

‘Sir,’ said Brandom.

Crooks went past him and hurried down the path, aware of eyes fixed on his retreating back. But when he glanced back, Brandom was gone, presumably having passed round the corner of the church to leave by the west gate.

Kitty was aware that her stepmother had taken a house in Berkeley Street, and lived from day to day in dread of being summoned to take up residence there – which would mean that the frightening Season had begun.

But, at first, nothing changed. Lady Bayfield went up alone, and Kitty continued her dull, peaceful routines in Hampstead.

She gathered that the house had to be put in order and suitable servants engaged; and then there would be a process of leaving cards and paying morning calls so that when the Season began, the hostesses would know Kitty existed and would send her invitations.

Kitty’s presence would not be required until it was time to assemble her clothes. ‘When fittings begin,’ Lady Bayfield told her, in a rare burst of communication, ‘I shall bring you up to Berkeley Street, and you shall accompany me on calls.’

Kitty looked so frightened at the prospect that Lady Bayfield almost snapped at her, but desisted, knowing it would only make things worse.

The child seemed to be growing more, not less nervous.

In truth, she was starting to worry not about whether Catherine would ‘take’, but about whether she would cope at all.

The whole Season could be an expensive disaster.

Her mind returned to the suggestion of Miss Thornton, but she looked at it with disfavour.

The girl who had been suggested – would she bring Catherine any credit?

And yet something must be done. Restlessly, she tossed the idea about in her mind, and finally decided that she should at least inspect the girl’s aunt, and see what sort of a person she was.

She acquired the address from Miss Thornton and sent a note, summoning her to Berkeley Street.