The Summer of You (2 page)

“HAVE you become a raving lunatic while abroad?” Jane crossed the foyer of Rayne House in Grosvenor Square in a huff, her voice echoing against the cold marble and gilt-painted moldings. Jason followed her in, after slamming his hat and cloak in the waiting hands of the very old and very austere butler.

“Actually, I’m beginning to believe I’m the only sane person left in this family,” he retorted.

Jane’s head snapped up from the aggravating task of unknotting her cloak’s strings, two circles of angry color flooding her cheeks. “You take that back,” she gritted out between locked teeth.

But Jason merely approached her in three long strides. “I specifically told you to stay at the castle! When I came back, together we would decide what was best to do next.”

“When you came back?” Jane screeched. “I waited a whole bloody year, and you didn’t come back! You expected me to sit in that drafty, crumbling castle while you gallivanted about with your friends? No, thank you.”

Jason had the grace to turn slightly pink under his freckling. “I wasn’t gallivanting; I had a great deal of research to do. If Mother had been alive, she’d have understood.”

Only the fact that her fingers were tied up in her cloak strings kept Jane from smacking her brother. “Mother might have,” she said stiffly, “but Father did not.”

It had been only the three of them, after the funeral, over a year ago now. Their mother, the round-faced, worrying, practical, adored Duchess of Rayne, had passed after a sudden illness and a prolonged suffering. It had been her heart, the doctors had decided. The nervous spasms she had claimed whenever she was overwrought had turned out to be true, and had taken the Duchess away from her family far too soon.

They had made the short trip into the countryside to Crow Castle, the Duke of Rayne’s ancestral estate, when she had first fallen ill. It was called such not only for the great black birds that graced the Rayne crest but also for the crows that had taken nest in the north tower sometime in the fourteenth century. There, in the dark, hard earth of the spring, the body of the Duchess was laid to rest, next to the bodies of the previous Dukes and Duchesses, in rigid lines of crumbling stone. The mound of dirt that covered her mother was too black, Jane had thought, the marble of her headstone too new. How could her mother be here, in the midst of this cold, still cemetery? Her mother fluttered, she fussed . . . she did not quietly lie in the ancient ground. She moved! She talked!

Jane had barely begun to process the loss of her mother—barely had time to dye her wardrobe an inky midnight for the year of mourning she was embarking upon—when Jason announced he intended to complete his grand tour of Europe . . . immediately.

“You can’t leave now!” Jane had cried, wrapping the old wool shawl tighter about her shoulders. The castle had long been drafty, so even in the temperate breeze of the southern counties, there was always a large collection of wraps kept in stock.

“I have to,” Jason had replied, as he organized papers from his desk into thick leather folders. Behind him, his valet was directing a small army of footmen as they packed up the finest linen shirts and silk cravats that could be found on Bond Street, along with every color of riding jacket, dinner jacket, and greatcoat. Jason had been going through a slightly foppish phase. He would discover Brummell’s definition of dress while abroad. “You know I’m going to present a paper when I return to the Historical Society.”

Admittance to the Historical Society—or as it was known by its full name, the Society of Historical Art and Architecture of the Known World—was Jason’s true dream. Unfortunately, it also tended to serve as his best excuse.

“It’s history; it can wait!” Jane had replied.

“My subject is the damage done to medieval architecture on the Continent during Boney’s last campaign; I need to take an inventory while it’s still fresh—before anyone else does. Charles and Nevill are already in Bruges—”

“Ah yes, Charles and Nevill.” Jane arched a brow as she repeated the names of Jason’s two greatest friends—and partners in mischief. She let the sarcasm drip like honey. “You’ll get so much work done with them by your side.”

When Jason showed a modicum of intelligence and did not rise to her bait, Jane crossed the room and placed her hand gently on his arm, stilling his movements.

“Please, Jase,” she said, her voice soft in its honesty, “I don’t want to be here alone. It’s so strange without—”

“You won’t be alone. Father is here,” Jason countered.

Jane sighed and spoke the truth that had prickled at the back of her conscience. “Father is not well.”

Jason looked into his sister’s eyes, then looked over his shoulder, giving his man a curt nod. The efficient valet clapped his hands once and led the bevy of footmen out the door.

“Father is fine,” Jason said once they were alone.

“He is not, and you know it,” Jane replied quietly. Jason was contemplative for a moment, and his silence assured her that he knew she had the right of it, even if he wasn’t yet willing to admit it.

“He’s . . . he’s simply in mourning. His mind will right itself,” he finally said. But Jane knew better.

The Duke of Rayne was a proud man—proud most of his two children but also proud of his strong mind. He could calculate to the fiftieth decimal the numerical pi without pen and paper. He could name every bird that flew past his window, its common English name and its Latin scientific counterpart. But lately, occasionally, he had begun to forget things. The name of Crow Castle’s housekeeper, who had been in service to the family since before Jane’s birth. That England was no longer at war with France. The children could have blamed the grief, the loss of the man’s wife . . . if only these little slips hadn’t started before the Duchess’s death. And since they arrived at Crow Castle, they had only gotten worse.

“At least let’s go to London—have a physician examine him—” Jane reasoned, but a flash of anger crossed Jason’s face, cutting off her argument.

“No!” he retorted vehemently. “You think Father would want anyone to know about his . . . lapses?” Jason went back to clearing his desk of papers, violently shoving them into their folders. “A little respite from the city is just what he needs. I daresay he had enough of the dramatics surrounding your debut season to wear out anyone’s brain.”

Tears stung Jane’s eyes as she felt her cheeks go red. “That’s not fair.” Jason looked up and immediately went back to his sister’s side, contrite.

“I’m sorry,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said that. But Jane, you can’t go to London anyway—the family of the Duke of Rayne mourns at the family seat. It’s the way it’s always been done.”

“The family—that includes you.” Jane sniffed.

“I’ll be back in no time,” he promised, chuffing his sister on the shoulder. “And when I get back, if father’s . . . problem is still unresolved, then you and I shall figure out what’s to be done. But until then, you must stay here and look after him.” Jason took her by the shoulders, looked her dead in the eye, like he used to when they were children and he had to elicit a promise from her to not tell their governess about the frog on her chair. “Jane—it’s you and me. We’re in this together.”

And so she’d nodded and acquiesced and waved her brother good-bye at the castle gate the next morning. And waited.

And waited.

It was not long before Jason’s letters home became cursory. It was not long after that that they became nonexistent.

This didn’t bother Jane much—she knew her brother. He may have claimed, even intended, to be abroad with some nobler purpose, but the delights of the Continent would forever outweigh its virtues. Besides, her letters to him were being received (or at least, were not being returned as undeliverable), so she knew he was healthy enough to pay for a penny a page. No, it didn’t bother Jane—in much the same way that oversalted meat does not bother: it annoys, but it does not require global conflict. We all grieve in our own way, she thought charitably. He would be home soon.

He promised.

In fact, Jane—however lonely she refused to acknowledge she was—was of the opinion that her brother’s absence was unnoted by the rest of the house. After all, if the lifelong staff voiced an issue, they certainly didn’t do so to her. And her father—his grief for his wife was still so profound, it overtook any disappointment in his son. Nay, he did not notice Jason’s absence.

Or so she thought.

One morning, Jane came down the stairs of the castle, wrapping her shawl firmly over her shoulders. It was past Christmas now, and raining. Through the summer and autumn, people would call with condolences—their tenants, their neighbors. But since the winter came, everyone stayed in on their own. Whatever comfort they had in the solitude of the country was lost on Jane. She yearned to go to London for the Little Season, to see people, to be seen, and not be left alone here, forgotten. But thoughts like that she pushed aside—it was selfish to indulge in misery. Especially when she had her father to keep her company, and her him. But when she settled down to breakfast that morning, her father had not joined her.

Worried, she searched and found him at the open front door, awaiting the footman he’d sent for the post.

“Jason must send us a letter soon, my dear,” he’d said, his breath a sharp slice of frost in the freezing rain that soaked the Duke and the Oriental rug in the foyer.

“It’s only been a few weeks since the last one,” Jane soothed. “Truly, you can’t expect him to write every day.” Even though Jane herself had been hoping for a bit more frequency. “Come away from the door, it’s wet and awful out.”

“It’s been five weeks. Five!” the Duke countered, and Jane was surprised that he had been counting.

“The post is never regular in this weather—” she rationalized, but was cut off by a curt shake of the head.

“I mandated he write once a week, dearest. If he intends to try for a first once he goes to Oxford, his grades at Eton must be impeccable! I need constant reports from him, from his teachers—”

Her father continued, but for a moment, Jane could hear no sound. The world had gone quiet.

He thinks Jason a boy, off at school, she realized with shock. And he thinks me . . .

“Jane will be off to school all too soon, darling,” the Duke was saying, “and I will despise not being able to influence my children’s education.”

That was the moment Jane realized her father’s condition was worse than they’d feared.

But as Jane recounted the story to Jason in the main drawing room of the London house, all he did was remove himself to the sideboard and pour out two glasses of brandy.

When he handed one to Jane, she responded with a quiet, “Ladies don’t drink brandy.”

“Which precludes you, how?” was Jason’s reply. Then, after seating himself in the wing chair to the right of the fire, he downed his brandy in one quick gulp.

Jane gave her glass a discreet sip and managed to hide her ensuing shock at its fire.

“I stopped at the club before I came out to the Benning Ball, searching for you—by the by, what on earth were you doing at Phillippa Benning’s party? I thought you hated each other.”

“You’ve been away a long time,” Jane replied tersely. “Things change.”

Jason waved away her ire, continuing with his initial line of thought. “At the club, the first thing I was asked was not, ‘How was the Continent? ’ or ‘Did you enjoy your time abroad?’” He held the empty glass up to the fire, watching the light glint across the facets. Her brother’s best effort of nonchalance. “It was, ‘How does your father?’”

Jane stilled in her movements. “A perfectly natural question,” she hedged, “to ask after the Duke.”

“You aren’t understanding me, Jane. It was the first question everyone asked me.”

And with that, Jane drained the rest of the brandy.

“You shouldn’t have come to London.” Jason cursed, sitting up straight in his chair. “Father is a proud man. Do you think he wants the dukedom tarnished by the rumor that his mind is going? He’s second cousin twice removed to the King!”

“I thought it was thrice removed,” Jane interrupted.

“It doesn’t matter! A mad King, a mad Duke—people will think the whole bloodline corrupt!”

“Father is not mad!” Jane said hotly, coming to stand. “Besides, what would you have me do, Jason?”

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t jump at the first chance to come back for the Season—a year of mourning Mother, and at the chiming of the church bell, Lady Jane of Society Fame runs back to Town.”

“We were practically alone at the castle!” she shot back. “The servants, they have every other Sunday off, and I was frightened. If he’s having a good day, it’s fine, but there have been more and more bad days, and . . . I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t be the only one there.”

“Why? Has Father grown violent? Is he a danger to himself or others?” Jason asked, suddenly alarmed.

“No,” Jane admitted and was pleased by the relief she read on her brother’s face. “But he’s more . . . confused, more often.”

Jason was quiet for a moment. Then, “What did the doctor say?”

Jane sighed. “They say many things. And nothing. They blame age, they blame his bloodlines, they—”

“They?” he interjected, alarmed. “How many has he seen?”