The Summer of You (8 page)

Yours, etc.

Mr. Byrne Worth.

P.S. The jam is fantastic.

And maybe a friend.

The next day it rained. And the day after. The heavy droplets of water hitting the surface of the lake reflected Jane’s mood—at once laden with disturbance, with the dark alone, but also washing her clean. Jane sat with New Nurse Nancy and laid out a schedule of routines for her father in anticipation of Dr. Berridge’s friend’s advice. Breakfast, exercise, luncheon, nap, tea, on into the evening . . .

Jane didn’t know what Jason did during these days. He was not in the house during the day, but he was not coming home drunk at night. He was silent, and in Jane’s experience, when Jason was silent, he was letting his mind stew on something. Jane gave him his space.

The next day dawned bright and clear, and Jane clear-eyed with it. It was, in fact, rather warmer than usual—so much so that Jane felt justified in leaving off her wool shawl as she gathered her bonnet and gloves in the Cottage’s main hall.

“Where are you going?” Jason asked, coming out of the breakfast room. He had his riding boots on, his own sturdy leather gloves in his hand.

“Father is off for his walk with Nancy, and I’m going into Reston,” she replied, as she tied her bonnet under her chin. “I’ve a number of purchases to make and calls to return. The weather forbade me from making the journey until now.” She let her gaze meet his. “Would you care to come with me?”

She wanted to say that he should come with her, that he in fact owed more calls than she, since he had refused to be in when people came to the Cottage, but she bit her tongue. Her mother would have nagged—she would have cried, cajoled, and shamed Jason into reluctantly accompanying her to call on Lady Wilton and the rector and his wife and all the important things a lady of quality did in the country. She would have shamed the Duke as well, but his show of reluctance would be just that—a show. By the time they set out in the carriage, he would be whistling.

However, just now, Jane held her breath and kept her counsel. For Jason seemed to actually consider the notion.

Finally, he shrugged. “I’ll ride alongside you. I was heading into the village in any case.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I need to speak with the blacksmith—he hasn’t been out to see to the horses yet; we’ve been here five days already.”

“Did you send a stable lad out to engage him?” Jason shook his head, and Jane shrugged. “Likely why. Father would always make certain to send for the labor men as soon as we arrived.”

Jason looked confused for a moment. “It’s not just . . . taken care of? The butler doesn’t do it?”

“Not unless they deem it necessary. And if they don’t, not unless you request it,” Jane replied. “Do the horses require attention, and it was missed?”

“No—I just thought . . . that the blacksmith always came. Whether it was necessary or not.”

“Father sees the intelligence in giving work to the village.”

Jason looked momentarily chagrined. A lifetime at school and idleness had made him inept at the practicalities, Jane thought, and now it was coming to the fore. But whatever he felt, he tamped it down.

Jane smiled and offered him her arm. “Shall we go?”

Jane could not recall the first time she saw the village of Reston. It was too ingrained on her consciousness—the way the high street curved with the Broadmill River that ran alongside it; the way the milliner’s sign was painted in red lettering, with curlicues on the ends of the words, turning into ribbons; the village square at the end of the row, the four large oak trees anchoring its corners, and the site of her infamy at five years of age.

It would never change. Sometimes the thought gave her solace. But only sometimes.

Jane and Jason parted ways at the blacksmith’s. She made certain to tell him her itinerary—that she was to spend time at six or seven of Reston’s finer establishments before visiting the Wiltons on the outskirts, and then possibly the rector.

He hummed his acknowledgment.

Jane let the carriage pull up in front of the print shop, where inside she spoke with the proprietor, Mr. Davies, about replenishing her family’s stock of embossed card, as well as ink.

“We’ve some lovely fire-red ink in,” said Mr. Davies. “Your mother was always one to go for the unusual.” Jane smiled in acknowledgment and purchased the fire-red ink, unable to tell Mr. Davies that she had no intention of writing in anything other than black.

While there, she met with Mrs. Cutler, who along with her seven children had lost the race to the Cottage front door a few days ago. Luckily, the children were left at home. Mr. Cutler was a solicitor, the village’s legal expert—he was the one advising the town council on the question of the Morgans’ cow path. His wife was very proud of his position as a man of learning and the status it afforded her in town. She could go on for hours about his accomplishments.

It was a very stimulating conversation.

By the time she left Mrs. Cutler to examine a selection of paper for her husband’s business writings, word of Lady Jane Cummings’s carriage having been spotted in the village had spread, allowing for every shopkeeper to display his best goods, and every lady to put on her best lace collar. She stopped at the bookshop, directly next door to and connected with Mr. Davies’s print shop. He must be doing well enough if he can operate two spaces, Jane mused. She followed that stop with the milliner’s. Even though she had more clothes than she could ever wear, she stopped at the dressmaker’s, ordered a few yards of cambric for a day dress. It would be good to have something that she could walk through the woods in, or around the lake, she told Mrs. Hill, the shop’s proprietor. Funny, it used to be Mrs. Thornton’s shop—but she had retired, and her daughter had taken it over.

Maybe some things did change, Jane thought.

And everywhere she went, she spoke with any number of people who came up to greet her.

She met with the Gaineses by the town square, the Pages at another shop, and followed her father’s example of stimulating the local economy by purchasing a number of candles, just arrived from Town, which were advertised as promising much better reading light.

She greeted Big Jim the blacksmith as he walked along the street with another gentleman, headed for the Horse and Pull tavern. He blushed a little awkwardly and bowed, remarking that, “Miss . . . er, Lady Jane. You look so grown up!” It caused Jane to smile, thankful that he did not mention any dogs or naked running.

Her intention was to spend a little money in every shop on the high street, and she almost managed it. But try as she might, Jane could think of absolutely no reason to go into the cooperage. Maybe she should purchase a barrel and give it to Mr. Worth—the mischievous voice popped into her head. Give him something to bathe in other than the freezing lake.

A small smile spread to her lips, and she was forced to lie and tell the Pages that she was smiling over joy at hearing their sheep had been impregnated at an alarming rate that spring.

By the time she left for the Wiltons, it was almost noon, and Jane had enjoyed a thoroughly exhausting morning. She was actually looking forward to her next stop—but only, she told herself, as she would be permitted to enjoy it sitting down.

Jane was not surprised to find that she was not the only visitor—indeed, Lady Wilton often had any number of the town’s ladies at her beck and call. And knowing that Lady Jane could not possibly come through town without calling on the Wiltons—well, that must have sent the genteel population scrambling. But one particular guest surprised her.

“Dr. Berridge!” she exclaimed upon seeing him in the formal receiving parlor, where Lady Wilton sat next to Mrs. Morgan—she of the cow path—and several other ladies, including young Miss Victoria.

“You’ve been introduced?” Lady Wilton asked, her voice suspiciously without suspicion.

“Yes, the doctor was kind enough to come to the house when, ah, my father injured his hands,” Jane replied. It was easier to tell a limited version of the truth, she knew.

“Oh, dear,” Lady Wilton tutted. “My dear doctor, why did you not tell us the Duke had sustained an injury? We would have sent a basket! The good doctor does not yet realize,” she said to Lady Jane, “that we take care of our own here.”

Dr. Berridge smiled politely. “It is not my place to tell of people’s infirmities. Lady Jane, you’re looking splendid,” he changed the subject neatly. “Rosy cheeked—you must have walked the length of the whole village.”

“Twice, I think,” Jane replied, as she was handed a cup of tea. Not quite the exotic blend she had come to enjoy over the past few days, but it would do. “I had a great deal of shopping to do and hospitality to return. And it’s so warm out. Quite invigorating.”

“Yes, it is unusually sunny,” Mrs. Morgan murmured into her tea.

“Shopping!” Victoria piped up. “What did you purchase? There is a length of cambric in Mrs. Hill’s shop that would look divine with your hair.”

“If it’s the lavender, then I believe I bought it.” Jane smiled. “You have quite the eye, Miss Victoria.”

Victoria blushed prettily at the compliment, and, Jane observed, Dr. Berridge smiled very proudly toward Victoria, too.

Interesting, Jane thought to herself.

Lady Wilton and Mrs. Morgan expounded at length on the fluctuating cost of fabrics in the village, and how Sir Wilton blamed the whole thing on the end of the war and a sudden influx of foreign goods from the Continent and the Americas. “Suddenly, everything that was expensive is cheap, and vice versa—or so says my Sir Wilton,” Lady Wilton expostulated, to the murmured agreement of all the other ladies present. “You watch, he claims, we’ll be invaded by more and more people, and suddenly our little lake will be overrun with pleasure boaters!” she cried, as if pleasure boaters brought with them the four horses of the apocalypse. Oddly, at that moment, Lady Jane caught the gaze of Victoria—who rolled her eyes and gave a small smile. Which prompted a similar smile from Jane.

Maybe Victoria Wilton wasn’t so annoying after all.

“So, Lady Jane!” Lady Wilton addressed her most honored guest. “Who did you see in town?”

And so Jane found herself narrating her morning adventures through the shops and streets of Reston.

“I would not be surprised if I met with everyone in the county today,” Jane finished, helping herself to a mouthful of tea.

“Everyone except for that awful Mr. Worth,” Mrs. Morgan replied.

Jane nearly spat out her tea.

“Awful?” Jane asked, after she managed to swallow. “What makes you say that?”

This simple question set off such a flurry of flushed faces and fast words that Jane could not discern what was being said for several seconds.

“Atrocious man!”

“Barreled me down in the street once, last winter, do you remember?”

“Repugnant—never even came to one of the assemblies!”

“Excuse me—” Jane interrupted. “But are we speaking about the same Mr. Worth? Mr. Byrne Worth? Widow Lowe’s nephew?”

All eyes rounded to Jane. “Do you mean,” Lady Wilton said incredulously, “that you’ve been introduced?”

“Of course,” Jane replied, her astonishment apparent. “And not only here, but we met in London.” Where Mr. Worth performed heroic acts to protect Crown and Country, she thought, but kept that part to herself. “His brother married a friend of mine just a few weeks past.”

“Are you saying that Mr. Worth was recently in London?” Victoria asked, when all the other ladies lost their voices.

“Yes. Just this summer, in fact.”

“But it’s impossible!” Mrs. Morgan sputtered, near to tears. “He couldn’t have been to Town!”

“For heaven’s sake, why?”

“Because,” Lady Wilton replied, nearly apoplectic, “he’s the highwayman, of course!”

“YOU’LL have to excuse my mother,” Victoria said as she gathered hats and shawls for guests as they took their leave.

“Victoria, what on earth did she mean—Mr. Worth is the highwayman. What utter nonsense,” Jane replied as she slowly tied her ribbons under her chin. “And what highwayman?”

“I’m surprised you have not yet been told, Lady Jane,” Dr. Berridge said from behind her. “There has been a rash of robberies—both of coaches on the road and of local businesses in the nearby towns.”

“The tack shop in Ambleside lost two saddles,” Victoria added, with a bit too much gothic glee. “Reston was attacked in the winter—Dr. Lawford’s offices were burgled, and the next night, Mr. Davies’s shop was ransacked!”

“But it is the main roads into the district that have taken the brunt of the thief’s . . . er, talent,” Dr. Berridge said.

“Father has even made us start to lock our doors,” Victoria added.

“That is all very tragic, and I will be certain to add a few night watchmen to the Cottage’s staff,” Jane replied stiffly, “but what makes this whole town think the perpetrator is Mr. Worth?”

“It’s an issue of timing. The highwayman has been operating in this area for nearly a year now, which coincides almost exactly with when Mr. Worth came to stay.” Dr. Berridge shrugged, stating simple facts.

Victoria, however, was not bound by simple facts. “And no one—absolutely no one—likes him. He was unconscionably rude to Mama when he first arrived, and she traveled all the way to the widow Lowe’s house with a welcome basket.” Victoria sniffed.

Jane remembered what Mr. Worth had said about welcome baskets—and how they came more with questions than jam. And if Lady Wilton was the deliverer, Jane was not surprised that he was left with that impression.

“And when he does come to the village, which he himself rarely does, he never says hello to anyone in the street,” Victoria continued. “He growled at the rector’s wife just this past Christmas, when she tried to ask if he was coming to services.”

“Circumstantial evidence at best,” Dr. Berridge replied.

“My dear doctor—medical school and the law? How accomplished you must be,” Victoria said pertly, eliciting a grin from her admirer. “And what makes something circumstantial but its circumstances?”

“If you were to ask Mr. Cutler, he would say that circumstances matter very little in the face of facts.”

“But in the absence of facts, you cannot blame those with a mind to gossip for relying on circumstance to invent them,” Victoria countered, her hand on Dr. Berridge’s arm and smiling winningly at him.

And earning a smile from Jane. Victoria may not know it, but she was flirting with the doctor. Delightfully. No wonder the man was so taken.

Victoria led both Dr. Berridge and Lady Jane through the door and into the afternoon sunshine. Impressed not only by Victoria’s flirtation but by the intelligence it portrayed, Jane decided to be impulsive and invite her old playmate to come to the Cottage for tea in a few days.

“I’m afraid that day is my mother’s knitting circle at tea. Impossible to cancel.”

All the better, Jane thought. “Well, if she can excuse you, please come.”

Victoria smiled, but then hesitated. “We haven’t seen much of your brother this visit.”

Oh dear. Jane watched the doctor’s expression carefully as she gave a noncommittal, “Hmm. Yes, he’s been reacquainting himself with the countryside.”

Victoria’s face betrayed a flicker of disappointment, but to give credit to her restraint, she did not continue the line of questioning. Waving good-bye at the gate, Jane allowed Dr. Berridge to escort her across the Wiltons’ small park to her carriage.

“Dr. Berridge,” Jane began, “I find I like you. So, might I be impertinent for a moment?”

The young doctor glanced over at her, then replied, “I should be honored, my lady.”

“How is it you have not yet fixed your interest with Victoria?”

The young doctor blushed, but that was his only visible reaction. His response was equally measured, his voice pitched low. “Likely because she has not taken notice of my interest.”

“That cannot be true,” Jane answered in equally low tones. “She obviously likes you a great deal.”

“Miss Victoria is of such good nature, she likes everyone a great deal,” Dr. Berridge responded. “Whether or not they are worthy of her affections.”

“Including my brother,” Jane inferred.

“I . . . I beg your pardon, ma’am, I did not mean to imply . . .” the doctor stammered, but Jane patted his arm.

“It’s quite all right. Miss Victoria, I remember, had a rather strong fascination with Jason growing up,” Jane said circumspectly. “I fear it has not been squelched.” She regarded the doctor a moment. “I am certain you have nothing to fear from my brother. Victoria is not a stupid girl; surely she will see your worth.”

But the doctor shook his head. “You will have to allow me to make my own assessment, madam.” He paused briefly, then with an embarrassed stutter added, “As much as I appreciate an honest conversation, might we change the subject?”

Jane smiled kindly. “Of course. I actually have another topic I would like your opinion on.”

“Mr. Worth?” the doctor guessed.

“Heavens,” Jane drawled flatly. “Was my interest that obvious?”

“Only in so much as your bewilderment. As to whether or not he is the highwayman that everyone suspects he is . . .” He shrugged. “It is possible, I suppose.”

“Even with his leg? You must know he cannot walk without a cane.”

“Yes—an injury he says he sustained in the war.”

“So then you’ve met him,” Jane cried. “So you must see that he could not be the highwayman. He has no reason.”

“I have not met him.” They were walking incredibly slowly to the carriage, slowing almost to a stop. “But,” Dr. Berridge continued, “my partner, Dr. Lawford, has. And his report was of a man as friendly as a mauled bear, and he’s done little to change that opinion of him in the village.”

Jane waved off this assessment. “Did Dr. Lawford examine him?”

“When he first came to the village, last year. And against Mr. Worth’s will. He reported that Mr. Worth said my partner could take his advice for swimming as exercise and . . . well, do something very impolite.” He grinned impishly. “So, yes, to answer your first question—it’s likely his injury would preclude his being the highwayman. But try telling that to the village, when he’s given such a . . . colorful first impression.”

At that, Dr. Berridge escorted her the last few steps, tipped his hat, and handed Lady Jane up into her carriage. Which was good—she had been given much to stew on and required solitude to do it.

So it was just too bad that she found herself with company in her carriage.

“There I was trotting through town, stopping here and there, and suddenly, Midas throws a shoe. So I go back and leave him at the blacksmith’s,” Jason drawled, lazily grazing his whip against his leg, “who had already left for the pub, after getting such a generous commission from the Marquis of Vessey, lazy bastard. So, Midas is being shod by his apprentice, and I’m thinking, how lucky it was my sister was kind enough to tell me her schedule today, and that I might catch a ride back to the Cottage with her.” He nodded his cynical gaze toward Dr. Berridge, who walked down the lane back into the village.

“You two seemed cozy.” Jason smirked, all his apparent worries about his sister’s taste in men and mischief seemingly justified. “So,” he said cheerfully, “how was your afternoon?”

Two days of rain, and being kept indoors, with nothing to do but play hand after hand of solitaire and stare at the quickly emptying basket of jams and breads that Lady Jane had brought him, had made Byrne a touch, one might say, disgruntled. By the time the sky cleared that morning, he was practically delighted to throw himself in the lake for his morning swim. For once he did not grimace in the cold . . . for once he did not complain about the pain in his leg. He simply let his lungs expand and contract, his arms cut through the water, joyous in being able to go outside.

He felt so blissfully good, his blood pumping so clean, that upon emerging from the water, he briefly considered going for a ride—then remembered that Dobbs had taken the rig into Reston first thing, to replenish their stocks. Chances were, he would meet up with his friend, Big Jim the blacksmith, and grab a pint before heading back. Byrne didn’t expect to see him before sundown.

He just hoped Dobbs remembered the supplies.

Since he had finished his swim and could not countenance being indoors another moment, there was very little left but to take a walk. He dressed in comfortable trousers, a shirt and coat, looking for all the world like a northern farmhand, not a military man with a notorious past that he’d rather forget.

As he hobbled nimbly to the door and grabbed the silver-handled cane that rested there (anachronous with the farmer image, but necessary), his eyes again came to rest on the near-empty basket, sitting on the side table, its jams and jellies depleted, a testament either to the Cottage’s culinary skills or his and Dobbs’s lack. Likely both.

Lady Jane—Byrne couldn’t account for seeing her here. Much like his silver cane with his farmer’s wardrobe, it was completely anachronistic.

And how he must seem to her! He knew his appearance had changed. He was healthier, stronger. But more wary.

And somehow, she appeared changed as well. In London, she was beyond citified. The epitome of the Ton’s sense of style and worth. He remembered the first time he saw her, very clearly.

It had been a few months ago, at the Hampshires’ Racing Party. Byrne’s brother Marcus had dragged him there—Marcus had suspicions that turned out to be well-founded that a malicious presence they had encountered (and fought, and provoked) in the war had found his way into London society—and Byrne had reluctantly, angrily accompanied him in his hunt.

He was not well then. His leg ached, and he’d fought the urge constantly to give in to his weakness and abate that pain. Sometimes the weakness won. But that day, he was fighting especially hard. After a long few hours in a carriage, with none but his preoccupied brother for company, which had been preceded by a few days in a carriage, Byrne . . . well, suffice to say, he was a little worse for wear.

The Hampshire Racing Party was a house party, lasting a weekend. He remembered being inured to the festivities—his need to get through the next five minutes outweighing his need to get through the whole party.

He had been watching the racing. Watching the horses thunder past on the oval dirt track Lord Hampshire had ruined his grounds with, having just had a fight with Marcus, leaving him in a decidedly brown study, staring out into the field.

He’d wanted to dull it all so badly. The night before, he’d managed to abstain from taking a few drops, just a few, of the precious vial of laudanum he’d brought with him. He’d needed to make it last, he told himself. He wouldn’t be able to just use it whenever it pleased him. And so, in fact, he had abstained ever since coming to London.

But he was so tired. He was supposed to be keeping his eyes open for anything suspicious—he had used this very skill to serve the Crown in the war, so this was second nature to him—but he was sweating about the collar, the sun making him want to shrink away. The track was loud, and the crowd around him, yelling, urging their favorites on, lambasting the horses that beat them. All he wanted was a tiny bit of respite. A moment where he didn’t have to feel this way.

And then, as he closed his eyes, to find the blackness he sought there not at all reassuring, he opened them again, and they came to rest on a young woman strolling casually with an older gentleman.

Bright red hair. There was no other way to describe it—not ginger, not auburn, not a strawberry blonde, none of those softer, more socially accepted colors. Bright red, and shining. She wore a hat, of course—it was far too sunny for any lady of quality to be without some protection—but it was a smart little thing, obviously the first stare of fashion, and did nothing to hide that glorious color.

But it wasn’t her hair or her endlessly stylish clothes or the gentleman with her that captured his attention. It wasn’t even her beauty, which was undeniable, but he had seen beautiful women before. Hell, there were a few dozen within fifty feet of him.

Nay, it was the tightness at the corners of her mouth. Even from a distance he could read the strain under her polished perfection, her shoulders just a hair too straight, her eyes just a fraction too weary. She couldn’t be more than nineteen, he thought, and sheltered by her wealth and privilege. What could she possibly know of life to make her that distressed by it? Likely some folly of the heart, he grunted dismissively.

And as she turned away down the lane with her escort, Byrne turned her from his mind, which was still keenly aware of certain needs, but oddly, they had lessened. He let himself believe he was winning the fight that day.

That was the first of several times he would see Lady Jane that weekend—although it took a moment of discreet inquiry to discover that was who she was. Lady Jane of Society Fame. The polished, perfect daughter of a Duke, a leader of the Ton. To think that a mere month later, she would be tramping through the woods, basket in hand, like a character from a German fairy tale . . . the contrast boggled his mind.