Nicholas sighed. He had heard enough about the Tate family to last a lifetime the night prior.
Once Miss Tate had been taken home by her uncle, Nicholas had been questioned at length by her cousin, Miss Mary-Ann Spencer, and Miss Tate’s aunt, the baroness.
The story was as follows: he had retreated outside for fresh air when he had come upon Miss Tate doing the same. They had spoken only a moment out of politeness before the woman had fallen to the ground in a fit.
Lady Spencer had assured Nicholas that he was not to blame.
“She is prone to these things, Your Grace,” the woman had said. “It is my fault. I should not have encouraged her to come tonight. Pray, Your Grace, do not think unkindly on my niece. She only wishes to live normally.”
Mr. De Rees, in so far as Nicholas knew, had not returned to the party at all.
He returned his attention to his brother.
“You say I should know of the mother as though I knew the daughter beyond stumbling upon her outdoors,” Nicholasargued, lying only partly, retrieving the book he had put down, before he resumed reading. It was a fruitless exercise. His thoughts promptly returned to Miss Tate, and he slammed the book shut. “It cannotallbe true.”
“Oh, but it is,” Samuel assured him, wiping his mouth and calling for more coffee. “The mother was a madwoman, but the father loved her anyway. He locked them all away in that house of theirs in Abbingdon-on-Thames, which saved the mother from society, perhaps from herself, but not from consumption, or so the story goes.”
He extended his cup to be refilled, continuing his story like he was summarizing a play he had seen. “The father, convinced he had brought consumption into the house, killed himself to be reunited with the mother. The boy—Frederick, I think he is called—left the country only six months later.”
Nicholas shook his head at his brother—and at himself. “Hm.”
“And the daughter? Why, you saw what happened to the daughter. Supposedly as mad as the mother. She came to live with Baron Spencer a few years ago.” He took an eager sip of his coffee, and Nicholas hoped it scalded him. “A shame about Bright Corner, being abandoned all this time.”
“The more pressing victim is the daughter, surely.” Nicholas laid his book in his lap, thinking. “She did not seem mad to me.”
“Not even when the devil got her, right before your eyes?” Samuel tilted his head to the side. “I bet you wish you had stayed in London. But then of course—Where are you going?”
Risen to a stand, Nicholas marched out of the room.
“I will not suffer another moment of your gossiping about the Tates.”
“It is not gossiping!” Samuel cried after him. “These are things you shouldknow,brother!”
He chose not to heed Samuel’s warning.
More the pity for Nicholas.
Retreating into the countryside, Nicholas found reprieve for a while in nature.
He settled at the top of the knoll behind Riverside Court, looking down at the valley, the River Thames slithering southward in the distance. The air was crisp that morning, carrying a similar chill as the night before.
Settled beneath an old oak tree, Nicholas tried in vain to continue reading the book he had selected that morning, tortured by the memory of Miss Tate on the ground.
He sighed after what felt like hours of vain contemplation, snapping the book shut for good. Not moments after, the sound of a horse approaching caught his ear. He turned to the sight of a rider coming up from the house.
Never a good omen,he thought miserably.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Amatter worth sulking over,” George shouted as he climbed the knoll on horseback. He took off his hat and waved it, but the gesture seemed forced, marked with fear.
Nicholas sighed, wondering whether it was too late—whether it would be too indecorous—to roll himself down the hill out of George’s reach.
“Samuel said I would find you here,” George announced as he dismounted, barely managing to tie the reins of his horse around the thick trunk of the oak. “So, will you tell me of things or not?”
“Whatthingsdo you mean, exactly?” Nicholas could not keep his weariness out of his voice. What an inane question. “To my knowledge, things are no different today than they were yesterday,” he lied.
“Your retreat, up top this hill, like a hermit, begs otherwise.”
