The more he learned of his cousin, the less he liked him. But Anthony was dead and, for some perverse reason, it had fallen to him to clean up the mess.
‘Recrimination is not going to restore the fortunes of this estate. I suggest that, for the moment, we do not burden Lady Somerton with this news,’ he said, suddenly desperately tired. The sheer effort of trying to digest the figures laid out before him had been exhausting.
Bragge looked at him. ‘She should be told, sir.’
‘In time,’ snapped Sebastian.
Sebastian dismissed the man, unflogged and with his employment still intact, and sat down at the desk. He turned back to the neat rows of figures, trying to find some reason for hope.
Somehow, the money needed to be found to reimburse Isabel for her lost income, but after a while, he shut the books and leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingers together as he concluded that the Somerton inheritance was a tainted privilege.
In some ways he was no better off than he would have been if he had remained a penniless officer of the line on half pay. At least then, he only had his siblings and himself to worry about. Now he had a household and an estate, all claiming pennies from a purse that looked decidedly the worse for wear.
Where had it all gone and how, in God’s name, was he expected to restore the family fortunes? If his cousin had walked into the room at that point, Sebastian may well have had to be constrained from breaking the man’s neck himself.
Chapter Seven
BRANTSTONE HALL 15 AUGUST 1815
Sebastian waited with mounting impatience for the footmen to set down the steps of the coach before descending. He knew this moment would set the tone for whatever his life would be from now on and if he exited the Somerton coach without a proper degree of dignity all respect would be lost.
The soles of his new boots crunched on the fine gravel, and he looked up at the Palladian mansion with its portico supported by tall columns that soared above him. He hoped his face did not betray the apprehension he felt. From the coach box, he heard Bennet’s muttered ‘Cor blimey’ and smiled. His thoughts exactly.
Lady Somerton waited on the top step, her hands clasped in front of her severe black skirt, her hair concealed within a cap of the type his mother had once favoured. She looked as cold and forbidding as the columns that flanked the portico. However, as he approached, a smile twitched at the corners of her lips.
‘Welcome to Brantstone, Lord Somerton,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Lady Somerton,’ he replied with an answering smile.
He leaned heavily on the ebony cane to catch his breath. He probably should have remained in London for another week, as the doctor advised, but he was anxious to pick up the reins of his new life.
‘Allow me to introduce you to the staff,’ Lady Somerton said.
She stood back and followed him into the house.
The front hall of the house in London was only an echo of this magnificent entranceway, around which the entire staff of the house had been assembled to meet their new master—everyone from the steward and the housekeeper to the lowliest kitchen hand.
A young girl stepped forward with a posy of flowers, which she presented to him with a shy curtsey. Sebastian stooped to the girl’s level. He took the flowers and asked her name.
‘Matilda, my lord,’ she said in a small voice, her wide, surprised eyes meeting his as if she couldn’t believe he would deign to address her.
‘Where do you work?’ He asked.
‘In’t kitchen, m’lord.’
He straightened and smiled at the child. ‘Thank you, Matilda.’
He went around the circle, making a point of greeting every staff member, asking their name and position, and hoping he would remember. He had always made it a point to know the name of every man in his company, and he did not consider a household staff much different. He had thought the matter through in the tedious hours in the coach and decided that if he thought of the task ahead as being akin to a sudden promotion to colonel of a regiment, it did not seem so daunting.
The greetings done, the staff dispersed, leaving only the housekeeper, introduced as Mrs. Fletcher, and a footman who helped him off with his travelling coat and new hat.
‘Would you care to take a cup of tea?’ Lady Somerton enquired, indicating a door to her left.
Sebastian thought longingly of a comfortable bed and a tankard of beer. Instead, he ignored his body’s protests and mustered a smile. A tankard of beer would probably be thought indelicate, and rest could wait. He had dispatched Bennet to the bookshops of London to seek out some books of instruction in etiquette. Although he had found these most instructive, he had so much to learn.
He was not a complete stranger to the ways of the upper echelons of society. As the Reverend Alder’s eldest son, he had been a frequent visitor to the ‘big house’ at Little Benning, being deemed a suitable companion to Sir Richard’s sickly son. The boy had not lived to adulthood, and, to ease his grief, perhaps, Sir Richard had been kind to the young Sebastian, even purchasing his commission as an ensign. But Sir Richard, too, had followed his son to the grave, and with him went his patronage. From that moment, Sebastian had been on his own.
The old, rambling home of a baronet bore no comparison to this mansion. Money, and plenty of it, had built Brantstone. He wondered what nefarious practices his forebears had indulged in to allow the purchase of such an ostentatious building.
