He sank back against the feather bolsters that threatened to engulf him in their downy depths and lifted a hand to detain her.
‘One last thing: would it be possible to see the London broadsheets?’
He wanted to see the casualty lists. So many friends lay deadon that bloody field. He thought of Major Heyland and the letter his friend had written to his wife on that last night. She would be a grieving widow now, his last words clutched in her hand. He prayed that Waterloo had ended the carnage.
She nodded. ‘Of course. You are Lord Somerton. Whatever you wish, you just have to ask.’
With that, she closed the door behind her.
He closed his eyes and considered that statement.Whatever he wished, he just had to ask.
Chapter Four
Sebastian ran an appreciative hand over the tooled green leather of the inlaid mahogany writing desk and took a steadying breath. He could hardly bring himself to believe that this desk, like the house itself, now belonged to him. He picked up the pen and drew a sheet of thick cream paper towards him, wondering how to begin this all-important letter to his brother and sister.
Despite Bennet’s protestations, he insisted on rising from his bed and dressing in his one set of civilian clothes. His jacket now hung on him, reminding him that once again he had diced with death.
As he had lain in the hospital his only thought had been how they would survive on half pay now that the war was truly over. Some strange fate had, for the first time in his life, dealt him an unexpected hand.
He traced the embossed crest with its five-pointed stars at the head of sheet with his finger—the Somerton coat of arms, he presumed – dipped the nib of the pen in the inkstand, and began to write.
My dearest Connie and Matt. I know Bennet sent word to you that I had been wounded at Waterloo and returned to England. I write now to reassure you that my wound, while unpleasant, is not as bad as last time, and I am well on the road to recovery. However, I have to admit to you that my recovery is due in no small part to a dramatic turn of events that will astonish you. I have been informed that I am the heir to Lord Somerton of Brantstone in Lincolnshire, who died some months ago. He was, it appears, my cousin, and my father his uncle. I have been provided with solid evidence of my parentage, and I am now resident in the London abode, a small, pleasant house of only some 20 bedrooms (Bennet has counted them). When the doctors declare me fit for travel, I intend to travel to the family estate at Brantstone Hall and as soon as I am settled I will send for you both to join me but I think it prudent that you allow me a little time to become accustomed to this change in our fortunes and see what needs to be done to make proper provision for you both, and, of course, Mrs. Mead. I am sure this comes as much a shock to you as it does to me. My soldiering days are done. I must learn to be a gentleman of the aristocracy. Until we meet, S.
He sanded the letter and folded it, sealing it with wax. A seal, engraved with the same coat of arms, had been placed on the silver stand beside the wax. He picked it up and applied it to the wax, shaking his head in disbelief as he inspected the impression of the Somerton coat of arms.
Rising carefully from the chair, his hand going to his side as the barely healed scar caught, he limped over to the door. Beyond it, a wide gallery circled around from a broad, sweeping staircase. Using the balustrade for support, he took the stairs with care, cursing the infernal weakness of ill health.
When he reached the ground floor, he found himself in an elegant, circular entrance hall with a floor of black and white tiles. He turned a slow circle, taking in the elegant Grecian statuary in the alcoves and the fine paintings on the walls.
A number of closed doors, all of which were now his to open,led from the hall. He took a deep breath, hesitating and, for a moment, closed his eyes. Surely this magical world would vanish, and it would all be revealed as a fevered dream. But when he opened his eyes, a white marble statue of Diana and her hounds beamed back at him. He smiled and put his hand to one of the doorknobs.
The first door revealed a dining room dominated by a long, polished table and the second a handsome reception room. The third revealed a bright, cheerful parlour—a woman’s room, he thought.
‘Captain Alder!’
Lady Somerton rose from a small escritoire as he entered, her eyes wide with surprise. She wore the same gown of black silk that he had seen her in the previous day, unrelieved except for a white collar, fastened by a black mourning brooch and narrow white cuffs at her wrists. Her honey-coloured hair had been scraped away from her face and concealed by an ugly cap. The effect leeched any colour from her face and made her look years beyond her true age, which he guessed to be much of his own years.
Even in the summer light, she appeared pale and forbidding. To effect such severe mourning, he supposed she must have loved her husband very deeply.
‘My apologies, Lady Somerton. I should have knocked. I didn’t mean to intrude.’
He turned for the door but she took a step towards him her hand outstretched.
‘No, no, you are not intruding. Come in and I shall send for some tea. I am only surprised to see you up and about so soon.’
He lowered himself into the chair she proffered, regretting his impetuosity at venturing so far. He had, as usual, overstretched the limits of his body.
He held up the folded paper.
‘I have a letter to send.’
Isabel took it from him without glancing at the address.
‘I shall put it with my letters and it will go this afternoon.’
He thanked her and leaned his head back against the chair, closing his eyes as he gathered his strength to face the stairs again.
‘I sent Bennet on a mission to do some shopping for you, and, if you are up to it, we will arrange for the tailor to come tomorrow,’ Isabel said.
