Excitement mingled with a touch of trepidation filled him. What would it be like to see his brother after so many years? He had tried not to think of Cyril during his time at Turner Academy, especially because their parting had not ended on a good note. Finch had taken every thought and memory of his family and locked them away. Now, though, strong emotions which he couldn’t even name flooded him. Hopefully, his brother was here to extend an olive branch and, once more, they could be in each other’s lives. Get to know each other again after so many years apart.

  “Come along,” Mr. Josiah said gently.

  They reached the library and he hesitated outside its door.

  “Go on,” the headmaster urged. “I know you have much to discuss. If you wish to talk about it later, feel free to seek me out. Good luck, Mr. Finch.”

  He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. He spied a short, obese man standing at the window. The man turned. For a moment, Finch had no idea who this stranger was. Then he smiled and somewhere within the folds of fat of his face, he saw a glimpse of his brother.

  “Finch!” Cyril cried, moving toward him.

  He froze. Cyril had never been tall and leaned toward the chubby side. This man, though, was vastly overweight. He couldn’t imagine why his brother had eaten his way into such a body. Finch had never been one to judge another by his physical appearance but shock filled him at the changes in Cyril since they had last seen one another eight years ago.

  “Finch,” Cyril said again as he reached him, throwing his arms about Finch and embracing him.

  It took everything he had to bring his own arms up to take hold of this stranger.

  Cyril pulled away. “You are so tall—and handsome. My little brother has become a man.”

  “Would you like to sit, Your Grace?” he asked formally, uncomfortable in the presence of a man Finch had loved as a boy, one who had changed so much.

  “Please. None of that,” his brother chided.

  “Sommersby then.”

  His brother sighed. “I thought I could remain Cyril to you. Even Mama hasn’t called me Cyril since I became the duke. I am always Sommersby to her.”

  Hearing about his mother caused a deep sense of anger to surge through him. Logically, Finch knew the woman probably had no idea of what her younger son had suffered at the old duke’s hands. He hadn’t confided in Cyril about it, much less addressed the matter with his mother. Yet resentment toward her burned within him, wishing she would have simply known and stepped up to protect him.

  He led Cyril to where a few chairs stood and they sat. Cyril’s body took up the entire chair, much of his bottom spilling over the seat’s edge. For a moment, Finch wondered if the chair might hold his immense girth—or if it would break.

  “Mama took your advice. She wed again the year after you left,” Cyril informed him. “She is now Countess of Wallingford. She and the earl, who is a decent chap, have a daughter.”

  Surprise filled him. “I . . . we . . . have a half-sister?”

  “Yes. Antonia. Mama said it was a beautiful name for a beautiful baby. Wallingford said it was a mouthful and sounded too cold. He called the girl Nia and it stuck.”

  “How old is Nia?”

  “She is six now. Wallingford already had two grown sons when they married. He dotes on Nia. You will like her.”

  “I doubt I will meet her,” he replied. “I want nothing to do with Mama.”

  Cyril frowned deeply. “You can’t blame Mama for Cousin Leonard sending you away. She was as much under the former duke’s thumb as the rest of us. She couldn’t have stopped anything. She had no legal rights.” He sighed. “That is why I am here today.”

  His brother tried to lean forward and then gave up. “I am at Oxford. It is where you should be. Oh, I know you were told to seek admission at Cambridge but we Finchleys go to Oxford. As a duke, I can arrange for you to attend university there. We will live together for a year, while I finish up my own degree. I will choose what you will study. You have been away a long time. I will introduce you to my circle. They will accept you, of course, because I am a duke.”

  Finch didn’t want to be with his brother. Even though Cyril had only been a child and powerless to stop Cousin Leonard from sending Finch away, some resentment was harbored within him. When he first arrived at Turner Academy, he had longed for Cyril to sneak a letter to him. When none had come, he gradually put aside thoughts of Cyril until he never thought of his brother at all. For Cyril to turn up here, after all this time, and begin plotting out Finch’s future, didn’t sit well with him. He certainly didn’t need this stranger to supervise his studies, much less force friends upon him. Cyril’s entire attitude rubbed him the wrong way. Finch realized he didn’t want to have anything to do with someone from his past.

  “I have plans to go to Cambridge with my friends,” he explained calmly, not wanting to alienate his brother or seem ungrateful for his offer. “We already have arranged rooms.”

  “I see.”

  An uncomfortable silence blanketed them.

  “You like these boys?” Cyril finally asked.

  “Very much. I shared a dormitory room with them my entire time at Turner Academy.”

  Cyril frowned. “What was it like? I heard awful rumors of this place. Cousin Leonard warned me to never tell anyone you were here. He did not want your behavior reflecting poorly upon me and our family’s name. I said you were quite ill and being educated at home by a tutor. It is all we could think of. Especially after your ungentlemanly behavior regarding Grandfather.”

  His brother’s priggish words cut Finch to the quick. He gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles growing white.

  “I never thought you, of all people, would judge me harshly,” he said, his voice rising. “You were there, Cyril. You suffered the beatings. The belittling. You know he was an awful man.”

  “Don’t take offense, Finch,” Cyril said quickly. “I don’t wish to speak of these things. I merely was made aware by Cousin Leonard of my standing in Polite Society as the new duke and had to protect my reputation. I do not fault you in any way.” His eyes seemed to narrow, though with all the folds of fat, they were already mere slits to begin with. “I disliked Sommersby as much as you did. Perhaps even more so.”

  “I doubt that,” he said boldly. “You do not know what I suffered at his hands.”

  Cyril’s expression grew pained. “I am sorry. I know I never walked in your shoes. But you, little brother, have never walked in mine.”

  Finch felt the gulf widening between them. He felt helpless to stop himself from drifting away.

  “So, you are determined to go to Cambridge with a bunch of ruffians?” Cyril finally asked, his tone haughty and condescending.

  “None of them are bad boys,” he defended. “They accepted me from the beginning. They were accused of things they never did.”

  Cyril snorted. “Or so they say. Will you even be prepared for the rigorous work at university after so many years spent at such an inferior place?”

  His temper flared. “I will have you know that my coursework at Turner Academy was more demanding than I expected. I am fully ready to take on whatever is thrown my way at Cambridge. In fact, it will seem easy after the level of difficulty I have encountered during my days here.”

  Finch stood. “Thank you for coming to see me, Sommersby. I am grateful that you will provide me with the funds for my university education.”

  Cyril struggled to free himself from the chair and finally succeeded. “You are different, Finch. Harder. More difficult than when you were younger. These friends you speak up for undoubtedly have had a poor influence upon you.”

  He never thought himself as being difficult. The fact Cyril now said this convinced him the breach between them would not be mended anytime soon.

  Still, he offered his hand to his brother. “Thank you for coming, Your Grace.”

  His brother took it and they shook.

  “If you care to, you may write me,” Cyril informed him. “Mama would also appreciate a letter from you.”

  He doubted it. His mother had moved on to a new life with a husband and child. The last thing she wanted was to receive word from a wayward son who had been sent away years ago.

  “You are welcome to come home to Sommerville at Christmas,” Cyril said stiffly.

  “Thank you for the invitation but I must respectfully decline.”

  Cyril’s lips flattened. “Then I suppose this is goodbye.”

  “It is,” he affirmed. “I will escort you to your carriage.”

  As they made their way downstairs slowly, Cyril’s girth impeding every step he took, Finch was grateful Mr. Josiah had steered the other boys to the kitchen. If they had left through the front doors, they would have seen the ducal carriage. As it was, he had no intention of telling any of them about this disappointing visit.

  Once outside, it took two footmen and the driver to hoist Cyril up the steps and into the waiting vehicle. As the carriage drove away, Finch offered a lukewarm wave. He realized someone was beside him and turned, seeing Mr. Josiah standing there.

  “Was it not a successful visit?”

  “No, sir. Not in the least. Sommersby may be family because we are related by blood but I found my true family here, at Turner Academy.”

  He wrapped Mr. Josiah in a bear hug, holding on and blinking back tears.

  “I assume you wish to keep this visit from His Grace from the others?”

  “Yes. Most definitely.”

  Mr. Josiah did not look at him with pity. Instead, he gave Finch a brilliant smile. Suddenly, all seemed right in his world again.

  “Why don’t you come to the kitchen? Mrs. Josiah has baked a cake. You can tell the two of us about your time at Markham Park.”

  Finch followed the headmaster inside, vowing never to think of Cyril again.

  Chapter Three

  Broadside, West Sussex—March 1814

  Victoria sat at her dressing table and gazed at her reflection.

  Twenty-six . . .

  How did she get to be so old with nothing to show for it?

  She leaned closer to the mirror. No wrinkles yet. That was a small blessing. But no children, either.

  That was her burden to bear.

  Her courses had come during the night, once again mocking her for being a failure. After eight years of marriage, she doubted she would ever produce any child, much less the expected heir. Because of that, her husband rarely came to her bed anymore. Apparently, Lord Pemberton had given up hope that she would bear a son. In the meantime, she supposed he had realized that he was stuck with her. Of course, as a man, he looked elsewhere for his pleasure. Especially when they were in London for the Season. He would come to her bed, the scent of another woman on him. Victoria would do her best to stimulate him but because of his age and having indulged elsewhere, it was difficult for him to perform his marital duties.

  He blamed her for the lack of children. She supposed she was barren. Empty inside. Not just her womb—but her life.

  She had tried to make the best of her situation from the beginning. An invalid mother who died when Victoria was ten. A father who gambled and drank and forgot about having a daughter for long stretches.

  Until he needed money.

  There had been no money for her to make her come-out. No funds for a dowry. Because of that, she had gone straight from the schoolroom to marriage with her father’s closest friend, a bachelor who decided in his mid-forties it might finally be time to think about producing an heir. In effect, Victoria was sold to Viscount Pemberton. He actually paid for her, the money going to her father to make good on his massive debts. He died a year later, found near the Thames. The story given out by her husband was that his friend had a massive heart attack.

  Victoria—and the rest of Polite Society—knew he had drunk himself to death.

  She hadn’t truly mourned her father because he had never seemed like a real person to her. He had ignored her most of the time and even looked surprised when they’d crossed paths in the house, as if he hadn’t remembered he even had a daughter. At least by marrying Lord Pemberton, Victoria had a household to manage and tenants to see to. Her husband wasn’t interested in affairs regarding his country estate but she had taken to her duties and quickly became more than competent. She knew the names of every servant and tenant farmer at Broadside and recalled their spouses’ and children’s names, as well, thanks to frequent visits with the families who farmed the land.

  Country life suited her better than town but she was always expected to attend the Season. Regrettably, she never danced at any of the balls because she sat with the matrons, who watched the action from the sidelines. Pemberton made it known from the beginning he would not tolerate her in the company of another man and so she was relegated to the sidelines with women old enough to be her mother—or grandmother. Victoria wore the elegant clothes her husband paid for, her eyes following the dancers as they moved about the ballroom, wishing she could be one of them. At least she was able to enjoy the garden parties and musicales. She had made a few acquaintances that first year after her marriage but Pemberton didn’t like for her to entertain. She refused invitations because she wouldn’t be able to reciprocate the hospitality. Occasionally, he would insist on having his friends come for dinner. Victoria planned the meals without complaint, disappearing into the woodwork and allowing the gentlemen to enjoy themselves without her company.

  Tomorrow, she would be leaving for London. Her husband had departed two weeks ago, telling her there were bills being considered in the House of Lords and that he wanted to be in London to discuss them. She thought he went to see whatever new mistress he had or to find a new one for the upcoming Season. Pemberton was a man who needed someone always telling him how wonderful he was.

  Victoria was no longer that person.

  A soft knock sounded and Betsy brought in a breakfast tray. Whenever Pemberton went to London, Victoria ate the first meal of the day in her room, not wanting to inconvenience the servants. Her husband had found out and told her that servants were there to be inconvenienced. A household should be run for the lord and lady of the manor’s convenience and none others. Still, she persisted when he was gone, her one bit of rebellion in an otherwise dull life.

  “Good morning, my lady,” her lady’s maid said brightly. “Got some of the hot chocolate for you and a poached egg, just the way you like it.”

  “Thank you, Betsy. Set the tray on the table if you would.”

  Victoria moved to the chair by the window and lifted the cover. She always believed in a hearty breakfast, especially because she was often out and about on the estate during the day seeing to the needs of their tenants. She would make her final rounds today and meet with the Broadside steward, giving him a list of things to accomplish while she was away in London for the next several months.

  Her maid joined her, sitting across from Victoria. It was part of their routine to visit during the meal and one which Pemberton would abhor. Thankfully, he never came to her bedchamber during the day, only on those rare occasions at night when he tried to get her with child.

  “Shall I begin packing this morning, my lady?” Betsy asked.

  “Yes, that will be fine. Remember, most of my clothing may remain here. All of my new gowns will be delivered to our London townhouse.”

  Each year, Victoria had Madame La Renn make up all her gowns. Since her measurements never seemed to change, she had sent her usual letter to the modiste, asking for the appropriate number of additions to her wardrobe for the new Season. She would go to the modiste’s shop for her fittings once she reached town but after all these years, Madame La Renn needed to make very few adjustments. She trusted the woman so much that this year she had given her carte blanche, telling the modiste to choose all the fabrics and patterns and put together the entire wardrobe without input.

  She would go to Mrs. Hamlin’s shop once they arrived in London, though. The milliner only accepted an exclusive clientele and Victoria was grateful to be a part of it. She preferred to choose her own hats in person and would do so once she saw the types of gowns that had been made up for her.

  “How is your sister feeling?” she asked.

  Betsy chuckled. “Says she’s as big as a house nowadays. Can’t wait for the child to come. Her husband’s waiting on her, hand and foot, he is.”

  “That’s good to hear. Let me know when the babe comes. I will knit something for him—or her.”

  The maid smiled in approval. “You’re very kind, my lady. Everyone says so.”

  Victoria only wished she could knit something for her own child.

  When she finished breakfasting, Betsy helped dress her for the day.

  “And my walking boots, please,” she said. “I have a lot of ground to cover today while you are packing for the two of us.”

  Once dressed, she left her maid to her task and ventured downstairs. On the landing, she met their butler, who had a worried look in his eyes.

  “My lady, Mr. Samuel has just arrived and asks to see you at once. I have placed him in the winter parlor.”

  “I will go to him now.”

  Victoria thought it odd for Elliott to be here. He was Pemberton’s nephew and had lived with them the past five years though much of the time he had been away at university. Since his graduation last spring, Elliott had spent most of his time in town. With the Season starting in two weeks, it surprised her that he would have come down to Broadside.

  She entered the parlor and Elliott stood. Always a solemn, earnest young man, he looked as if he had lost his last friend.

  “Good morning, Elliott. How are you?” she asked.

  As she reached him, he took her hands. Never one to be demonstrative, the gesture surprised her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, seeing his composure beginning to crumble.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25