Laura Carroll Butler Read online

  Her destination was a caretaker’s house, but when she entered it was not the caretaker who greeted her, but Davis. Vases stood in the front room and the bedroom beyond. All were filled with lilies of the valley, gently surrounding the room with their seductive scent.

  “You found them,” she whispered in surprise.

  “It’s remarkable what can be accomplished with enough manpower, horsepower and money,” he laughed.

  “All for me?”

  “I promised you that I would make our wedding night special.” He took her hand and kissed it. Wrapping his arms around her, he whispered, “I will always keep my promises to you.”

  Chapter Eight

  1774

  After Christmas and the New Year, Rebecca and Davis left on their honeymoon. Johanna closed St. Clare’s and sent the necessary staff to the London house. The remaining staff and the overseeing of the estate were entrusted to Davis’ agent. She was uncertain of her living situation in London during the season. The newlyweds would return in February to begin their married life and Susanne was now living with Martha. Though there was enough physical room for Johanna, she felt unnecessary. With her maid in tow, she left for a holiday far from the crowds.

  In April, she would turn 30. That was only six years older than her mother had been when she died. There were no prospective marriage proposals, only meaningless toying. Her solitude while she closed up the estate was the slap of reality that had gently cuffed at her for months. She was alone and past the age for a desirable bride. Every day that elapsed was one more nail in the coffin of spinsterhood. London yawned toward her with more of the meaningless flirtations that had initially stirred hope in her. Now she felt numb and a little annoyed at the prospect of the Season.

  She didn’t recognize the apathy until she saw Anthony, Lord Howard at Davis’ wedding. He’d grown paunchy and bald. As he tried to engage Johanna in conversation, her mind tried to stir some feeling, compassion, traces of love, anger, or pity. But there was nothing except gratitude toward his equally fat wife who fetched him with a derisive smirk.

  That was the point when Johanna decided that, despite the cold, she needed to escape to Harwich. The town would be quiet this time of year. It provided the isolation she desired.

  After a week of reading, walking and dining alone, she began to question whether she should have gone to Bath instead. That day, a family with three young children arrived at the hotel she was staying. The two girls were six and five, their brother three. At supper their first night, the mother apologized to Johanna when the boy kept toddling over to her table. Johanna assured her that there was no need to apologize. When the boy lifted his arms for Johanna to pick him up, the mother nodded and Johanna sat the child on her lap. He played with her pearls and sucked his thumb.

  “Alex has never met a stranger,” his mother explained.

  With her arms wrapped around the boy, his soft hair tickling her chin, she couldn’t remember a time she was more content.

  After a week, the family continued on their journey. Johanna took to her bed for a day.

  The following day, Johanna was walking on the bluff overlooking the sea. She walked to the edge and thought “One more step.” Her maid called to her, a blanket in her arms as the day was turning colder. Johanna turned to her and realized that she had never really moved toward the precipice.

  It sleeted that night. She didn’t want to go back to her life; but she didn’t know how to change her path.

  Soon after another letter from Martha arrived, coaxing Johanna to return to London and stay with her. After three weeks away, she began the stormy trip back to the city.

  *************************

  Susanne’s most vivid memory of her father was of the day she became aware of the true nature of her parent’s marriage. She was six and instead of working on her handwriting as her mother had commanded, she snuck out of her room to the kitchen hoping to wheedle a biscuit out of Nancy, the cook. She found Nancy in the kitchen, but she wasn’t baking. She was bent over a table, her skirt around her waist and Susanne’s father behind her. Susanne stood in the doorway, too stunned initially to move. Nancy’s face was turned toward the child in the doorway, but she said nothing. The look in the cook’s eyes reminded Susanne of her brother’s bunnies when they were trapped in a corner. Henry never acknowledged Susanne.

  Susanne backed away, slowly and quietly. When she thought she was far enough from the kitchen to not be heard, she ran toward the stairs to her room and into Sarah. Susanne was sobbing and unable to speak. Sarah tried to calm her, but gave up and just held the little girl in her arms.

  A short time later, Susanne heard the tread of her father’s boots.

  “What have you done to her?” he asked Sarah.

  “Nothing,” she answered defensively. “She won’t tell me what has upset her.”

  Susanne looked through her mother’s arms at her father. He regarded her with an expression like he was amused but not happy, as though he were mocking Susanne’s tears. Sarah saw the look also and tightened her arms around Susanne protectively. “I suppose she’s just being a scared little girl,” she said, “but I am sure she knows that there is nothing to be afraid of.” From her mother’s tone, Susanne somehow sensed that Sarah was cognizant of what had upset her.

  Susanne could not look at Nancy while she served supper that evening. The conversation between her parents was unremarkable. As the days passed, Susanne began to question what she had really seen. And in time, she accepted that this was how a marital relationship worked: the husband could do as he pleased and the wife abided it as long as he did his duty to her and provided her with a comfortable life. Love, fidelity and honesty didn’t enter the picture.

  She changed her mind after watching how devoted Davis was to Rebecca. It gave her hope.

  Susanne had never spoken of the memory until Michael. After the New Year, she moved in with Martha and she and Michael were finally able to spend time together. Martha was an excellent chaperone; she never went to bed until Michael was escorted out of the house. She usually excused herself after a short visit, pleading she had letters to write, whatever, but it gave the couple time alone. Susanne was so grateful that she made sure Michael never overstayed his welcome.

  Though he never elaborated on why, Michael had intimated to Susanne that Davis was opposed to their match. It didn’t matter to Susanne, though. She enjoyed her secret for the time. Something would change when Johanna returned from wherever she’d run off to.

  Michael was inspired by Susanne, his muse. He wrote feverishly during the day so he could spend his evenings with her. In his billets-doux, he called her “Mia Erato”. When she casually asked Martha what this meant, Martha gave her an amused look then recommended a book of Greek mythology.

  The Season began again in London and there was an event of some sort every night. In public, they were careful to dance with others, banter with others, and do both as ordinarily and unspectacularly as possible. But when he danced with Susanne, Michael could feel the spark and tension between them as though it were alive and tangible. He touched her arm and resisted the urge to pull her closer. He pressed his lips to her ear and resisted the urge to kiss her full on. Michael worried that consummating his passion for Susanne would dampen it; he was enjoying himself too much to take the chance.

  But he had not been celibate for any length of time since Jane, the kitchen maid. There was never a shortage of women he knew who demanded nothing more from Michael than an evening of mutually satisfying lovemaking. They were usually married women of a high rank who found their husbands not particularly adept at fulfilling their needs.

  He was at a reading that Susanne did not attend. She pleaded a headache, though he suspected that she was afraid she could not contribute to the conversation. Afterwards, he left with an old friend who had shamelessly flirted with him the entire night. His blood was roused and her husband was gone, visiting a mistress or another lover; Michael really didn’t care to know
the details. She had been trying to coax Michael into her bed for several weeks and he saw no reason to decline.

  Michael enjoyed himself, his physical needs satisfied, but when he came, he had a vision of Susanne. He was restless afterwards and more eager than he’d ever been to leave the woman’s bed. It was the first time in his life that Michael had felt guilt at sleeping with a woman.

  How odd, he thought. He genuinely loved and admired women and his only rule was that he belonged to no one and no one belonged to him. Sex had never been more to him than a physical need and his partners learned that quickly. Love, he believed, was rare and not necessary. Now he felt that he had betrayed Susanne by sharing another’s bed, even though Susanne had never shared his. He knew also that he didn’t want anyone, but her in his bed. “Love” had become more than a word to toss out casually and as it suited him.

  Shortly after that night, Davis and Rebecca arrived in London and Michael received a letter from Elysian Fields. He now had a convenient excuse to leave Susanne and sort through his feelings without drawing attention from Davis. Before he left London, Michael sent a brief note to Susanne: “Mia Erato, I must go to my father’s. I will write when I know more. All my love, Michael”.

  *************************

  Christmas was the last time Michael had seen his father and he was in terrible health. Years of alcoholism and debauchery made him seem much older than 53. His skin was yellow and waxy, his abdomen distended uncomfortably and his doctor didn’t expect him to live much longer. Of course, doctors had been condemning his lifestyle and sentencing him to death for the last ten years and the old Earl didn’t pay them much mind.

  The Brooks’ title was older than the Edderle’s, but the latest Earl’s irresponsible living had eaten away the family fortune. As he rode up to Elysian Fields, it depressed Michael to see the signs of decay in the grounds and house; the lawns were weedy and the garden beds had not been properly prepared for winter. The shrubs of the maze were overgrown and obstructed the paths. Broken windows were covered with paper in rooms that Michael knew were no longer used. Sadly, that was most of the house.

  There was no groom to tend to Michael’s horse, so he took care of the animal himself. There was one other horse in the stable, the rest of the building empty for years.

  He walked to the house and entered through the kitchen where a pot of something was cooking in the fire grate. He knew from his last visit that only three servants remained, the housekeeper, Mrs. Bailey; a maid named Amelia; and the butler, Blaine. Occasionally, a villager would come in for a few days, but most knew that collecting wages from Earl Brooks was never a guarantee.

  Had Elysian Fields ever felt like a home to him, Michael might have felt more sadness at its hastened decline. But it was nothing more than the place he came to when he had no where else to stay or when his father or a doctor summoned him, which was recently more often the case.

  Blaine and Amelia were in the smoking room with the old Earl. A bed had been set up for the Earl when it became too difficult for him to climb stairs. No one seemed particularly enthusiastic at Michael’s arrival, though Amelia appeared relieved to be able to leave the claustrophobic room. Blaine looked up briefly, insolently nodded, and then went back to his card game.

  “Well, Father,” Michael said with mock humor, “you look the same as at Christmas.”

  “Damn fool doctor keeps giving me two weeks and I keep holding on just to spite him,” the old Earl growled.

  “You’ll have to pay him eventually.”

  “He can collect his money when I am dead, just like you and everyone else.”

  “Good to see you’re still full of piss and vinegar.”

  “Probably from that swill in my liquor bottles.”

  Michael sniffed the glass beside his father. It was a sure indication of how far they had fallen; lawns could be unkempt and windows could remain broken, but Earl Brooks always had the best liquor. What was in the glass was some sort of home mash that Blaine had probably purchased in the village.

  “I suppose my room is the same, Blaine?” Michael asked.

  “I haven’t set a fire so it’s cold right now. I’ll tend to it,” Blaine answered though not in any hurry to move.

  “You don’t need to; I can take care of it. Please just keep an eye on Father.” Blaine hid his smirk, grateful not to have to leave his cards and the warm room.

  Michael found Mrs. Bailey sitting at a table in the servant’s quarters, not even trying to look busy. She had been employed by the old Earl for years and she knew more about the workings of Elysian Fields better than anyone including the family accountant. It should have been Blaine’s job, but he was a recent hire and spent more of his time sitting than actually working. Michael would have fired him, but it was not his responsibility. It was Mrs. Bailey who ran the estate, cared for the Earl, negotiated with the creditors and received little more than room and board for her troubles. Michael knew that he could never fully compensate her financially for all she had done and he would never understand why she did it.

  “How is he really?” he asked her.

  “He’s holding on, for what reason, I couldn’t tell you. He is miserable, he doesn’t eat, he doesn’t sleep,” she answered wearily.

  “He should have been dead at Christmas,” Michael remarked.

  Mrs. Bailey was not surprised at the assessment; it was one she had made often in the past months.

  “The books?” Michael asked.

  She got up, found the ledger and handed it to him. “It’s bad,” she said. “Half the tenants are behind in their rent by at least three months. The harvest was poor; some have paid with produce or chickens, otherwise we would not be eating.”

  Michael slowly paged through the ledger. Written in ink was the complete and utter failure of Elysian Fields, the estate his father let slip from his hands after two centuries of Brooks’ occupation. It had never occurred to him that there might not be an estate left for him to inherit. He’d thought as little of it as he had the money he’d always spent carelessly. Whether it was seeing Davis settle into marriage, his suddenly serious feelings for Susanne, or the simple fact that there was no one left to care about Elysian Fields, he knew that he could no longer be so reckless.

  He closed the book and folded his hands. While he sat silently, Mrs. Bailey poured him a mug of tea, stirred the cooking pot and then sat down and waited for him to speak. Finally, he said, “I’ll speak with Mr. Vaughn tomorrow. I believe that we will need to see about having an auction.”

  “Your father won’t be happy,” Mrs. Bailey said.

  “I am afraid that my father may be dead before the sale is concluded. And if he is not, we would all be better served if he lived closer to me.” Mrs. Bailey could not hide her clear relief at Michael taking the yoke of responsibility off her shoulders.

  *************************

  The sun was setting by the time Michael made his decision, but he saddled his horse to find someone who would take a note to Vaughn, his family’s attorney. He stopped at the closest house, but no one answered his knock despite the shuffling and whispers he heard behind the door. He gave up and went to the next house. Apparently they were current on their rent and so not only answered the door, but gladly agreed to send a child with his note and a shilling for their trouble. He wanted to continue into Wickingham and find an open pub, but resisted the urge and returned to the manor. Someone, probably Amelia, had kept a lantern burning in the stable so there was enough light to care for his horse.

  He had lit a fire in his room before he’d left. Now he stoked the embers and warmed himself with the help of his personal flask. It helped take the edge off the reality that grimly engulfed him.

  He dreamt of Susanne that night and awoke in the morning calm, resolved and ready to face what came next.

  *************************

  Late that morning, Dr. Oliver made his daily visit. Michael waited for him in his father’s study, knowing there would be no
thing pleasant to hear from the doctor. Dr. Oliver came into the study shaking his head. “It’s pure spite that’s keeping him alive. I am sorry to say it, Lord Brooks, but it’s true.”

  Michael started a little at the address; he never thought of himself as Lord Brooks, just Michael Brooks. “You shouldn’t apologize for the truth. He is worse, though, at least since Christmas.”

  “Yes. There is nothing left to do but wait.”

  “Is there anything you can give him for the pain?”

  “I think he’s taking care of that himself,” the doctor replied. Michael knew he was referring to the liquor that was killing the old Earl.

  “Of course.” Michael paused then said, “If you could leave a bill, I’ll see that you are paid.”

  The doctor stammered in embarrassment. “I’ve given a few to Mrs. Bailey. I’m sure she intended to give them to you at a later time.”

  “I am sure she did. You will be fully reimbursed before the weeks end.” He shook the doctor’s hand. After he left, Michael forced himself back into the smoking room.

  The drapes were drawn. His father was a grotesque figure in the firelight. Michael dismissed Blaine. He didn’t want to be near his father, but he sat down next to him. He didn’t know why, maybe a filial duty to a father that had never been a father, but he was compelled to take his father’s hand. It was cold and greasy from the lanolin Amelia used to keep the Earl from scratching his painfully itchy skin.

  “Father,” Michael began, “I’m going to see Mr. Vaughn this afternoon.” He paused. “I don’t believe that we can pay your debts and taxes without selling the estate.”

  The old Earl stared at his son with no discernable recognition. Finally, he asked, “Why did you come?”

  Michael didn’t know how to answer; he didn’t know the answer.