November 12th, 1808
Whiteoaks, Wiltshire
On Saturday, Letty went back to being an heiress. The journey from Basingstoke to Whiteoaks in Wiltshire was thirty-odd miles. In the post-chaise, Letty considered spinning a tale for Eliza and Green that explained why she was going to stay with her cousins and Reid wasn’t. A mysterious family feud, perhaps? And then she saw a set of balance scales in her mind’s eye, weighed down by three deaths on one side and by her lies on the other. No, she’d tell no more falsehoods than were absolutely necessary.
“My husband prefers to stay in Marlborough when I visit Whiteoaks,” she said, and left them to make their own guesses as to why that might be. “Eliza, you’ll stay in Marlborough, too. I shan’t need you at Whiteoaks, but next week we’ll go to Bristol, and then perhaps down to Exeter.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Letty glanced at Reid. Last night’s nightmare still clung to him. He’d been quiet all day. Broodingly quiet. Bleakly quiet.
He’d have another nightmare tonight. And tomorrow night. And the night after that. And I won’t be there to help him.
Reid and Green and their luggage—along with Eliza’s carpetbag—were deposited at the Castle and Ball in Marlborough’s wide High Street. “Remember to leave the brandy and valerian beside his bed,” Letty told Green, for what must be the fifth time that day. “With a glass and a teaspoon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Eliza came as far as Whiteoaks for propriety’s sake, peeping wide-eyed out the window as the post-chaise drew up in front of the great portico. A butler and two footmen emerged and trod down the marble steps.
“Good-bye, Eliza. I’ll see you in a week.”
The carriage door swung open. Letty descended demurely, the luggage was unloaded, and then the post-chaise—postilions, outrider, and maid—swept back to Marlborough.
Letty watched it clatter from sight, and then turned to gaze at the vast marble façade of Whiteoaks, with its Corinthian columns and rows of windows and the bas-relief crowning the portico.
Much as she loved her Kemp cousins, she didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be at the Castle and Ball with Reid, making sure he drank his brandy and swallowed his valerian and went back to sleep again.
“Ma’am?” the butler said.
Letty sighed, and marched up the long flight of marble steps. Her heart quailed in her chest as she stepped into the entrance hall. Had her deception been discovered?
“Letitia!” Her eldest cousin’s wife arrived with a flurry of scarves and perfume. “They sent you in a post-chaise! How shabby!”
No, not discovered.
Letty embraced Almeria, and assured her that it wasn’t shabby at all; on the contrary, she had enjoyed it enormously; and yes, Helen had sent an outrider; and yes, Helen had sent a maid—and those words were even more lies to go on the scales—but although part of her regretted each and every lie she’d uttered this past week, part of her couldn’t regret them. Not if it meant redress for the dead scouts. Not if it meant that Reid found his traitor.
More cousins appeared. Letty looked around eagerly for Julia—and then memory slapped her in the face: Julia’s dead. She’s been dead these past seventeen months.
Pugh clucked over the state of her hair. “Pulled back so tightly! Not flattering, not flattering at all!” Letty paid no attention. Propped up on the mantelpiece in the Lilac Bedchamber were two letters, one thick, one thin. The handwriting on both was extremely familiar. She knew what each letter held before she even picked them up: the thick one contained the monthly summaries on her mother’s lying-in hospital and foundling homes and charity school; the thin one, the investigator’s report on her most recent suitors.
The seal on the second letter had been broken. Letty repressed a spurt of annoyance. Her stepbrother paid for the investigator; of course he had a right to read those reports before she did.
She settled on the chaise longue to read, while Pugh unpacked her trunk, muttering direly over every crease she discovered. Conscientiously, Letty examined the monthly summaries first: numbers of women admitted to the hospital, numbers of births, numbers of babies accepted into each of the homes, numbers of children apprenticed and where to. The superintendent of the charity school had appended a note: One boy showing extraordinary talent in mathematics. I suggest extra tuition. Below that, her man of business had scrawled: Arranged.
The summaries read, Letty unfolded the investigator’s report. Her gaze skipped down the page—Frederick Ashburton—Roger Pinkney—and Icarus Reid.
She forced herself to read the paragraphs on Ashburton and Pinkney first. They merely confirmed what she had suspected; both men were deeply in debt, Pinkney almost bankrupt.
She’d requested as much information as possible on Reid, and the investigator had obliged.
Icarus Reid. Fifth and youngest son of Sir Hector Reid of Wetherby, Yorkshire. Born 1778.
1778? That meant Reid was only thirty. He looked much older. Letty frowned, and read further. Grandson of Admiral Titus Reid. Nephew of Admiral Virgil Reid. Brother of Admiral Socrates Reid. Joined the 33rd Foot as an ensign in 1795. Distinguished himself in the action at Mallavelly, 1799. Mentioned in the dispatches. Promoted to lieutenant and attached to Lieutenant Colonel Wellesley’s staff as aide-de-camp.
Seven years of campaigning in India had followed, during which time Reid had been promoted to captain, and then major, and earned significant wealth. Estimated prize money, £25,000. Letty’s eyebrows rose. A genteel fortune.
Wellesley had taken leave of absence in 1805. When he resumed his military career in 1807, Reid rejoined his staff. According to my sources, the investigator wrote, Wellesley specifically requested Major Reid.
Reid had returned from India in time to participate in the Battle of Copenhagen. Then, in July of this year, he’d sailed with Wellesley to Portugal. Following the Battle of Vimeiro (August 21st), Reid was on the invalids’ list for several weeks. He resigned his commission and returned to England in mid-October.
As far as I can ascertain, Reid has no debts. Further, it appears that his fortune is untouched! Letty didn’t begrudge the man his exclamation mark. In over one hundred reports, this was the first time he’d investigated a suitor who wasn’t a fortune hunter.
At the bottom, the investigator had made notes on Reid’s character. My sources all spoke highly of Major Reid. He’s said to be an even-tempered, intelligent man, and a courageous and resourceful soldier. I found no indications of profligacy. By repute, he is neither a gambler, nor a drunkard, nor a philanderer. The investigator didn’t write—In my opinion Reid would make an excellent husband—but it was clearly implied.
Letty sighed, and refolded the sheet of paper. There were two surprises in the report—Reid’s age, and his fortune—but nothing to tell her what had happened to him at Vimeiro. “I need some fresh air, Pugh. I’ll be back in an hour.”
It was a year since Letty had last been at Whiteoaks. Then, Julia’s death had been fresh: the riding accident, the broken neck. Now the mourning blacks were put away, but it still seemed to Letty that a melancholy air hung over the estate. Perhaps it was due to the season—the bare trees, the chill in the air, the drifts of dead leaves—but she thought it was more to do with Julia.
In London, Julia’s absence had been a dull ache, something she’d learned to ignore. At Whiteoaks, memory of Julia was everywhere. Here was the shrubbery where they’d played hide and seek, here the stream where they’d paddled barefoot with the boys, searching for frogs, and here the long avenue of oaks where they’d raced their ponies. Memory upon memory. Julia stuck up a tree, Julia falling in the river, Julia with mischief on her face and mud on her dress and torn flounces hanging around her ankles.
Letty wandered slowly along the avenue, stirring the dead, damp leaves with her boots. She’d walked here with Julia when they’d last been at Whiteoaks together. Walked, talked, laughed. Boisterous, harum-scarum Julia, who even in adulthood hadn’t outgrown her tomboyish ways. Julia, who’d made everything seem fun, who’d joked while they fended off fortune hunters together, who had made the Marriage Mart bearable.
A strange feeling grew while she walked, a sense that Julia was nearby. Letty could almost see her, like a shimmering afterimage on her retina. If I turn my head fast enough, I might glimpse her.
Ahead, two riders entered the avenue. Even at a hundred yards’ distance, Letty recognized them. Julia’s twin, Lucas. And Tom Matlock.
Someone whooped distantly—Tom, she guessed—and the horses were urged into a canter.
The sensation that Julia was nearby intensified—so sharp, so strong, that Letty could have sworn Julia stood alongside her—and then abruptly vanished.
The riders swept past with a thunder of hooves—it was Tom whooping—and pulled up in a showy scattering of gravel and dead leaves. Tom leaped down and caught her in a rib-cracking hug, lifting her off her feet. “Tish, m’ love. God, but it’s good to see you.”
Letty hugged him back. He smelled of horse and leather and clean linen.
Tom set her on her feet, and then Lucas hugged her, too, and they were all laughing and it felt so good to be together again.
“When did you arrive?” Lucas asked. He looked nothing like Julia—his hair, his eyes, the arrangement of his bones, were all different—and yet he was so much like her. She saw Julia in his grin, Julia in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, Julia in the tilt of his head.
“An hour ago. How are you both?”
“In fine form,” Lucas said. “What’s the count now?”
“Eighteen so far this year.”
Tom exchanged a wry glance with Lucas, dug in his pocket, and flipped a half-crown at his friend.
“You’ll find a couple of ’em here this week, Tish,” Lucas said, pocketing the coin. “Bernard nagged m’ brother into inviting them. Stapleton’s already arrived, and Henry Wright’s coming on Monday. Wright’s a decent fellow—he was at Eton with us—but I don’t think much of Stapleton.”
“A new wager.” Tom fished another half-crown from his pocket and waggled it at Lucas. “Stapleton and Wright to propose by the end of this week.”
“I am here,” Letty said indignantly.
“I know, love.” Tom grinned at her. “Walk back with us?”
Letty tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and looked at him—the merry face, the laughing green eyes. No, Tom was no traitor. But he might know what had happened to Reid at Vimeiro. “I met an acquaintance of yours in London last week. Icarus Reid. He was a major before he sold out.”
“Reid?” Tom’s eyebrows lifted.
“He said he’d be passing through Wiltshire. I told him you were here, suggested he look you up.”
“I hope he does,” Tom said cheerfully. “Good man, Reid.”
Twenty-eight people sat to dinner that evening. Letty found herself with her stepbrother on one side and Lord Stapleton on the other.
“Letitia,” her stepbrother, Bernard, said with cool politeness. “How pleasant to see you.” Letty heard that lie.
Bernard made no mention of the latest report during dinner, but he took her aside once they’d repaired to the drawing room. “This Major Reid is an interesting development. No title, of course, but a respectable fortune. I hope he may offer for you.” That was the truth.
“I don’t think he’s looking for a wife.”
Bernard frowned, creases furrowing on either side of his nose and pinching between his eyebrows, giving him a bird of prey look. “Then why did you add him to the list?”
Because I wanted to find out more about him. “Because I’m not certain.”
Bernard grunted sourly, and looked across the room to where Lord Stapleton stood. Stapleton was a man of moderate height, moderate build, moderate good looks—and an expensive gambling habit.
“I view Stapleton favorably. His debts are manageable. You’d do well to encourage him.”
“I’d rather have Sir Henry,” Letty said. “At least his debts are none of his doing.”
“Then I suggest you accept his offer,” Bernard said coldly. “He asked my permission to pay his addresses.”
“You gave it, of course.”
“Of course.”
“And Stapleton?”
“Him, too.”
Letty repressed a tart comment. Bernard had been wanting to be rid of her since the day his father had married her mother. Of course he’d given his permission.
Letty sat down to a game of Speculation with the younger members of the house party—a Kemp tradition. The game rapidly degenerated into noisy merriment. Time blurred. Tonight could be any one of a hundred similar nights over the years: Tom telling jokes, Lucas laughing quietly, people slapping down counters, slapping down cards. For a moment Letty’s eyes told her that Julia sat across from her, giggling—and then she blinked and saw it was Almeria’s eldest daughter, Selina.
Letty looked hastily away. She fumbled for her handkerchief and blew her nose.
“I win!” Lucas said—and Letty looked at him, golden-haired and laughing, and made a discovery. Lucas was only laughing with his mouth, not his eyes.
After that observation, Letty found herself unable to recapture her pleasure in the game. She played her cards, offered up her trumps for sale, added counters to the pot, even won a round, but all the while she was more aware of Lucas than anything else. Lucas, who no longer wore black for his dead twin. Lucas, who was pretending to be happy.
Towards the end of the game, Letty became conscious that she wasn’t the only person watching Lucas. Tom’s seen it, too. He’s worried by it. “Come riding with me tomorrow morning,” she said to Tom when the game was over and they were putting away the counters and the cards. “Before church. I need to talk with you.”
Tom grinned. “An assignation, Tish?”
“Eight o’clock.”
Tom laid his hand to his breast. “I’ll be there, dear heart.”