Oliver stretched, turning his face up to the warm autumn sun and tasting the salt on his lips. It was a long time since he’d visited the seaside, but immediately he was transported back to happy trips with his brothers, long sun-filled days playing on the sand while their parents strolled along the promenade.
Lucy reluctantly stepped down from the carriage, none of the joy present in his expression visible on her face.
‘We could just turn around and go back,’ Lucy said. ‘It’s not too late.’ She’d been suggesting the same the whole way from London with decreasing levels of optimism in her voice.
A seagull squawked overhead and Lucy glared at it, channelling her annoyance at being forced back to her home town for the first time in two years.
‘Shall we get settled into our lodgings?’ Oliver asked. ‘Or would you like to go directly to see your father.’
‘I need to change,’ Lucy said after weighing up the options for a few seconds. ‘But we should see Father as soon as possible. Then we can leave again.’
‘I’d have thought you’d want to have a break from travelling.’
They’d only been on the journey for two days, and today they had arrived in Brighton well before lunch. The roads from London to Brighton were relatively well maintained and it wasn’t all that far a distance. Nevertheless, Oliver certainly didn’t want to turn straight around and spend another two days cooped up in an uncomfortable carriage.
‘I want to spend as little time as possible here,’ Lucy said, then corrected herself. ‘Actually I want not to be here at all, but it seems that isn’t an option.’
‘You might find you enjoy yourself.’
She snorted, an unladylike noise that Oliver had to suppress a smile at. She’d certainly picked up some mannerisms from the women and children at the Foundation.
‘Come,’ he said, offering her his arm.
Rather than upset Lucy further by suggesting they stay with her father, he had secured a set of rooms with magnificent views over the sea. As they climbed the stairs to the first floor and waited while their host unlocked the door, Oliver felt more carefree than he had done in a long time. They might be here for a very specific reason, but it also felt like a holiday, perhaps even the honeymoon they’d never had.
Even Lucy had to gasp in pleasure as they entered the sitting room. It was light and airy, with high ceilings and two large windows with views across the promenade and out to sea.
‘The bedroom is upstairs,’ their host said as he handed over the key to Oliver, leaving them alone.
‘Bedroom?’ Lucy asked, immediately picking up on the singular.
‘Bedroom,’ Oliver confirmed.
She swallowed, her pupils dilating a fraction, but he noticed she didn’t protest and felt a surge of hope.
‘Let me show you,’ he said, taking her by the hand and pulling her up the narrow set of stairs.
The bedroom was nearly as big as the sitting room below, with the same double windows and view over the seafront. A large bed occupied the centre of the room and dotted around the perimeter were various pieces of comfortable furniture.
‘Only one bed,’ Lucy confirmed.
‘We shared a bed before,’ Oliver reminded her gently.
He doubted she’d forgotten that heady month when they’d barely left the bedroom after their marriage.
‘And I promise to be the perfect gentleman.’ It was a promise he would find hard to keep, but he knew she had to come to him. There was no point in pushing too hard, but hopefully a few days sharing a bed and she would see the mutual benefits of renewing their intimacy.
She nodded and he was surprised at how easily she capitulated. He’d half-expected her to demand lodgings with separate bedrooms and had enquired about availability before they had journeyed down here. But it seemed sharing a bed was an acceptable next step for Lucy.
‘I shall leave you to change,’ he said, backing out of the room and closing the double doors behind him.
* * *
He was downstairs, staring out the window to the grey-blue expanse of sea when Lucy emerged. She’d changed into a dress she’d purchased when they’d first married—a long-sleeved cotton garment in pale blue with a white sash. It suited her, and their location, but he was glad when she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders to keep out the bite of the fresh autumn air.
‘Can we go for a walk before we call on my father?’ Lucy asked.
It was a delaying tactic, but Oliver readily agreed. He hoped they would have some time to enjoy each other’s company while away from London and the pressures on both their time and attention, and this seemed like the perfect start to their trip.
Arm in arm they strolled along the esplanade, heads bowed slightly to the persistent wind. After only a few minutes Lucy had pink cheeks and a red tinge to the tip of her nose.
‘Tell me about growing up here,’ Oliver said, aware of how little he knew about Lucy’s life before she had married him.
She glanced at him sharply, but after regarding him for a moment seemed to relax.
‘I used to love living by the sea,’ Lucy said, gazing out at the rolling waves past the pebble beach. ‘My nanny was of the opinion fresh air was an important part of a young girl’s development and we would go for walks along the promenade in the winter, or across the hills further afield in the summer.’
‘I used to enjoy coming to the seaside as a child,’ Oliver said. ‘It seemed like a different world, with the beach and the tearooms and the families laughing and happy.’
Lucy grimaced. ‘I couldn’t ever describe my family as laughing or happy, but I did enjoy playing on the beach and dipping my toes in the sea when I was young.’
Grasping on to the little nugget of information about her family, Oliver wondered how to probe further without being too obvious.
‘Did your mother take you on the beach?’ he asked.
Lucy laughed wryly and shook her head. ‘Never. I don’t think I ever saw her set foot off the promenade once and she used to tut and reprimand my nanny if I came home sandy or with a little seawater on the bottom of my dress.’
‘And your father?’
‘He didn’t really do much with us—me at all.’ He caught the slip and saw the panic in her eyes as she quickly corrected herself, wondering who this ‘us’ referred to. Lucy had never mentioned a sibling and when his mother had been scouting for prospective brides for him he was sure she’d said she was an only child.
‘Well, at least you had an adventurous nanny.’
He saw the relief in her eyes when he didn’t pursue her slip of the tongue and felt her press a little closer to his body.
‘You’re shivering,’ he noted, feeling the miniscule movements where her body met his.
‘It is a little chilly,’ she admitted. ‘You forget what a sea wind feels like when you’re in London.’
Quickly he led her off the promenade and into a tea shop he’d spotted earlier, making sure she was comfortable before motioning the waitress over to place their order.
Once they both had a steaming cup of tea in their hands, he decided to broach the subject of her family once again.
‘Tell me, why is there such a rift between you and your father?’
‘There’s no rift as such—we just don’t get on.’
He didn’t believe her. You didn’t react like Lucy had when he’d mentioned the visit to see her father if you had a mild dislike for someone.
‘Is it a personality difference?’
‘Perhaps. He was a distant father and I barely knew him as a child.’
‘There’s more,’ Oliver said, ‘something you’re not telling me.’
She regarded him for a moment, then just when he thought she might give in and tell him she shook her head. ‘You’ve met him. He’s not exactly the most amiable of men.’
Oliver had instantly disliked the man. He was opinionated, pompous and looked down on anyone and everyone. He had noble blood in his veins, he’d told Oliver, although hadn’t bothered to elaborate where this noble blood was from. As far as Oliver could tell he was a second son of a second son of a baron. Hardly a close relative to the King.
‘You can tell me,’ he said softly.
‘Tell you what?’
‘Anything. Sometimes it helps to share.’
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Lucy said, taking a large gulp of tea. He didn’t believe her, not one bit. Lucy had always been tight-lipped when it came to her family. Her mother had died six months after their wedding and Oliver had only met the woman once. She and Lucy didn’t seem particularly close, despite Lucy being the woman’s only child. Then there was her dislikeable father, of course, but Oliver had always felt there was something more to the De Pointe family, something Lucy worked very hard not to tell him. Hopefully today would be the day he unveiled a few more of Lucy’s family secrets.
* * *
Twenty minutes later they were ascending the short flight of stairs to the front door of the house where Lucy had spent her unhappy childhood. Already she could feel the coil of dread deep in the pit of her stomach, but as Oliver stood back from the heavy iron door knocker he took her hand and squeezed. She found the gesture surprisingly reassuring.
‘We can leave whenever you wish,’ he whispered.
She began to tell him that her wish had been never to come in the first place, but the words died in her throat when the door opened and she was confronted with the sight of Jamieson, her father’s ancient butler. Jamieson had been at least sixty when she was a child and must be closer to seventy now. His face was still dour and his expression unwelcoming as he looked Lucy and Oliver over.
‘Miss De Pointe,’ he said, not moving aside to let them in.
‘Lady Sedgewick,’ Oliver corrected, looming over the elderly butler.
‘I shall see if your father is home.’
It would have been the accepted custom to invite them in to wait in the drawing room or even just stand in the hall while the butler made enquiries as to whether her father was at home to visitors, but instead Jamieson pushed the door closed and left them standing on the doorstep like unwanted tradesmen.
‘As welcoming as ever,’ Lucy muttered.
Two minutes passed, and then three. Just as Lucy was about to insist they leave, the door opened again.
‘Your father will see you now,’ Jamieson said.
They followed him inside to a darkened hallway and waited while he announced them before the butler stepped aside and allowed them into the drawing room.
Lucy’s father lived in a modern house situated directly overlooking the sea. It had a white front, guarded by black-iron railings and beautiful round bay windows in the front rooms that gave uninterrupted views of the sea. This had always been Lucy’s favourite room when she’d been growing up, but now it had been taken over by her father’s oppressive presence.
‘Lucy,’ her father croaked from his position in his armchair by the window.
She bowed her head in acknowledgement, but did not move to embrace him. Theirs wasn’t that sort of relationship.
‘You found her, then.’ This was addressed to Oliver, who inclined his head sharply but didn’t say anything.
‘How are you, Father?’
‘Awful. Left to rot here on my own. No one to take care of me.’
Although he spoke the truth, Lucy found it hard to feel sympathy for him. Her mother had died just after her marriage to Oliver, and her brother two years before that. She was the only surviving close relative and her father had never had the temperament to make friends or endear people to him. Even the turnover of servants in the De Pointe household was high due to his demanding behaviour and poor view on working conditions. Only Jamieson, the surly butler, had ever stayed for any length of time and that was because his temperament was similar to her father’s.
Lucy moved forward and perched on the edge of another armchair as it became apparent her father wasn’t going to invite them to sit.
‘Where did you find her?’ Again directed at Oliver.
‘Would you like to tell your father where you’ve been?’ Oliver asked her, standing behind the chair she’d chosen and resting a protective hand on her shoulder.
‘In London.’
Her father’s lip curled in disgust. He’d never liked London, allowing her a Season when she’d turned eighteen at her mother’s insistence on the understanding that he would not be escorting them. Lucy didn’t think she could ever remember her father travelling to the capital in her entire life, but he certainly had a poor view of the city.
‘And what were you doing in London?’ The tone of his voice made it clear that he suspected she’d resorted to all manner of degrading acts to support herself while she’d been missing.
‘She helped to run a Foundation for women and children in the slums,’ Oliver said when no answer was forthcoming from her. ‘A very worthy cause.’
Snorting, Mr De Pointe grasped the glass half-filled with honey-coloured liquid and took a big gulp, closing his eyes as he did so. Lucy had known her father was a habitual drinker from a very young age, often noticing the effects of the drink on his mood: from the grouchy man who stomped around the house until he succumbed to the first drink of the day, to the more genial, relaxed midday drinker, to the cruel and sometimes even violent man he turned into in the evenings. Although now it was not yet lunchtime and it appeared he’d already imbibed a fair amount of alcohol. Perhaps in his old age and loneliness the drinking was getting worse.
‘We should leave,’ Lucy said, not wanting Oliver to see her father become further incapacitated.
‘That’s right, run away again,’ her father taunted her. ‘You never did care for your responsibilities.’
Feeling the anger boiling inside her, Lucy tried to suppress a response, knowing anything she said would just prolong their encounter and make things worse.
‘Always happy to abandon her family, that’s our Lucy.’
‘Me?’ she asked, unable to keep quiet. ‘You talk about abandoning family and it is me you accuse.’
‘Well, that’s what you did. First when you got married and left me on my own after your mother’s death and then when you abandoned your husband. It’s a miracle he’s taken you back, not knowing what filthy things you’ve been getting up to this past year.’
‘Please do not talk to my wife in that way,’ Oliver said, his voice flinty.
‘Well, I learnt from the best. Abandoning William when he needed you to be his advocate, his protector,’ Lucy said before she could stop herself.
Her father snorted. ‘Him? You always were unnaturally fond of him.’
‘He was good and kind and sweet. A hundred times the man you were.’
‘He was nothing. I should have drowned him in the bath at birth.’
Lucy felt her whole body stiffen and wondered if today would be the day she would actually strike her father. She’d been tempted over the years, mainly when he’d talked about her brother in such derogatory terms, but until now she’d always feared her father just a little. It was hard not to think of herself as a little girl and him as the unforgiving head of the family, but now, after spending so much time away, she saw him for what he really was: a weak, pitiful man.
‘You should have looked after him,’ Lucy said, feeling the anger drain from her body. ‘But you didn’t. That would have been too noble.’
‘God punished me with my children.’
‘I think you got off lightly,’ Lucy said, standing. ‘Goodbye, Father. I doubt we shall see each other again.’
She didn’t wait for his reply, but took Oliver by the arm and marched him to the door, not waiting for Jamieson to let them out.