15th December 1815,
Ryeland Abbey,
Sussex.
“I beg your pardon, Captain.” Mr Morton sprang back from his heavy landing against Lionel as the carriage bounced roughly up the drive to Ryeland Abbey.
Lionel remembered not to smile as he eyed the other man. Smiling made it look worse. “That’s quite all right, Morton. I ought to have warned you my coach is new. The springs are stiff, and young Francis only knows to drive everywhere at speed.”
“I imagine we’d not be so tossed about if these roads were better kept.” His business manager looked askance at the unkempt countryside.
Lionel stared outside, nodding. “True for you, Morton. I can’t say I’ve seen the village in this state before now. The Abbey looks as poorly done as it used to appear fashionable.”
“Then the new earl does not reside here?”
“You say ‘new,’ but he’s had five years to set the family seat to rights. The people hereabouts deserve better.” Lionel turned his gaze to the overgrown greenery behind the gabled house. He rapped on the roof and the carriage came to a full stop. He stared out at a vista as alien as it had once been familiar. It felt the same. It just didn’t look it. Lionel’s ironic smile twisted his scar. It had been ten long years since he’d set foot in Ryeland Abbey. Since I almost kissed Annie.
“I should like to know the reason Ryeland Abbey is neglected, Morton.”
“You believe the estate is mortgaged?”
“This is what I wish you to discover. I’ve something to attend to within this field, so we’ll collect you from the turnstile.”
“I beg your pardon?” His manager’s eyes rounded in surprise.
This time Lionel unleashed his ruined grin on purpose. “Walk up to the house, Morton, knock upon the door and inquire of whomever responds whether the family is home for Christmas. I expect the reply to be negative, in which case you’re to inquire where the Countess Ryehurst resides presently.” He reached into his coat and drew out an envelope.
“This is a letter of introduction to Ryeland, should you require it,” Lionel explained solemnly. “The seal comes from the vicar of Eastbourne, who is responsible for this parish.”
“The vicar of Eastbourne?”
“My Uncle Richard, the famous Doctor Eversfield, who’s sent us on this scouting mission. Apparently, no one’s heard anything from Ryeland since last Christmas. My uncle gave his word to the late earl that we’d watch over his family. He’s too frail to be dashing about, and I am too ugly. You’re not to mention my presence at all.” He fixed his eye on Mr Morton. “Is it clear enough?”
His business manager cleared his throat, nodding.
“Then get to it, man.” Lionel tipped his hat forward and sank back against his new upholstery. “My uncle awaits our report at The Mermaid Inn. I believe they still serve an excellent meal.” He closed his eyes to shut out the sight of the other man staring at his scar.
Lionel noticed that unprepossessing fellows found his disfigurement fascinating. Conventionally handsome men stepped away as though burn scars were contagious. The only men who seemed uninfluenced by his nightmarish appearance were former naval officers like himself. Among them, news of the fire aboard HMS Amazon was already a tale to tell. Lionel sighed, nestling deeper into his upholstery. Perhaps he could stay here and disappear into the seat cushions…but he had promises to keep, and not just to his uncle. He sat up, shook himself, and stepped out of his carriage. He stood looking up at the boy on the coach box.
“Wait here, Francis.”
“How long, Captain?”
“As long as it takes.” Lionel stared at the dark smudge below the sloping lawn. The bowery, like the roads, had deteriorated. He shrugged, hopping the fence as though his admiral had ordered him to do so. Then he jogged the path to the bowery and stopped at the place where the old yew once stood – because it was gone. Felled, and the rose bushes resembled nothing more than a sort of bramble-infested thicket. Still, he wasn’t here to pick flowers.
As Lionel investigated the overgrown greenery, the image of Annie Ryehurst flitted through his thoughts. This happened most days when he felt low, hopeless, and altogether monstrous. He fended off twinges of guilt with about as much success as his doctor had had restoring his face. A wealthy naval hero may have some claim to acquaintance with an earl’s daughter – if he did not look like this. Annie ought to be married by now, to someone generous and kind who might protect her generous spirit from ill use. Lionel could not imagine such a man. His heart whispered, perhaps he didn’t wish to – but this was nonsense. Annie was his friend. He wished to see her happy. That’s all.
His heart whispered again that he wished her happy with him. Lionel gave it a sharp mental slap. I’ve no right. Not to her acquaintance and certainly not to her heart. Especially now. What sort of friend entertained such thoughts? Lionel’s gaze swept the ground as his resolve tightened. Dull metal caught his eye. He stopped in surprise.
“Eureka!” His find lay buried among the thickest thorns. Of course it did. Muttering epithets no lady ought to hear he drew out the rusted piece of metal, wincing at his torn flesh. Just what he needed – more scars. Lionel yanked a few stray thorns from his jacket, sparing some sympathy for his tailor.
Staring at the old arrow head, he wondered at himself. What was he doing, grubbing about in a thicket after a bit of rusted iron? But it was more than that. It was a memory, a relic of the boy he used to be. Before the wars, before the fire, before… Lionel’s fingers strayed to his scarred cheek. He glanced down, weary to his bones. The arrow head was part of his past, in happier times. Part of being with Annie. He shoved this thought hard aft. Stowing his treasure gingerly within his jacket pocket, he toiled up the hill to his patient coachman.
“Off we go, Francis.”
The boy-coachman took his employer at his word, shooting off at lightning speed to the rendezvous with Morton. The business manager clambered off the stile and up the carriage steps, his face closed and quiet. Their vehicle spun drunkenly in a circle as the driver returned them to the road. By the time they reached the old inn Lionel was badly in need of beer. He debated attending the public bar though – his face, of course.
As though he knew his nephew’s mind, Uncle Richard met them at the stables, patting Francis on the shoulder companionably. “Well done, Francis. There’s a meal awaiting you. Their groom manages our horses.”
No one ever had to remind young Francis to eat. The boy grew like a tree. Their coachman raced off and Lionel nearly smiled. Then he remembered his scar.
“Wonderful to see you, dear boy.” Uncle Richard shook his nephew’s hand with obvious delight before embracing him heartily.
Lionel leaned back to study the differences a decade had made in the face of his uncle. “How are you, Uncle?”
The old man smiled. “Oh, some gout, some rheumatism. All signs of life you know.” He shrugged such concerns away. “How was your crossing?”
It was Lionel’s turn to shrug. “I managed.” A twinge of pain shot through his scar. He chose to say nothing of his slow, painful journey by packet from Dunkirk. His newly-healing burns were painful enough. The stares and whispers of his fellow travellers were as hard to bear.
“I’m glad you were spared,” the vicar said seriously, looking into Lionel’s face with affection. “Good morning, Mr Morton.” His uncle bowed before leading them inside, avoiding the public areas. “I imagine you’re both famished, so I’ve engaged a private dining room.”
Lionel could only be grateful that Uncle Richard remained so astute. Once all three men were seated and served, and the maid had stared in horror at Lionel’s face for a full two minutes by the clock on the mantle, the vicar addressed them both.
“I thank you gentlemen for undertaking this excursion on my behalf. I find myself quite concerned, and I’ve no one to stir in it.” He coughed violently.
“Uncle?” Lionel asked quietly.
The vicar shook his head, waving Lionel’s concerns away like so many motes. “Don’t mind me, my boy. I’m older than you think.”
Lionel’s next twinge of unease had nothing to do with his face. Uncle Richard clearly didn’t write him full reports on everything, but the vicar was speaking again.
“How did you find the abbey?
“Morton did the leg work,” Lionel explained, nodding to his manager.
“I spoke with the housekeeper,” Morton said. “The new tenants take possession at Christmas.”
Lionel’s brows rose. “The abbey is let, apparently.”
His uncle waved his hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, I’m aware of this. None of the family’s lived there since Ryehurst’s death.”
Lionel stared. “Do you mean to tell me no one’s been back? No one whose name is Ryehurst, I mean?”
“The abbey’s been let since the countess removed to London. The new earl is her distant cousin, Lord Grantley. He comes up annually for sport but seems unaware of his responsibilities otherwise. I don’t know him at all, but this is the third tenant to take up the lease in as many years.” He looked to Mr Morton. “Did the housekeeper mention the tenants’ chief objections?”
“I believe Lord Grantley does not care for repairs.”
“I suspected as much.” Uncle Richard looked more perturbed than ever. “Something is amiss in clan Ryehurst, or I’m no man of the cloth.” He sipped his beer. “Excellent, as always.” He turned to his nephew. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lionel?”
Lionel stared incredulously at his uncle. “The hops have always been excellent here. I don’t see what this has to do with—”
““Did they mention Lady Ryehurst at all?” The vicar coughed at nothing.
Lionel buried his face in his beer.
“Do you mean the spinster daughter?” Morton asked.
“What?” Lionel shouted, slamming his drink to table so hard it spilled. “I beg your pardon, Morton.”
The vicar addressed Morton’s shocked expression, sounding more delighted than Lionel expected. “Lady Ryehurst is a former acquaintance of Lionel’s.”
“She may be an acquaintance from years past, but I don’t care to hear her spoken of in this way,” Lionel added when he was quite certain his voice could not betray him.
Uncle Richard seemed to study Lionel carefully. “Lord Grantley pays addresses to her.” The vicar stared disconcertingly at Lionel’s left cheek. Lord knows why. There wasn’t a thing wrong with that side of his face. At least not until he scowled.
“Who is Grantley, and why does he not better manage Ryeland Abbey?” Lionel protested loudly.
“Perhaps he’s more interested in his fair cousin.” The vicar slid Lionel’s beer out of reach. “Just in case.” He smiled mischievously.
Lionel had never felt the urge to thump a clergyman before. He put his fist in his pocket. What’s the old fellow up to?
“Any man who pursues Ann – Lady Ryehurst – ought to know the value of preserving her father’s legacy. She’ll not accept him otherwise.” He stared at his uncle. “Wait, is this why she remains unwed?”
“Unwed and unbetrothed,” the vicar observed serenely. “Perhaps she is simply unasked.” He raised his eyebrows knowingly. “I shouldn’t presume to know the lady better than her oldest friend, nephew.”
There was a strange silence as Morton and Uncle Richard ate their meal. Lionel hardly glanced at his plate and ignored his beer. The information they’d gathered was enough to digest for the moment. It was a lot, actually, for a man to take in on his first week ashore in a decade. Unasked? How could Annie remain unasked? He’d learn nothing more from Ryeland.
Drawing his plate towards him in a measured movement, Lionel did his best to sound neutral. “Do we have any reason to visit London, Morton?”
Mr Morton blinked over his meat. “Do you mean besides meeting with your bankers, settling the Chelsea house, attending your great friend Admiral Harlowe, and perhaps finally accepting your invitation to the Huntley’s Christmas ball, sir?”
“A simple ‘yes’ will suffice. Make the arrangements.” Lionel reclaimed his beer with pleasure. “We’ve a day or two here at least, uncle. Then it’s Christmas in London, if you’re game?”
Doctor Eversfield grinned at him, coughing. “It’s good to have you home, boy.”
Lionel made a mental note to have his uncle see a London doctor.
“It’s good to be home, sir. Nothing changes at The Mermaid Inn, nor all of Ryehurst village.”
Then he amended this thought because some things failed to proceed as they ought, the honour of his favourite friend not least. This Grantley fellow needed an awakening.