Summer gave her adventures in time and memory a wide berth for the rest of that day, but by the following morning—in 1807 the day of the annual masked ball at Bevincote—the temptation once again proved irresistible. She knew what she intended to do as soon as Chrissie and Andrew had gone to work, so before they left, she reassured Chrissie she’d be a very good girl. She also said she intended to take a long walk along the beach, so not to worry this time if the phone went unanswered.
The apartment was very quiet as she lay on the bed and pressed the button. Then Andrew’s voice spoke softly into the silence of the bedroom, the music washed over her, and she felt herself drifting pleasurably away into that other world she’d begun to crave so much.
The rattle of wheels on cobbles made her open her eyes this time. It was a sunny but cold morning, and an ox wagon was lumbering along the narrow Berkeley street where she and Caro were laughing happily as they hurried arm-in-arm on the pavement.
Caro was wearing a sea green cloak with a hood that was trimmed with white fur; Olivia wore a royal blue velvet pelisse and a wide-brimmed gray gypsy hat with gray-and-blue striped ribbons. She’d chosen the hat with great care today, because when wearing it she had only to lower her head slightly to conceal her face, which had to be a consideration now she knew Brand was somewhere in the vicinity.
Her greatest fear—or was it secret thrill?—was that he would attend the ball tonight, for although she’d be masked, she still felt he might recognize her. She’d certainly know him, if only by his distinctive golden hair.
Uncle Merriam and George Bradshaw had come into town to conduct a little business, and the cousins had accompanied the men in order for Caro to purchase some last-minute trimmings for the Bevincote ball. She had belatedly decided to adorn her mask with little green beads to match her gown, and there was an excellent haberdasher’s shop in the town, so they were en route there right now.
Berkeley Castle dominated the little town. It was a medieval fortress that had not suffered greatly from the ravages of time, and the same family had occupied it throughout the centuries, gradually turning it from stronghold into gracious home. The beau monde of London flocked across its drawbridge, and it was seldom there wasn’t a gathering of very superior guests enjoying its renowned hospitality. The frequent presence of so many persons of quality meant there was a demand for high-class haberdashery, and as a consequence the seemingly insignificant shop nestling in the shadow of the castle walls was filled to bursting with all manner of fashion notions, from ribbons and lace of every description, to the sort of buttons, sequins, and spangles that would have held their own at any Mayfair assembly.
As the cousins hurried along the pavement, they could hear the Berkeley Hunt foxhounds in their kennels about a quarter of a mile along the road to Oakhill. There was to be a hunt tomorrow, so the famous pack was being prepared.
Practically the whole of Gloucestershire society would converge on Berkeley, gentlemen and ladies, although the latter would either keep company at the castle or watch the sport from vantage points. The hounds sensed they’d soon be in full cry across the countryside, and their excited yelps and barking carried clearly on the almost still winter air, but then one hound gave a long howl, and Summer came to an abrupt halt.
Caro stopped too and looked quizzically at her. “What’s wrong?”
“That howl makes me shiver.” Summer gave a rueful smile then and explained about the “werewolf” at the Black Lion, omitting all mention of Brand, of course.
Caro’s eyes widened. “Oh, how horrid.”
“It was,” Summer agreed, beginning to walk on.
Suddenly, there was a commotion behind them, and they saw a carriage and four negotiating the corner from the market square. Summer gazed at it with dismayed recognition, for there was no mistaking the team of four perfectly matched chestnuts, the superb green-lacquered bodywork, and the gleaming brass of Brand’s carriage.
The street was so narrow that the cousins had to press back for the vehicle to pass, and Summer caught a brief glimpse of Brand. He wasn’t wearing his top hat, and his arm was resting along the window ledge, his gloved fingers drumming impatiently.
She lowered her gaze quickly in case he should look out, and as the carriage drove on, she looked quickly at Caro. “Do you know whose carriage that was?” she asked, trying not to sound over-interested.
“I have no idea.”
Summer was both relieved and frustrated. Relieved that her cousin wasn’t acquainted with Brand, frustrated that she herself still didn’t know who he was. “You didn’t recognize the crest on the door?”
“No.” Caro glanced curiously at her. “Why?”
“Oh, I just wondered. I thought I saw the same carriage as I was leaving Tetbury, and I was just curious.”
Caro pursed her lips knowingly. “Hm, well, having observed the peculiarly handsome gentleman inside, I can well understand your desire to know his identity.”
Summer colored. “It isn’t like that at all.”
“No?”
“No!”
“You don’t have to snap my head off, you know.”
Summer lowered her eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I forgive you. Now come on, if we don’t get on with my purchase, we’ll be late meeting Father and Uncle Bradshaw to eat at the Crown.”
They reached the haberdasher’s shop and went in. Soon they were poring over the vast selection of beads, and as Summer inspected some particularly pretty pink ones with a view to buying them herself, she glanced thoughtfully at Caro. “What do you think of Mr. Bradshaw?” she asked lightly.
“He’s more disagreeable than ever,” Caro replied, pulling a face. “Do you know, I actually begin to think he doesn’t want me to marry Francis?”
“Oh?” Summer looked intently at her. “Why do you say that?”
“He pours cold water on anything to do with it, but I suppose he pours cold water on absolutely everything.”
“Yes, he does,” Summer murmured. So Caro thought the same as she did. Her brow furrowed a little as she pondered what possible reason George Bradshaw could have for not wishing his niece to marry Francis Lytherby.
They left the haberdasher’s shop and hastened back through the town to the Crown Inn, where they were to meet the two gentlemen. Almost immediately Summer became aware of a change in Uncle Merriam. On the way from Oakhill House he’d been in good spirits, but now he was oddly quiet, as if something momentous were suddenly weighing on his mind.
“Is something wrong, Uncle?” she asked concernedly as they all four sat down at the table d’hôte.
He gave George Bradshaw a surreptitious glance. “No, of course not,” he replied swiftly. Too swiftly, she thought, following his glance.
The meal was hearty—a tasty chicken soup, followed by Severn salmon with oyster sauce, then lamb and all the trimmings, and apple pie. Summer smiled a little wryly as she ate, for as her real self she wouldn’t have dared to eat so much, but as Olivia there were no restrictions on her diet, and did it feel good!
As the two gentlemen took glasses of mulled ale at the end of the meal, something made Summer look up at the smoky mirror above the mantelpiece. To her immense shock, she saw Jeremy Fenwick’s face gazing back at her from the doorway behind her. She whirled about, but there was no one there. For a moment she was too startled to move, but then she murmured an excuse and got up to hurry out. The door led into a passage, and then into the street, but of Jeremy there was no sign.
Caro came out after her. “Aren’t you feeling well, Summer?”
Summer gave her a quick smile. “I’m fine, it’s just...”
“Yes?”
“You’ll think this foolish, but I was sure I saw Jeremy in the mirror.”
Caro was blank for a moment. “Jeremy? Oh, you mean Major Fenwick, Roderick’s friend?”
“Yes.” Summer glanced along the pavement again. “It was him, I’m certain it was, although ...” She paused. “He wasn’t wearing his uniform,” she said then.
“Which means you must be mistaken, for during this endless war with France all soldiers must wear their uniforms, and besides, what on earth would he be doing here in Berkeley?”
“I have no idea.”
Caro linked her arm. “That mirror in the Crown is very smoky; in fact, I doubt if it’s ever been cleaned, so don’t give it another thought. Whoever you saw, it can’t have been Major Fenwick. Come on, I’ve persuaded Father to leave now, for I wish to get back so I can sew all these wretched beads on my mask, and I fear it’s going to take an age.” She drew Summer back into the inn, then through into the yard at the back, where the two gentlemen were waiting impatiently by the carriage.
But as they drove out of Berkeley, Summer’s thoughts returned to Jeremy. Nothing Caro said would really persuade her she hadn’t seen him, for she knew him too well to be mistaken. She also knew him too well not to accurately read the expression on his face when he’d realized she was there. He’d been startled, then dismayed; in fact he’d been very anxious indeed not to be seen!
But why? What possible reason could he have for being in this part of the world without at least speaking to her? She was still mulling over the mystery when the carriage turned in through the gates of Oakhill House, but then the cassette recorder brought her abruptly back to the present.
She lay where she was for a few minutes before getting up to make herself some coffee. Then she leaned against a table to dwell some more on the many unanswered questions that had now arisen in her previous existence.
Why was Jeremy in Berkeley, and at such pains to avoid her? What had upset Uncle Merriam? Why did George Bradshaw oppose Caro’s match? Was Lord Lytherby equally opposed to it, or was Caro imagining it? Would Olivia encounter Brand again? Would her indiscretions come to light? The list seemed as endless as it was intriguing, and oh, how she wanted to know the answers!
She glanced at her cup and suddenly remembered it was one she’d seen Jack use when they’d been here last year. Remorsefully, she put it down, for she’d hardly thought of him at all for a day or so now; yet for the last six months she’d thought of nothing else. Now it was Brand who crept unbidden into her waking thoughts—Brand whose smile she longed for, Brand whose lovemaking she needed, Brand whom she loved.
Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry,” she whispered and almost ran to the bedroom to get out all the photograph albums. She took them into the living room and put them on the sofa, but before she sat down to browse guiltily through them, her glance wandered to the bottles of spirits on the corner table. To hell with diabetes just this once, she thought, and poured herself a very generous glass of Chrissie’s vodka, then settled down to resurrect her neglected memories of Jack.
Page after page of cherished snapshots passed before her eyes, and the vodka affected her because she was no longer accustomed to it. Tears trickled slowly down her cheeks as she ran a loving fingertip over a favorite close-up of Jack, but even now she couldn’t put Brand from her thoughts.
The photograph album slid from her lap as she hid her face in her hands and gave in to heartbreak. How long she sobbed she didn’t know, but she was still weeping quietly when Chrissie came home.
Chrissie glanced at the albums and telltale empty glass. “Oh, Summer!” she cried.
Wiping her eyes, Summer sat up penitently. “I’m sorry, Chrissie...”
“So you should be! Can’t you be trusted at all? The albums I can sympathize with, but not the vodka! You’re not supposed to have alcohol, so it was a stupid, stupid thing to do!”
“I know, I just felt bad about Jack ...”
Chrissie was too mad to say anything more. Instead she conveyed the offending glass into the kitchen, where she then gave another angry exclamation as she found that Summer had forgotten to switch on the oven. She banged the oven door closed. Now they’d have to eat salad instead of the beef ragout she’d so painstakingly prepared, and she wasn’t pleased.
There was an atmosphere when Andrew came home later, but he tactfully said nothing, although he must have felt as if World War III were in the offing. Chrissie picked away at Summer all evening, but it finally came to a head when Andrew casually remarked that he fancied a Chinese carryout.
Chrissie replied to him, but looked darkly at Summer. “Well, you wouldn’t be so hungry if we’d had the beef ragout we were supposed to!”
Summer leapt irritably to her feet. “What makes you think your darned ragout’s so special? You never season it enough!”
“At least I can make one, which is more than can be said of you!” Chrissie fired back.
“Oh, for God’s sake, give it a rest, Chrissie! You’ve been on my case for hours now, and I’ve just about had it!”
“If I’m on your case, it’s because you deserve it!”
“You’re getting to be a real pain, Chrissie Marchant!” Summer cried, venting her fury by throwing a cushion across the room.
Andrew had been toying uncomfortably with his piece of pottery, wishing to God he’d never heard of China, but as the cushion flew past him, he got up hastily. “Look, this is getting out of hand. I don’t know what it’s about, but I’m sure there’s no need for—!”
“Oh, no?” Summer’s bright gaze flew to this new target. “We haven’t even started yet!”
Chrissie was outraged. “Don’t you dare pick on him!”
Summer flung from the room and slammed the door behind her.
Andrew sighed and sat down again, giving Chrissie an inquiring look. “Well? Are you going to let me in on this, or must I guess?” he asked patiently.
* * *
Some time later, Summer was leaning out of her window, watching the sea, when she recognized her sister’s hesitant knock at the door. She straightened warily and turned. “Yes?”
Chrissie came in slowly. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
Summer’s anger dissolved. “I deserved it,” she conceded. “It was irresponsible to drink that vodka, spiteful to turn on Andrew, and dumb to forget the ragout.”
“Oh, to hell with the rotten ragout!” Chrissie ran to her, and they held each other close.
Summer gave a wobbly smile. “I promise I won’t do it again, Chrissie, so please don’t fret about me tomorrow.”
“I’ll do my best, but I guess I’m just a natural-born fussbudget. Are you coming back to watch TV a while?”
Summer drew back and shook her head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think I’ll go to bed now. I’ve had a few lousy nights recently and need a long laze, and as it’s Saturday tomorrow, I can have a good lie-up in the morning as well.”
Chrissie smiled. “Okay. Sleep well.”
“I will. Oh, and tell Andrew I’ll grovel suitably tomorrow.”
Chrissie smiled, and the door closed behind her.
Summer drew a long breath. Sleep was the last thing on her mind, for tonight was the night of the masked ball at Bevincote, and she was no more capable of staying away than she was of flying.