“Maybe he will, but if that is what is needed—”
“Dammit, Bryony, his advice over the years has always been the same, and look at me, I’m exactly the same now as I was when I first had the misfortune to consult him!”
“You’re no worse, though, are you?” she pointed out.
“Who’s to say how I would be if I’d left well alone in the first place?”
She fell silent. She worried a great deal about his health, especially lately when he seemed to have sunk low beneath some anxiety or other. It was almost summer now, a time of the year when he usually rallied, but this time there had been no improvement.
He glanced at her, wishing that he hadn’t spoken so crossly. Gently he put a hand on her arm. “It isn’t my health that is causing me to be as I am at present, it’s matters concerning your future, my dear.”
“My future? Father, I’m quite happy as I am, here with you at Liskillen.”
“Close to Anthony Carmichael?”
She looked quickly at him, her face going a little pale. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“No? Oh, Bryony, don’t make it worse by denying it.”
“I’m not denying anything, for there isn’t anything to deny.”
“Not even the fact that you’ve been meeting him secretly in Liskillen woods?”
She flushed a little. “Only to ride with him, that’s all.”
“If that was all, why haven’t you said anything to me?”
“Because of the way you feel about Anthony. I know that you and he have virtually been conducting a feud for as long as I can remember. I don’t even know what it’s all about, but I do know that when my horse threw me one day no one could have been kinder or more gallant than he was when he came to my assistance. I like him, Father, and I found his conversation very witty and amusing. I saw nothing wrong with agreeing to meet him again, and that was what I did. We’ve ridden together on numerous occasions, and each time he has been the perfect gentleman.”
“Then all I can say is that he’s playing his hand very carefully indeed!” snapped Leon, suddenly angered at the way she defended a man he loathed. “He’s long been casting his covetous eyes on Liskillen and no doubt he sees in your gullibility the chance to lay permanent claim to my property.”
“You’re wrong,” she replied, “and please don’t upset yourself. Perhaps now you’ll understand why I said nothing. I
knew
you’d be like this about it!”
He was trembling a little and struggled to regain his lost composure. “Very well,” he said at last, “very well, I accept that you were only riding with him, which, if it is so, must mean that you are not in love with the ruffian.”
“Anthony is not a ruffian, except in your mind. And no, I am most certainly not in love with him.”
“Then you will have no objection to reading the letter which is on that table by the window,” he said quietly. “The miniature you see beside it is a likeness of the author of the letter.”
Puzzled, she looked at him for a moment, and then she went to the window, glancing first at the portrait of the handsome golden-haired young gentleman clad in clothes which could have come only from Bond Street. Then she read the letter. The room became very quiet indeed, the birdsong from the nearby woods carrying clearly on the still air. In the distance there was another rumble of thunder, a sign that the storm would soon return from the mountains. Her hand was shaking when at last she put down the letter. “How could you have done this without consulting me?” she asked, “How
could
you?”
“I deserve your anger, my dear, but at the time I was angry myself. I believed you to be conducting a clandestine affair with Carmichael.”
“You should know me better than that.”
“I do know you, Bryony, but I know my damned Carmichael too, and he’s a cunning, scheming, thieving ne’er-do-well, and he could charm the birds down from every tree in Liskillen woods had he a mind to it.”
“And now that you know you were mistaken, I trust that that will bring an end to all this nonsense.”
“I cannot. Bryony, I wrote to him and he has agreed to stand by his father’s word.”
“Why? Why is such a fine gentleman, a man even I’ve heard of because his name is so often mentioned in the tittle-tattle columns of the newspapers, prepared to honor a pledge which is hardly binding upon him? He could have his pick of society ladies, women with fortunes, and yet he chooses to take me?”
“It could simply be that he is a very honorable man.”
“I doubt it.”
“Your association with Carmichael has made you cynical.”
“I would have been that cynical before I set eyes on Anthony,” she retorted. “Sir Sebastian is a man of the world, rich, eligible, and attractive. He isn’t going to marry someone like me simply because
you’ve
chosen after all these years to inform him about a forgotten pledge. He has another reason, and it certainly is not honorable obedience to his late father’s idle promise.”
“The promise wasn’t
idle,”
protested Leon.
“It wasn’t exactly memorable either, was it? The letter says that he had never heard of the promise and hadn’t even heard of you!”
He pressed his lips together, not wanting to get into an argument about Sebastian’s motives, for all that mattered was that Bryony accepted the match. “Please, Bryony, I want you to consider him as your husband.”
“No. I wish to remain here at Liskillen to look after you, and that is the end of it,” she replied firmly.
“It isn’t the end of it, my dear,” he said sadly, “for if you stand by what you have just said, then there will not be a Liskillen for either you or me.”
She stared at him. “What do you mean?” she asked in a voice which
was little more than a whisper.
“Forgive me for this, my dear, but I have to tell you—impress upon you—that because of my foolishness, my lack of business sense, and my faith in a land agent who schemed to swindle me of a fortune, I am on the verge of bankruptcy. The wolves are at Liskillen’s door, Bryony, but the Sheringham match could send them packing. Before you say anything,” he went on quickly, holding up his hand to stem the flow of questions she was anxious to ask, “I swear to you that when I first wrote to Sheringham I had no idea of the financial predicament I had got us into. I wrote to him in the heat of the moment, fearing you would marry Carmichael and be desperately unhappy for the rest of your life. It was after I had dispatched that letter that I learned of my debts.
“Sheringham’s unexpectedly favorable response means there is a chance to save Liskillen, my dear, and although it grieves me deeply to ask such a sacrifice of you, I have to beg you to accept Sir Sebastian Sheringham as your husband. If you do not, then we will be in penury and you will not have a roof over your head. Mine is an old head, it does not matter so much to me, but I cannot endure the prospect of such a terrible future stretching before you. Accept this match, Bryony, for your own sake as well as for the sake of Liskillen.”
Tears filled her eyes as she looked at him. She had to accept, she had no choice. To refuse would be to forfeit the home she loved, and although he had not said it in so many words, it would mean her father’s health suffering from guilt and a broken heart. A cool breath of wind from outside carried the scent of the flower garden into the quiet room.
Thunder rolled threateningly over the graying skies, and the first raindrops of another storm began to patter on the ivy below the window. “I will marry Sir Sebastian,” she said in a voice which could barely be heard. “I will go to the Duchess of Calborough at Polwithiel Abbey and I will learn anything I need to learn to be a worthy Lady Sheringham. We will not lose Liskillen if it is in my power to prevent it.” Gathering her skirts, she ran quickly from the room, afraid she would break down completely in front of him.
Leon remained sadly where he was, his relief tinged with unhappiness that she would soon be leaving Liskillen and going across the water to England. He did not know what manner of man Sebastian Sheringham really was, he only knew that his intuition told him he was a true gentleman, but whatever Bryony lacked in fortune, she would more than make up for with her lovely smile and sweet ways. She would make a dazzling Lady Sheringham, refreshingly different and unspoiled, and if Sebastian Sheringham had not the wit to fall hopelessly in love with his bride, then he was not half the man Leon suspected him to be.
It was the middle of June before all the arrangements had been finalized and Bryony set off from Liskillen, accompanied by her maid, Kathleen. In Dublin they boarded the schooner
Molly K,
bound for Falmouth, and several days later had rounded the southern coast of Cornwall.
The voyage had been uneventful, apart from an alarm when a sea mist almost concealed the shore and the schooner passed too close to the submerged rocks known as the Manacles. Warning guns were fired from land and all hands were called on deck to turn the almost becalmed ship away to the east, leaving the hidden hazard safely behind.
When the mist lifted, Bryony had gone up on to the deck to watch the beautiful tree-clad shore slip slowly by. She was watching for the estuary of the Helford River, knowing that Polwithiel Abbey overlooked this magnificent stretch of water where the trees swept right down to the water’s edge.
As the schooner crossed the wide mouth of the river, however, she saw nothing of the great Gothic house which was to be her home for the coming weeks. She felt apprehensive as she gazed at the Cornish shore, for although she had received letters from Sebastian and although she had looked again and again at his portrait, she still did not know anything about him.
His letters gave nothing away—they were polite and formal, just as were her letters to him. But she had agreed to the match and as the schooner at last neared the busy port of Falmouth, she was determined to make the very best she could of her marriage. She would not allow it to be merely a marriage of convenience; she would try to make it into something more. She had always promised herself that she would marry only for love, but now that was not to be; maybe she would not be in love with Sebastian Sheringham when she married him, but she would
try
to love him afterward.
It was a beautiful summer evening when the schooner at last passed between the guardian castles of Pendennis and St. Mawes and entered the wide natural harbor known as Carrick Roads. In reality the estuary of the River Fal, the Roads offered one of the finest anchorages in the world, and Falmouth had prospered on account of it.
The port was one of the most important in England, for it was from here that the packets sailed for America and the Indies, and as the
Molly K
dropped anchor she joined a company of at least twenty other ships. Standing on the deck, Bryony saw flags from America, the Netherlands, Norway, and Portugal, and she heard Russian voices from a nearby sloop.
The tide was high and a light breeze rippled the surface of the water. Seagulls wheeled in the clear sky above, their cries echoing over the wooded shores. The Fal estuary stretched inland, branching into narrow, deep, tree-lined creeks which carried the sea right into the heart of Cornwall.
Falmouth, nestling in the lee of Pendennis Castle, seemed to grow right out of the water, the foundations of some of the buildings being washed by the high tide. Gazing through the forest of masts and rigging between the
Molly K
and the shore, Bryony saw the land beyond the town rise toward furze-clad moors. The bright golden shrubs looked vivid against the rich tones of the evening sky, while on the lower slopes closer to the town there were the mauve and pink of wild rhododendrons and the alien foliage of plants and trees usually found in much warmer climes, but flourishing here in this mild southern corner of England.
A boat was made ready to carry the passengers ashore, and within minutes Bryony and Kathleen were being helped down into the rocking craft. The air was cool now and the breeze toyed with the hem of Bryony’s honey-colored linen cloak, lifting it now and then to reveal the sky blue of the muslin dress beneath. The ribbons of her gypsy hat fluttered as the boat slid from the shelter of the schooner, the sailors rowing strongly toward the nearest quay, where the cobbles were littered with nets, upturned boats, oars, crab pots, and baskets.
Kathleen sat gingerly beside her mistress, her hazel eyes wide in her freckled face and her tangled brown hair ruffled by the breeze as she gazed all around. The excitement of being so far away from Liskillen for the first time in her twenty-two years did not, however, prevent her from comparing Cornwall unfavorably with County Down. It was a pretty enough place, she supposed, but it did not hold a candle to any part of Ireland.
As the boat nudged the damp steps, they were helped up to the top of the quay. The air was noisy with the rattle of carts and the ring of heavy sea boots upon the cobbles. There was a great deal of activity close to the busy customhouse, and a little farther on, by the gangplank of an ancient ketch, a very noisy argument was in progress, the participants shouting in various different languages and attracting a large crowd of interested onlookers.
The steward from Polwithiel Abbey was to have reserved rooms for them at the Black Boar, a low, rambling inn which was built directly on the water’s edge and which was approached along one of the many very narrow alleys which seemed to abound in Falmouth. It was a busy coaching establishment and did not look very appealing from the outside, but inside it was neat and clean. The huge landlord sported the largest whiskers Bryony had ever seen, and his starched apron crackled like paper. He informed them that their rooms had been made ready and a carriage would call for them from Polwithiel the following morning.
Eager to please guests with such important connections, he conducted them in person to the little suite which had been reserved for them. It consisted of a drawing room and two bedrooms. The drawing room sported a very fine Tudor fireplace and dark wooden paneling. Its chairs were old and heavy, but were well upholstered, and its table was so enormous that Bryony marveled it could ever have been brought through the door. The mullioned window gave onto the narrow alley along which they had walked, and they swiftly realized how busy a coaching inn it was, for there seemed to be a constant to-ing and fro-ing of carriages, each one passing very slowly and carefully because of the confined space.