Secrets of Nanreath Hall (17 page)

“Really, Miss Trenowyth, must you fiddle about? It's most disconcerting. What have you got there that has you so itchy and unpleasant?”

“Nothing.”

“It's obviously
not
nothing. Let me see.”

“It's my locket.”

Lady Boxley leaned closer. “An ugly little cheap thing, isn't it? Like something won at a fair.”

“It was my mother's.”

“Was it? Let me see it more closely.” When Anna hesitated, Lady Boxley glared at her. “I'll not steal it, Miss Trenowyth.”

Reluctantly, Anna drew the chain over her head and handed it to her.

Her Ladyship pulled a pair of glasses from a case on the table beside her and settled them on her nose. “‘Forgive my love'? What is that supposed to mean?”

“I thought you might know.”

Lady Boxley unsnapped the locket. Her brows nearly disappeared into her hairline. “Who on earth did her hair? And that dress. Kitty never did have proper fashion sense. Always tossing on whatever suited her with no idea of personal style. But him . . .” She sniffed again, her expression grim. “Even in a uniform, he looks exactly the same.”

“You recognize him, don't you?”

She looked up from her study of the photographs. “Of course. I'd not forget that slippery customer. All shallow flash and pleasing smiles—just what a sheltered young woman would fall for. Didn't I tell you I was on to him as soon as he stepped foot in Nanreath's drawing room?”

Anna licked her lips, trying to draw moisture into a mouth gone suddenly dry. She swallowed. Her heart fluttered. Her stomach tightened with nerves. “Who is he?” she asked, though she thought she knew the answer already.

Lady Boxley removed her glasses to look into Anna's face. While the rest of her had faded into middle age, her blue eyes pierced with a tensile inner strength. “You mean to tell me you've gone through life not only without a father, but without even knowing who the man was?”

“My mother never spoke of him to anyone.”

“Not surprising. He was hardly a catch for an earl's daughter, was he? A would-be artist without tuppence to rub together. And Kitty throwing herself at him like a wanton. Enough to make one ill to see them carrying on. ‘Forgive my love,' indeed! He ruined her life.”

“Who is he, Lady Boxley?” Anna heard the quiver in her voice and didn't care. So long she had stared at the photo of the dark-eyed soldier, imagining his laugh, the way he smiled, his strong shoulders carrying her as a baby. She thought she knew, but she needed the confirmation of her growing suspicions before she'd truly believe it. “Tell me, please.”

“His name was Simon Halliday.”

August 1914

J
ust past seven in the evening, I stepped out onto Campden Street in time to admire the end of another perfect August day of breezy blue skies and picnic temperatures. A brief shower had passed, leaving puddles on the pavement, and the air smelled fresh with just the hint of an overnight chill to come. I scanned the street, shading my eyes against the lowering sun, feeling the pinch of taut shoulders and a decided crick in my lower back.

The rest of the female students at the Byam had ended their classes at four, but I had stayed behind, hoping to add to the household accounts with a modeling job. For the last three hours, I'd been dressed in a scant drapery of raw linen with a crown that weighed at least a stone crammed onto my head while a gentleman painted me down to the dimples in my elbows and the curve of my white thigh where it emerged tantalizingly from the sheer fabric.

Arms outstretched, my right hand gripping an enormous spear, my hair streaming behind in a red tangled wave, I portrayed the
battle queen Boudicca riding forth to meet her enemies. The final product—after horses, chariot, and suitable background carnage were painted in—would be used as an enlistment poster. The Red-Haired Wanton was going to war—or at least urging others to fight for king and country. Mother would be apoplectic.

A taxicab slid to the curb, the driver opening the door for a tall, elegant infantry officer who emerged with a brush of his hair from his brow before he resettled his cap. “Hallo, Kitty old girl,” he said, as if we'd only parted that morning rather than nearly a year ago. “Care for a lift?”

“William!” I leaped at him, staggering him off balance and knocking his cap askew before he recovered and returned my embrace. He wore his usual sandalwood cologne, but beyond that, he smelled of starch and soap, and perhaps even a hint of lilacs, Mother's perennial scent. “It's been ages, not even a letter to let me know how you were getting on,” I said as he detached himself limb by limb until he stood before me unfettered. “What are you doing here?”

“Hoping to take you to dinner.” He cleared his throat, suddenly looking horribly young and uncertain. “I was in town for a few days, but I'm due to report back to my regiment tonight. I wanted to see you before I left.”

“I didn't even know you'd enlisted.” I tried to keep the hurt from my voice.

He gave a careless dip of his shoulder. “Bit of a hectic spring, really. No time for chatty letters.”

“Of course. I understand.” I blinked away the mist forming at the edges of my vision and stepped back, taking him in head to toe. “Good heavens, you look quite dapper in uniform. The women will be throwing themselves at you.”

Delight glittered for a moment in his eyes. “I took the plunge
when word first came that things might heat up. Father was livid and Mother wept buckets, but it seemed like the right thing to do; really the only thing to do.” His eyes dimmed briefly before brightening once more. “It's been mostly camping out and marching with a smattering of rifle practice tossed in. Like a boy's summer camp more than the buildup to battle.” He jangled the change in his pocket. “So, are you on for dinner? I thought Maxim's in Piccadilly Circus.”

My shoulders tensed. Unlike the elegant Les Lauriers or the respectable Queen's Hotel, Maxim's had a reputation as a discreet rendezvous for a less than spotless clientele. Was this my brother's way of protecting me from the hostile, condemning stares of society—or himself? “I don't know, William. I'm hardly dressed for an evening out.”

“Won't matter. They're not nearly so stodgy as the usual places. It's what made me think of it.”

The growl of my stomach overcame the uncomfortable feeling squirreling my shoulder blades, and I shook off my misgivings. I'd missed William too much to pass a chance to spend even a few hours in his company. Besides, Simon was away on his quarterly visit to his family in Lincoln and not due back until tomorrow. “I'd love to.”

The taxi ride around Hyde Park and up Piccadilly to Wardour Street took barely enough time to get us through the stilted commonplaces such as weather—lovely; London—crowded; and the spreading war in Europe—unavoidable, before we were stepping out onto the street in front of the restaurant's white facade with its funny domed turret.

I couldn't help the shiver of pride as my handsome brother escorted me into the crowded brass and palm interior. Red-shaded lamps lit each table and the deep carpet was a matching rose color.
A band played on an upper balcony. Slick military officers of every stripe packed the place, most escorted by fashionably attired women wearing an air of recklessness along with their lavish perfumes and gaudy jewelry. I smoothed my hands down my simple dark blue skirt before resting them in my lap, unsure of where to place them, unsure of where I belonged.

Our orders were taken, and we were left alone, silent and suddenly uncomfortable with each other in a way we had never been.

“Are you . . .”

“Are they . . .”

We spoke over each other in our haste to fill the deafening void.

Tiny smile lines crinkled the corners of William's eyes. “I hope Mr. Halliday won't be alarmed when you . . . I mean you are still . . .”

“Living with him?” I straightened my spine, refusing to be ashamed. “You can say it, William. Lightning won't strike you down.”

“No . . . no. I expect it won't.”

“We have a small flat above a shop in Ralston Street. Simon hopes to take over the downstairs lease in the New Year and convert it to a studio and gallery. I'm studying at the Byam and working. It's been amazing, William. I'm in control of my life for the first time ever. I'm not merely a puppet or a piece on a board to be pushed about by others.”

“Jolly good.” William twirled the stem of his wineglass, unable to meet my eyes. Our dinners were placed in front of us. Roast lamb and mint sauce for William and capon for me with a lovely side of crisp potatoes and green peas. I tried not to gobble my food, but I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and the aroma of duck fat and rosemary was nearly overpowering. Afterward, dessert was ordered and another bottle of wine. William sat back, eyeing me cautiously.
Small lines tightened his mouth, and he fidgeted nervously with his napkin.

“I'm glad you've found happiness, Kitty, really I am, but frankly, things just aren't the same without you around.”

“I'm sure Mama and Papa are quite happy to pretend I never existed.”

“Not true. In fact, though she'd never admit it, I think Mother misses you. Cynthia's ensconced herself in Cornwall with a nonstop string of friends to keep her company. She rarely even comes up to London anymore except to shop. Father's been practically living at the Foreign Office, and Amelia's staying with a friend in Lucerne all summer. I wonder if she'll ever come back after leading such a glamorous life abroad.”

“And you've been playing soldier.”

His eyes flashed to meet mine. “It seemed the right thing to do. Cynthia says I'll more than likely put a bullet through my foot or catch my death sleeping in a drafty tent and where will that leave her and the baby? I tried reassuring her, but well . . . it's just easier to let her have her head than argue.”

Here was my chance to bring up Cynthia and the man I'd seen her with in St. James's Park. I waited for our server to leave our pudding and depart before I summoned the nerve to speak. “Perhaps she's just lonely. You've been gone so much, William. It can't be good for a couple to live such separate lives.”

“I don't know. Plenty of marriages thrive on less, and it seems to suit us both.”

“But what about Hugh? He probably doesn't even recognize you.”

“He's a baby, Kitty.”

“He won't be one forever. He needs his father. You should go
home to Nanreath, William. Enjoy this time with Cynthia and the baby before—”

“Enough, Kitty.” He smacked his hand on the table, making the glassware jump. I felt as if the whole restaurant was staring at us. “Do you really think a woman living in sin with a man should be the one doling out marriage advice? Leave it alone.”

I'd never been spoken to like that; not by William. I focused on my pudding, flushed and hurt. “You're right, of course,” I mumbled.

Contrition flooded his face. “Damn it, I'm sorry. Let's not spend what time we have together arguing. Who knows when I'll see you again?”

I pushed my melting Glace Chantilly around my bowl. “Do you really think the war, if it comes, will last more than a few months?”

He sighed, seemingly as relieved to change the subject as I was. “It's not if it comes, but when. The British have given Germany an ultimatum. If they don't comply with our demands, we'll be standing with France and the rest of them against the Kaiser and his allies.”

“You sound as if you want to go.”

“I don't want to fight . . . I certainly don't want to die, but I have to do what's right. After the initial row, Father agreed, though he may just be seeing the political advantage to having an heir in uniform. Mother keeps going on about the tailoring and loading me up with supplies for the front, as if I'll ever use a fur waistcoat or a sleeping helmet. I think she's under the impression we'll be doing our fighting in a Paris ballroom.”

“Sounds perfectly mother-like. But ballroom or battlefield, you'll be brilliant wherever you are.”

“I hope so.”

We finished our meal in pleasant if self-conscious accord. William laughed and joked and chatted about his time abroad and his
new life in the army. I offered him amusing anecdotes about my fellow art students and Miss Ferndale-Branch's eccentricities as an employer. He didn't speak about Cynthia. I avoided talk of Simon. It wasn't until we were standing on the pavement outside that the wall between us crumbled for a brief moment. “Are you all right, Kitty? Truly?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“I care about you. I don't want to see you hurt or . . . unhappy.”

“But that's just it. I'm not unhappy. In fact, I've never been more gloriously content in my life. I'm sorry for the way things turned out, but not sorry I left. Simon loves me.”

William's face was grave, his voice quiet but questing. “If he loves you, why hasn't he married you?”

A familiar pang twisted my innards, but I'd not burden William with my growing unease. He had enough to worry over without adding me to his list. “I wouldn't say you're exactly a poster for matrimonial bliss, brother dear.”

He responded with a snort that told me I'd cut close to the truth.

“Perhaps given time, things will change between the two of you, especially now that you have Hugh.”

“Right. Hugh. He does change things, doesn't he?” William said with a puzzling ambiguity, then he took my hand in his own. “I only want your happiness, Kitty.”

I stood on my toes and brushed a sisterly kiss on his cheek. “I'll be fine. Promise. You concentrate on staying safe and coming home.”

It ended the conversation as I hoped it would, and no more was said about Simon or my unorthodox lifestyle. Still, long after William dropped me at my flat, his question haunted me. I had always allowed Simon his avoidance. It was easier than arguing. Besides, I was too taken up with my work, my art, and my new freedom to
want to change anything at all about our relationship, or so I told myself. But growing doubts crept into the empty side of my bed where Simon normally slept, and by the time I rose bleary-eyed the next morning, I had convinced myself to hash things out with him once and for all—no excuses.

I didn't have long to wait. I heard Simon's footsteps on the stairs as I spooned sugar into my morning tea and nibbled a piece of buttered toast. My stomach clenched, and I closed my hand to keep it from trembling. I hadn't been this nervous since confronting my mother in the park that long-ago autumn, a comparison I found disconcerting.

He burst into the room, bringing with him the pungent smells of train soot and bus exhaust, burnt coffee and damp socks. His face shone with excitement, his black eyes snapping, and I had a moment's shame for thinking ill of him as I awaited his marriage proposal. “Have you heard the news, Kitty love? It's official. We're at war.”