Sussex 1763
1
1
Robert Wycombe awoke with a start, his linen shirt soaked with sweat. Opening the casement window, he took a few deep breaths. The dream faded like the faint sea mist hanging in the air, but the unsettling emotions lingered.
His eyes rested on his smallsword. As he wiped the dust from its hilt, his father's last words to him echoed. ‘It is a great privilege to serve your country. Make me proud.’ His father had purchased the commission as captain with the 35th Foot, but died before he could follow his son's service to the king.
The treaty, signed in February this year, had ceased hostilities, but Robert's part in the action ended earlier in Martinique, when a musket ball struck his left leg, leaving a slow-healing wound.
He thumbed through a bundle of letters, tattered from constant handling. Arriving in batches, those glimpses of life beyond the battlefield had given comfort in dark times, but not every communication brought joy. During the struggle to save his leg, bleak news reached him. His younger brother, Francis, had returned from the war a broken man, reduced to life in an asylum.
Robert fought to lay old ghosts to rest, but they would not stay buried. The sights, the smells, and the pain were hard to forget. He replaced all the letters but one; the day it arrived was etched into his memory. A wintry afternoon, a half-eaten meal abandoned, the message brief but life-changing. His older brother, Charles, was dead. Robert was now heir to Farleigh Hall, with its extensive lands and tenanted farms in Sussex.
After much reflection on his years fighting the French, his grief, and unwarranted guilt, he had resigned his commission and embarked on the long journey home. Even now, two months after his return, it still troubled him that his change of fortune was at the expense of his brother's life.
Charles's pocket watch lay on the oak chest beside the window. Robert ran his fingers over the silver-gilt repoussé case. It sparked a fleeting memory – his pang of jealousy at the generous gift, and his brother's favourite taunt – ‘Father's special token for the chosen son.’ Despite this, sibling rivalry had rarely been a problem and never brought them to blows, for each knew his place. Fate, it seemed, had other ideas.
As a soldier, Robert found it ironic that Charles died at home. A keen horseman, Charles had ridden with reckless arrogance on a temperamental beast. His dream was to join the cavalry, and after a bitter exchange with his mother regarding his role, he rode off in anger. His young life ended in a muddy ditch, thrown from his favourite stallion – a pointless and tragic end for a man groomed since birth for a privileged life.
Robert opened the watch case; the white enamel dial showed six o'clock. He snapped the case shut, ran a hand through his tangle of dark hair, and tried to clear his mind of melancholy thoughts.
Dressed in a faded pair of breeches, an old shirt, and boots, he left through the back door. The late spring morning was warm, and herbs filled the air with their pungent aroma as he passed through the kitchen garden.
His left leg was stiff and a source of irritation, but his limp eased as he walked. By the time he covered the half mile along the grassy track, between stunted gorse, he felt better. He scrambled down the cliff path to the shingle beach below. The tide was going out, and a small stretch of wet sand glistened at the water's edge.
As was his habit since childhood, he took off his boots and stripped naked. The water was invigorating, and he swam with powerful strokes that helped to expel the vestiges of his brooding mood. When he emerged, breathless but exhilarated, he stood with outstretched arms, allowing the breeze to dry his body.
When he first returned from the conflict, he felt much older than his twenty-five years. Now his strength was returning, and he climbed back up the sandstone cliff with ease. At the top, his gaze swept the horizon. To the west, a flock of screeching gulls circled, a sign the fishing boats of Oakdean were beached and unloading.
He turned to see John Gibbs returning from an early ride. Both men waved a greeting. Robert had fond memories of the man's father, an old family retainer. John, with his many and varied skills, was proving to be a trusted replacement and one of a small number of servants to live at the house.
Robert slowed his pace as he approached the rear of Farleigh Hall. Built of local stone, the house comprised two stories and an attic. From this side, alterations gave it a higgledy-piggledy charm. The frontage, dominated by a protruding porch, was softened by ivy clinging to its walls. Small windows and oak panelling, darkened over the years, made the interior lighting subdued. Generations of Wycombes had called this place home, and the knowledge that he was now its guardian was something Robert found daunting.
Martha, their cook-housekeeper, was humming to herself as she looked up from her morning chores to see Robert approaching. She had seen for herself how the three Wycombe boys, all sired by the same father, had grown to be so different. Charles, a headstrong child, became an unyielding man, indifferent to the hardships endured by the town's inhabitants. Robert, always looking for adventure, grew tall with a soldier's bearing; quick-tempered with those who crossed him, but loyal and generous to his friends. Francis, a clinging boy who, in Martha's opinion, had been smothered by his doting mother, became an introverted, bookish man. Of the three, she knew Robert would make the fairest master of Farleigh, as he possessed an empathy for people less fortunate than himself.
Robert entered the kitchen, and when he saw Martha, a smile lit up his blue eyes. She almost laughed at his dishevelled appearance. He looked more like a working man than the master of a large estate. In his youth, and to his mother's disapproval, he had spent much of his time in the company of Sam Hoadley, a fisherman some considered an old reprobate. Nevertheless, an unlikely friendship had formed, which had stood the test of time.
Becky, their kitchen maid, careered across the room with a seed cake, almost colliding with Robert as she skidded to a halt.
‘Look where you’re going!’ said Martha, deftly catching the item as it slid across the tray.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said Becky, eyes downcast.
‘No harm done,’ said Robert.
Becky treated him to a coy smile, but hurried away when she realised Martha was watching her.
‘She tries my patience!’ said Martha, raising her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Such a hare-brained child – and a mite too bold!’ She smoothed her apron over her ample bosom and tutted. ‘But there’s no need for you to concern yourself with such things.’ Her eyes flicked over him. ‘They'll be breaking their fast in the dining room soon.’
Robert laughed, well aware he needed to make himself more presentable before facing his mother’s critical eye.
Never one to follow the fads of fashion, his clothes were plain, but in deference to his mother's wishes, he had purchased items more suited to his new role. He fussed with his cravat, then attempted to tame his unruly hair, which he wore unpowdered and tied at the nape of his neck in the style common to soldiers.
His mother gave him a look of approval and accepted his brief kiss on her cheek. Nodding a good morning to his Uncle Nicholas, he flicked his sister’s dark curls as he seated himself beside her.
The difference in his sister was profound. At eighteen, the awkwardness of youth was gone; she had blossomed into a woman during his absence. It brought to mind a memory from his childhood – watching a butterfly emerge from its chrysalis to flex its gossamer wings for the first time in the sun. His younger self had found the moment bittersweet – joyful at the birth of such beauty – fearful for the delicate creature at loose in a world full of predators. He laughed at himself for the poetic comparison, but it left him with a strong desire to protect his young sister.
Everyone, in fact, had changed. How do they view me? Do they find me altered? The image of Alice, his second cousin, a few miles away at Gillside House, flashed unbidden into his mind – slender, golden hair, pale grey eyes.
His sister’s elbow nudged him.
‘Robert!’
Jolted from his daydream, he relieved her of the platter of spiced fruit bread and seed cake she held out to him. He took several pieces, reached for butter and honey, and poured a generous measure of chocolate.
‘I see your appetite has returned these past few weeks,’ said Nicholas.
Robert mumbled a reply between mouthfuls.
‘I'm pleased you're looking well, Robert,’ said his mother. ‘Perhaps it's time to begin your duties here and to look to your future. I saw you coming back from the beach earlier. I wish you would desist from this unseemly obsession with swimming in the sea. I hoped you had grown out of such pastimes. You are the master of this house now; you must set an example.’
‘I'm sorry, Mother,’ said Robert, ‘but it's been a long time since I was able to enjoy regular sea bathing; besides, it eases my leg.’
She shook her head, but relented. ‘Well, then I suppose I must endure it.’ Wiping a crumb from her gown with a demure swish of her hand, she rose from her chair. ‘Come, Lydia, we must leave your uncle and brother to their discussions.’
‘Your mother worries about you, Robert,’ said Nicholas. ‘She has always had a sense of her own place in life and is anxious that you should know yours.’
‘I will settle into this new role.’
‘She is afraid you will miss army life, or take on a rash new venture. You need to understand the suffering she has endured. She blames herself for Charles's accident. The last words they spoke were not civil.’
‘But it was not her fault, Uncle. We all know how hard he rode. He was skilled, but he took one too many chances.’
‘She knows this in her heart, but her grief runs deep. It pains her that, having lost Charles, she then could not help Francis. We both know what it is to endure the sights and sounds of battle, but Francis was always a sensitive child. Army life did not suit him, and God alone knows what he witnessed to afflict him so.’
‘I confess I was angry when I learnt she had sent Francis away.’
‘It must be hard for you to understand, Robert, but believe me, we did not take the decision lightly. Flackley Manor seemed our only hope. I was afraid for him – afraid that he would try to end his own suffering. At least now he remains calm.’
‘Yes, he's as quiet as a lamb,’ said Robert.
Flackley Manor, an institution ten miles away along the London Road, was known for its rigorous regime for the insane. When Robert had finally seen for himself the pitiful condition of his brother, Francis was frail and withdrawn. Robert was greeted by dull, emotionless eyes that showed no sign of recognition. The image had haunted him since.
‘Mother asks me to pray for him,’ said Robert. ‘I wish I could, but it sticks in my throat every time I try. Where was God when Francis needed him? I know it gives her comfort to spend hours in that church on her knees.’
‘Yes, your mother's beliefs are still strong,’ said Nicholas.
Robert caught the sadness in his uncle's voice. Nicholas Wycombe, a respected man, spoke quietly but with authority, and Robert was extremely fond of him. Nicholas lived in a cottage on the estate but spent most of his time at Farleigh Hall with the rest of the family. The bitter truth was Nicholas had been instantly smitten with the girl chosen as his older brother’s bride. He tried to forget her and even married another, but she died young, and he never remarried. After serving in the army, an injury led to his discharge from the military. His brother's health was in decline, so Nicholas became steward to Farleigh Hall at his brother's request, reuniting him with his first love. By the time his brother lost his long battle for life, Nicholas had become invaluable to the whole family and provided support to Elizabeth when she also lost her eldest son.
Robert could not fathom how his uncle coped, but he could read his pain. The woman Nicholas adored was so close, yet out of reach. Despite her fondness for his uncle, Robert knew his mother would never flout her beliefs. In the eyes of the church, Nicholas was her brother – not by blood, but in name and church law.
‘Take all the time you need, Robert,’ said Nicholas. ‘When you are more settled, we can visit the tenants together. The old, established families you already know. The estate runs smoothly – apart from the occasional rift between neighbours, but these are usually healed with a little tact! As you will have seen for yourself, many in the town are barely surviving on their meagre earnings. Sickness still prevails amongst them, but our rector has plans to raise funds so they may have a place of healing; no doubt he will wish to discuss this with you. Robert, I shan't outstay my welcome. If you wish to take over sole management of the estate yourself, I understand – I do not forget my place.’
‘Your place is here with us, and I value your wisdom. Besides, it pleases my mother to have you near.’
His uncle's expression spoke volumes.
Robert found Lydia in the parlour, bent over her needlework. ‘Am I disturbing you?’ he said.
‘Not at all, Brother. Sit with me awhile. My eyes are in need of rest.’
He perched on the edge of the sofa near her. ‘I remember a time when you were happy to run wild with a grubby face! You would have rebelled at such dainty tasks as this.’
‘I would rather be outside than repeatedly pricking my finger with this wretched needle! But Mother is determined to make a lady of me.’ She tugged at her gown. ‘Mother's maid, Emily, assists me with this fancy attire – I can barely breathe, let alone take to the cliff tops! I must content myself with riding now.’
‘Does she have any suitors in mind for you?’
‘I trust not,’ she said with a scowl. ‘I am in no hurry and have no wish to be married off to some awful man – like Cousin Hannah to Arthur Plynlimmon.’
‘Mother tells me Cousin Anne has invited us all to dine at Gillside next week, after Christopher Bakewell returns from business in London. So I shall decide for myself the merits of our new family members.’
‘Oh, of course, I forgot. You have been away so long, you have not had the “pleasure” of meeting Christopher Bakewell yet, either! What a delightful evening you have to look forward to!’
‘I take it neither are to your liking?’
‘No, they are not! Arthur Plynlimmon seems a most disagreeable fellow. And I cannot understand why Cousin Anne married Christopher Bakewell. He cares for nothing but his own gain. They say he is ruthless.’
Robert eyed his sister with fondness. She may look like a grown lady, but her innocence remained. Where would she be without the family money to keep her in luxury?
He hoped that Anne had found a good man in her second husband. Her first, Benjamin Fairfield, had a reckless passion for extravagance. His ambitious plans to rebuild his home had strained the family's wealth. When he died suddenly, leaving Anne and their three children desperately short of funds, their only recourse was to sell his estate to clear the debts. Fortunately, a quirk of fate enabled Anne and her children to live at Gillside House, her childhood home.
‘I hope Christopher Bakewell is kind to Anne?’ said Robert.
‘Oh, I did not mean to suggest otherwise. Cousin Anne seems content and wants for nothing, but… I am not privy to his private affairs, but I have heard the rumours.’
‘Really – and how might you come by such rumours?’
She blushed. ‘Well… word gets around. He has become a powerful man in the town, and anyone who stands in his way has reason to be wary. Did you hear about Will Jemps, the fisherman hanged for murder?’
‘Not all the details.’
‘He went on a smuggling run that went wrong. They were challenged as they came ashore at Gull Haven with their illicit goods. In the ensuing fray, one unfortunate officer was clubbed to death. Another managed to seize Jemps. Of course, Christopher Bakewell was keen that an example be made of him, despite the man pleading his innocence. Not one of those fishermen spoke in his defence, and now the family must cope without him.’
‘Lydia, you must understand, it's every man for himself in these situations. They all know the hangman’s noose awaits them if caught. Will Jemps would have been aware of the risks. You can hardly place the blame on Christopher Bakewell. I know this family has always turned a blind eye to the smugglers. Indeed, some of our ancestors have actively encouraged it!’ He was thinking of their Great Uncle George, who had built Gillside House with instructions to include a tiny window in the roof, so that he could leave a lamp to guide traders to safety on stormy nights. ‘But not everyone feels sympathy for smugglers.’
‘Some say the true culprit for the murder was Sam Hoadley.’
‘Oh? And what does Sam say?’
‘I would not know, but I expect he denies it.’
‘Men can be driven to desperate acts in times of want, Lydia. Indeed, when times are good, these men are barely surviving.’
‘You cannot condone murder, Robert! I know you are fond of Hoadley, but if he is the true felon, another man died for his crime.’
‘Of course I don't, Lydia,’ he said gently, ‘but do not trouble yourself for the Jemps family. The fishing community looks after its own in times of need. They will not allow them to starve.’
She lifted a troubled face. ‘I suppose you are right, Brother. What do I know of such men?’
‘Too much, it would seem! I pray you shall only come to know men of truth and honour.’
‘Let us hope so,’ she said. ‘I'm so happy you are home. I've lost one brother and seen another touched with such madness that he was like a man possessed. Even the servants were afraid to go near him. I'm ashamed to say I was relieved when they took him away.’ She glanced up, her eyes moist. ‘Is that a terrible thing to say?’
She had not spoken of her feelings before, and he felt her suffering. Taking her hand, he said, ‘I do understand. It must have been distressing for you to see him in that state.’
‘Will he ever be well, do you think?’
Robert struggled to find words of comfort. He could not reveal the harsh treatments: ice water baths, bleeding, purging – and opium, which reduced Francis to a silent, lost soul. These were not subjects for her innocent ears. Instead, he spoke with a conviction that, in truth, he did not feel. ‘Yes, Francis will be well again.’
His eyes rested on his smallsword. As he wiped the dust from its hilt, his father's last words to him echoed. ‘It is a great privilege to serve your country. Make me proud.’ His father had purchased the commission as captain with the 35th Foot, but died before he could follow his son's service to the king.
The treaty, signed in February this year, had ceased hostilities, but Robert's part in the action ended earlier in Martinique, when a musket ball struck his left leg, leaving a slow-healing wound.
He thumbed through a bundle of letters, tattered from constant handling. Arriving in batches, those glimpses of life beyond the battlefield had given comfort in dark times, but not every communication brought joy. During the struggle to save his leg, bleak news reached him. His younger brother, Francis, had returned from the war a broken man, reduced to life in an asylum.
Robert fought to lay old ghosts to rest, but they would not stay buried. The sights, the smells, and the pain were hard to forget. He replaced all the letters but one; the day it arrived was etched into his memory. A wintry afternoon, a half-eaten meal abandoned, the message brief but life-changing. His older brother, Charles, was dead. Robert was now heir to Farleigh Hall, with its extensive lands and tenanted farms in Sussex.
After much reflection on his years fighting the French, his grief, and unwarranted guilt, he had resigned his commission and embarked on the long journey home. Even now, two months after his return, it still troubled him that his change of fortune was at the expense of his brother's life.
Charles's pocket watch lay on the oak chest beside the window. Robert ran his fingers over the silver-gilt repoussé case. It sparked a fleeting memory – his pang of jealousy at the generous gift, and his brother's favourite taunt – ‘Father's special token for the chosen son.’ Despite this, sibling rivalry had rarely been a problem and never brought them to blows, for each knew his place. Fate, it seemed, had other ideas.
As a soldier, Robert found it ironic that Charles died at home. A keen horseman, Charles had ridden with reckless arrogance on a temperamental beast. His dream was to join the cavalry, and after a bitter exchange with his mother regarding his role, he rode off in anger. His young life ended in a muddy ditch, thrown from his favourite stallion – a pointless and tragic end for a man groomed since birth for a privileged life.
Robert opened the watch case; the white enamel dial showed six o'clock. He snapped the case shut, ran a hand through his tangle of dark hair, and tried to clear his mind of melancholy thoughts.
Dressed in a faded pair of breeches, an old shirt, and boots, he left through the back door. The late spring morning was warm, and herbs filled the air with their pungent aroma as he passed through the kitchen garden.
His left leg was stiff and a source of irritation, but his limp eased as he walked. By the time he covered the half mile along the grassy track, between stunted gorse, he felt better. He scrambled down the cliff path to the shingle beach below. The tide was going out, and a small stretch of wet sand glistened at the water's edge.
As was his habit since childhood, he took off his boots and stripped naked. The water was invigorating, and he swam with powerful strokes that helped to expel the vestiges of his brooding mood. When he emerged, breathless but exhilarated, he stood with outstretched arms, allowing the breeze to dry his body.
When he first returned from the conflict, he felt much older than his twenty-five years. Now his strength was returning, and he climbed back up the sandstone cliff with ease. At the top, his gaze swept the horizon. To the west, a flock of screeching gulls circled, a sign the fishing boats of Oakdean were beached and unloading.
He turned to see John Gibbs returning from an early ride. Both men waved a greeting. Robert had fond memories of the man's father, an old family retainer. John, with his many and varied skills, was proving to be a trusted replacement and one of a small number of servants to live at the house.
Robert slowed his pace as he approached the rear of Farleigh Hall. Built of local stone, the house comprised two stories and an attic. From this side, alterations gave it a higgledy-piggledy charm. The frontage, dominated by a protruding porch, was softened by ivy clinging to its walls. Small windows and oak panelling, darkened over the years, made the interior lighting subdued. Generations of Wycombes had called this place home, and the knowledge that he was now its guardian was something Robert found daunting.
Martha, their cook-housekeeper, was humming to herself as she looked up from her morning chores to see Robert approaching. She had seen for herself how the three Wycombe boys, all sired by the same father, had grown to be so different. Charles, a headstrong child, became an unyielding man, indifferent to the hardships endured by the town's inhabitants. Robert, always looking for adventure, grew tall with a soldier's bearing; quick-tempered with those who crossed him, but loyal and generous to his friends. Francis, a clinging boy who, in Martha's opinion, had been smothered by his doting mother, became an introverted, bookish man. Of the three, she knew Robert would make the fairest master of Farleigh, as he possessed an empathy for people less fortunate than himself.
Robert entered the kitchen, and when he saw Martha, a smile lit up his blue eyes. She almost laughed at his dishevelled appearance. He looked more like a working man than the master of a large estate. In his youth, and to his mother's disapproval, he had spent much of his time in the company of Sam Hoadley, a fisherman some considered an old reprobate. Nevertheless, an unlikely friendship had formed, which had stood the test of time.
Becky, their kitchen maid, careered across the room with a seed cake, almost colliding with Robert as she skidded to a halt.
‘Look where you’re going!’ said Martha, deftly catching the item as it slid across the tray.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said Becky, eyes downcast.
‘No harm done,’ said Robert.
Becky treated him to a coy smile, but hurried away when she realised Martha was watching her.
‘She tries my patience!’ said Martha, raising her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Such a hare-brained child – and a mite too bold!’ She smoothed her apron over her ample bosom and tutted. ‘But there’s no need for you to concern yourself with such things.’ Her eyes flicked over him. ‘They'll be breaking their fast in the dining room soon.’
Robert laughed, well aware he needed to make himself more presentable before facing his mother’s critical eye.
Never one to follow the fads of fashion, his clothes were plain, but in deference to his mother's wishes, he had purchased items more suited to his new role. He fussed with his cravat, then attempted to tame his unruly hair, which he wore unpowdered and tied at the nape of his neck in the style common to soldiers.
His mother gave him a look of approval and accepted his brief kiss on her cheek. Nodding a good morning to his Uncle Nicholas, he flicked his sister’s dark curls as he seated himself beside her.
The difference in his sister was profound. At eighteen, the awkwardness of youth was gone; she had blossomed into a woman during his absence. It brought to mind a memory from his childhood – watching a butterfly emerge from its chrysalis to flex its gossamer wings for the first time in the sun. His younger self had found the moment bittersweet – joyful at the birth of such beauty – fearful for the delicate creature at loose in a world full of predators. He laughed at himself for the poetic comparison, but it left him with a strong desire to protect his young sister.
Everyone, in fact, had changed. How do they view me? Do they find me altered? The image of Alice, his second cousin, a few miles away at Gillside House, flashed unbidden into his mind – slender, golden hair, pale grey eyes.
His sister’s elbow nudged him.
‘Robert!’
Jolted from his daydream, he relieved her of the platter of spiced fruit bread and seed cake she held out to him. He took several pieces, reached for butter and honey, and poured a generous measure of chocolate.
‘I see your appetite has returned these past few weeks,’ said Nicholas.
Robert mumbled a reply between mouthfuls.
‘I'm pleased you're looking well, Robert,’ said his mother. ‘Perhaps it's time to begin your duties here and to look to your future. I saw you coming back from the beach earlier. I wish you would desist from this unseemly obsession with swimming in the sea. I hoped you had grown out of such pastimes. You are the master of this house now; you must set an example.’
‘I'm sorry, Mother,’ said Robert, ‘but it's been a long time since I was able to enjoy regular sea bathing; besides, it eases my leg.’
She shook her head, but relented. ‘Well, then I suppose I must endure it.’ Wiping a crumb from her gown with a demure swish of her hand, she rose from her chair. ‘Come, Lydia, we must leave your uncle and brother to their discussions.’
‘Your mother worries about you, Robert,’ said Nicholas. ‘She has always had a sense of her own place in life and is anxious that you should know yours.’
‘I will settle into this new role.’
‘She is afraid you will miss army life, or take on a rash new venture. You need to understand the suffering she has endured. She blames herself for Charles's accident. The last words they spoke were not civil.’
‘But it was not her fault, Uncle. We all know how hard he rode. He was skilled, but he took one too many chances.’
‘She knows this in her heart, but her grief runs deep. It pains her that, having lost Charles, she then could not help Francis. We both know what it is to endure the sights and sounds of battle, but Francis was always a sensitive child. Army life did not suit him, and God alone knows what he witnessed to afflict him so.’
‘I confess I was angry when I learnt she had sent Francis away.’
‘It must be hard for you to understand, Robert, but believe me, we did not take the decision lightly. Flackley Manor seemed our only hope. I was afraid for him – afraid that he would try to end his own suffering. At least now he remains calm.’
‘Yes, he's as quiet as a lamb,’ said Robert.
Flackley Manor, an institution ten miles away along the London Road, was known for its rigorous regime for the insane. When Robert had finally seen for himself the pitiful condition of his brother, Francis was frail and withdrawn. Robert was greeted by dull, emotionless eyes that showed no sign of recognition. The image had haunted him since.
‘Mother asks me to pray for him,’ said Robert. ‘I wish I could, but it sticks in my throat every time I try. Where was God when Francis needed him? I know it gives her comfort to spend hours in that church on her knees.’
‘Yes, your mother's beliefs are still strong,’ said Nicholas.
Robert caught the sadness in his uncle's voice. Nicholas Wycombe, a respected man, spoke quietly but with authority, and Robert was extremely fond of him. Nicholas lived in a cottage on the estate but spent most of his time at Farleigh Hall with the rest of the family. The bitter truth was Nicholas had been instantly smitten with the girl chosen as his older brother’s bride. He tried to forget her and even married another, but she died young, and he never remarried. After serving in the army, an injury led to his discharge from the military. His brother's health was in decline, so Nicholas became steward to Farleigh Hall at his brother's request, reuniting him with his first love. By the time his brother lost his long battle for life, Nicholas had become invaluable to the whole family and provided support to Elizabeth when she also lost her eldest son.
Robert could not fathom how his uncle coped, but he could read his pain. The woman Nicholas adored was so close, yet out of reach. Despite her fondness for his uncle, Robert knew his mother would never flout her beliefs. In the eyes of the church, Nicholas was her brother – not by blood, but in name and church law.
‘Take all the time you need, Robert,’ said Nicholas. ‘When you are more settled, we can visit the tenants together. The old, established families you already know. The estate runs smoothly – apart from the occasional rift between neighbours, but these are usually healed with a little tact! As you will have seen for yourself, many in the town are barely surviving on their meagre earnings. Sickness still prevails amongst them, but our rector has plans to raise funds so they may have a place of healing; no doubt he will wish to discuss this with you. Robert, I shan't outstay my welcome. If you wish to take over sole management of the estate yourself, I understand – I do not forget my place.’
‘Your place is here with us, and I value your wisdom. Besides, it pleases my mother to have you near.’
His uncle's expression spoke volumes.
Robert found Lydia in the parlour, bent over her needlework. ‘Am I disturbing you?’ he said.
‘Not at all, Brother. Sit with me awhile. My eyes are in need of rest.’
He perched on the edge of the sofa near her. ‘I remember a time when you were happy to run wild with a grubby face! You would have rebelled at such dainty tasks as this.’
‘I would rather be outside than repeatedly pricking my finger with this wretched needle! But Mother is determined to make a lady of me.’ She tugged at her gown. ‘Mother's maid, Emily, assists me with this fancy attire – I can barely breathe, let alone take to the cliff tops! I must content myself with riding now.’
‘Does she have any suitors in mind for you?’
‘I trust not,’ she said with a scowl. ‘I am in no hurry and have no wish to be married off to some awful man – like Cousin Hannah to Arthur Plynlimmon.’
‘Mother tells me Cousin Anne has invited us all to dine at Gillside next week, after Christopher Bakewell returns from business in London. So I shall decide for myself the merits of our new family members.’
‘Oh, of course, I forgot. You have been away so long, you have not had the “pleasure” of meeting Christopher Bakewell yet, either! What a delightful evening you have to look forward to!’
‘I take it neither are to your liking?’
‘No, they are not! Arthur Plynlimmon seems a most disagreeable fellow. And I cannot understand why Cousin Anne married Christopher Bakewell. He cares for nothing but his own gain. They say he is ruthless.’
Robert eyed his sister with fondness. She may look like a grown lady, but her innocence remained. Where would she be without the family money to keep her in luxury?
He hoped that Anne had found a good man in her second husband. Her first, Benjamin Fairfield, had a reckless passion for extravagance. His ambitious plans to rebuild his home had strained the family's wealth. When he died suddenly, leaving Anne and their three children desperately short of funds, their only recourse was to sell his estate to clear the debts. Fortunately, a quirk of fate enabled Anne and her children to live at Gillside House, her childhood home.
‘I hope Christopher Bakewell is kind to Anne?’ said Robert.
‘Oh, I did not mean to suggest otherwise. Cousin Anne seems content and wants for nothing, but… I am not privy to his private affairs, but I have heard the rumours.’
‘Really – and how might you come by such rumours?’
She blushed. ‘Well… word gets around. He has become a powerful man in the town, and anyone who stands in his way has reason to be wary. Did you hear about Will Jemps, the fisherman hanged for murder?’
‘Not all the details.’
‘He went on a smuggling run that went wrong. They were challenged as they came ashore at Gull Haven with their illicit goods. In the ensuing fray, one unfortunate officer was clubbed to death. Another managed to seize Jemps. Of course, Christopher Bakewell was keen that an example be made of him, despite the man pleading his innocence. Not one of those fishermen spoke in his defence, and now the family must cope without him.’
‘Lydia, you must understand, it's every man for himself in these situations. They all know the hangman’s noose awaits them if caught. Will Jemps would have been aware of the risks. You can hardly place the blame on Christopher Bakewell. I know this family has always turned a blind eye to the smugglers. Indeed, some of our ancestors have actively encouraged it!’ He was thinking of their Great Uncle George, who had built Gillside House with instructions to include a tiny window in the roof, so that he could leave a lamp to guide traders to safety on stormy nights. ‘But not everyone feels sympathy for smugglers.’
‘Some say the true culprit for the murder was Sam Hoadley.’
‘Oh? And what does Sam say?’
‘I would not know, but I expect he denies it.’
‘Men can be driven to desperate acts in times of want, Lydia. Indeed, when times are good, these men are barely surviving.’
‘You cannot condone murder, Robert! I know you are fond of Hoadley, but if he is the true felon, another man died for his crime.’
‘Of course I don't, Lydia,’ he said gently, ‘but do not trouble yourself for the Jemps family. The fishing community looks after its own in times of need. They will not allow them to starve.’
She lifted a troubled face. ‘I suppose you are right, Brother. What do I know of such men?’
‘Too much, it would seem! I pray you shall only come to know men of truth and honour.’
‘Let us hope so,’ she said. ‘I'm so happy you are home. I've lost one brother and seen another touched with such madness that he was like a man possessed. Even the servants were afraid to go near him. I'm ashamed to say I was relieved when they took him away.’ She glanced up, her eyes moist. ‘Is that a terrible thing to say?’
She had not spoken of her feelings before, and he felt her suffering. Taking her hand, he said, ‘I do understand. It must have been distressing for you to see him in that state.’
‘Will he ever be well, do you think?’
Robert struggled to find words of comfort. He could not reveal the harsh treatments: ice water baths, bleeding, purging – and opium, which reduced Francis to a silent, lost soul. These were not subjects for her innocent ears. Instead, he spoke with a conviction that, in truth, he did not feel. ‘Yes, Francis will be well again.’
2
Christopher Bakewell's impeccable attire matched the elegance of the room. A large mahogany desk and chair, placed to take advantage of the light from the tall sash windows, dominated the space. One wall exhibited his large and eclectic collection of books. This was Bakewell's private domain, the part of Gillside House where he felt most at home in this beautiful place he coveted, but which was held in trust for his sixteen-year-old stepson, Thomas Fairfield.
His companion, Arthur Plynlimmon, paced the room, his cheeks burning with anger. He broke his stride to help himself from a wine decanter.
‘I've served you well enough, Bakewell,’ he said. ‘I've done all you asked of me and more!’
‘My dear young man. Surely you would not deny me one further favour.’
Arthur swilled down his drink. He slammed the empty glass on the tray. Battling with his conscience, he began to traverse the room again.
Bakewell's patience was wearing thin. He gave Arthur a humourless smile and said, ‘I think you would be wise to do as I ask. Even at this late stage in the proceedings, do not think for one moment I would hesitate to withdraw my consent to your marriage to my stepdaughter. After all, thanks to your fine endeavours, I know many other suitable gentlemen. No doubt Hannah would be happy to consider others.’
‘And do not think I would hesitate to divulge the methods of persuasion you employ to further your own interests!’ Enraged, Arthur tried to hold his ground, but he took an involuntary step backwards as Bakewell, a full head taller than the younger man, advanced towards him, his dark eyes blazing.
‘Do not threaten me, Plynlimmon!’
Arthur reined in his fury. As a wealthy man from a respected family, with a vast estate near Robertsbridge, he would have no problem finding an alternative wife. Despite this, he knew he was at a disadvantage in this argument because he was so fond of Hannah that he could not risk losing her. Bakewell had not failed to notice this and exploit it to his advantage.
Arthur refrained from further retort and gave a slow sigh of reluctant submission. At first, it seemed natural to comply with one or two minor requests from his future father-in-law. An introduction here and there, or acting as a go-between when Bakewell’s lack of family connections made people uneasy. More recently, Arthur had seen for himself Bakewell's underhand methods and was becoming reluctant to involve himself.
‘What do you want of me this time?’ said Arthur, resigned to the fact that until he and Hannah were man and wife, he was under this man’s thumb.
Bakewell enjoyed his moment of triumph. ‘I wish to purchase a local parcel of land, which includes a simple dwelling. It's known as the Goodson Land.’
‘Where is this land?’
‘It lies between the London Road and Wycombe land. It appears there is some mystery surrounding the property. Since the recent demise of Mr Goodson, his wife has become confused regarding the title of the land. She is elderly and frail, and her mind is occasionally a mite addled, but she assures me she can lay her hands on the deeds.’
‘Has she no family?’ said Arthur.
‘She is alone now. I have made her a reasonable offer. She was at first in complete agreement with the sale, but alas, there has been a minor setback. The last time I called upon the Widow Goodson, she seemed to think my offer was low, so presumably someone is putting that idea into her head.’
‘And you would like me to convince her your offer is fair?’
‘If you make an offer well below my own, she will see where her best option lies.’
‘Why is this small piece of land so important that you must cheat this elderly woman of her rightful due?’
‘That is not your concern. Come, Plynlimmon, it's not much to ask. What does this woman mean to you – surely nothing compared to your own future happiness.’
‘I'll speak to her,’ said Arthur, clearly irritated, ‘but…’
A wave of Bakewell’s hand silenced him. They both listened to the sound of a carriage drawing to a halt at the front of the house.
‘We shall talk of this business again another time,’ said Bakewell. ‘I shall acquaint you with all the details in readiness for your call upon Mistress Goodson, but for now, the matter is closed. It's time to greet my guests.’
Arthur reached for another refill.
Bakewell gave a brusque nod towards the door. ‘Come, there will be plentiful wine to satiate even your thirst.’
With the formal greetings and introductions over, the family sat in the dining room at Gillside House, with Anne at one end of the table, directing servants laden with food.
Carp in wine sauce, ham pie, veal escalopes, apple and quince jelly, all filled the room with a mixture of heady aromas. A sweet pudding completed the first course. Anne revelled in the delighted faces of her guests.
Robert sat to Anne's left, taking a moment to study his two new acquaintances. Arthur Plynlimmon, the man soon to join their family by marriage, sat opposite. He was, Robert guessed, a couple of years older than himself. At their introduction, Robert sensed a coolness from the man, bordering on hostility, and was unsure what to make of him. Arthur was stocky in build, but dressed in well-fitting clothes that flattered his broad frame. His rather troubled, dour expression deepened with frequent refills of his wine glass. On the rare occasions that he smiled, his demeanour transformed; his eyes crinkled at the corners, suggesting a lighter side to his character. Hannah was beside him, her face as pale as her lemon gown. A pearl necklace sat at her throat; matching earrings swung back and forth as she moved her head.
At the other end of the table, Christopher Bakewell was deep in conversation with Robert’s mother, who had taken in the house and furnishings with envious eyes. New items filled the room. Anne had discerning taste, and Bakewell seemed to indulge her every whim. Robert wondered where all the old family furniture was, as these items belonged to Thomas, the heir to this house, who sat erect and silent beside his stepfather.
Robert turned at a gentle touch on his sleeve and met the smiling eyes of Alice, sitting to his left. At eighteen, she was the middle one of his three second cousins. She had inherited the best looks from both her parents, Anne and Benjamin Fairfield. Alice was well aware of her attributes and how to make the best of them. Her gown, chosen to complement the shades of grey in her eyes, fell in soft folds, rustling as she moved. Curls of honey-coloured hair framed her oval face. Robert felt his pulse quicken as he met her gaze.
‘Well, Cousin,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘What do you make of our two new family members?’ Her eyes gleamed with devilment. ‘I saw you watching them both.’
‘I've yet to come to know either,’ he said with a guilty glance at the two men.
‘You will.’ She gave him a long, bold look before turning to his sister, Lydia, at her left. The two girls shared a conspiratorial giggle. He felt his face flush and was grateful when Anne spoke to him, drawing him away from the seductive wiles of Alice.
‘I have not had the opportunity to speak with you since your return, Robert. I am so happy that you are safe.’
‘Thank you. And what of you, Cousin? Are you happy to be back at Gillside?’
‘Oh, yes. When I married Christopher, he was keen to reside in London. I confess I could not settle there. I suffered frequent bouts of ill health. The noisome odours that drift on the wind are hard to tolerate. Christopher splits his time between here and London. The arrangement suits us both. My children and I are happier here, and Christopher is free to conduct his business affairs without distraction.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I do believe it amuses Christopher that many of his associates assume Gillside is his own country retreat.’
Robert eyed Bakewell. The tilt of the man's head gave him an arrogant bearing. It was not difficult to imagine him exaggerating his worldly possessions.
Anne continued, ‘I wonder if I might speak with you about a delicate family matter, Robert. I have heard disturbing news regarding my brother Geoffrey in France.’
Robert knew the family history. Anne and Geoffrey’s father, George, was a second son but had become wealthy through shrewd investment. He built Gillside House to rival his older brother’s inheritance of Farleigh Hall. Life was good for George, but his son Geoffrey refused to marry the girl his father chose, preferring a young girl from a poor family. George was furious, and his revenge was swift. Unlike Farleigh Hall, Gillside House was not entailed to the eldest son. George rejected his son in favour of the eldest surviving male heir born to his daughter, Anne. She could live at Gillside for as long as she wished, but ownership would pass to her son on attaining the age of twenty-one years. Should she produce no son, the property would remain her own. Geoffrey left for France with his chosen bride to start a new life. Limited communication over the years suggested they had fared well.
Anne fiddled with her napkin.
Robert's eyes flicked again to Bakewell. ‘I shall be discreet.’
‘I know you will. There have been rumours in the town. It seems Geoffrey may be in trouble, living poorly, and his wife is unwell. I cannot deny my pride in knowing my son will inherit this house, but I have always been uncomfortable with the way Geoffrey was treated. He had a son and a daughter, and it has always been my understanding that he prospered. So this latest gossip is a shock.’
‘Where did you hear this rumour?’
‘From Thomas,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘I am afraid he can be difficult and often in conflict with his stepfather. When Christopher is at Gillside, Thomas wanders off into the town – I fear he has been mixing with undesirable company and has come back with this tale.’
Robert remembered his own misspent youth and his mother's similar worries. ‘But I still don't understand. How have they come by this information?’
‘Apparently, Geoffrey is now living on the coast somewhere near Boulogne, where the fishermen often go “trading”. Someone heard the name Wycombe mentioned and instantly pricked up their ears. If the story is true, Geoffrey has indeed fallen on hard times. Christopher says we should do nothing. He says Geoffrey chose his life, and my father's decision to sever the family ties is final.’ She shook her head. ‘Perhaps he is right, but I cannot stop thinking about it. What if he is in real trouble?’ She gave him a hesitant smile. ‘I should not ask it of you, but I thought perhaps you could make enquiries amongst the fishermen yourself.’
‘Do you know who it was Thomas spoke to?’
‘Thomas heard it from one of the young boys – a taunt which nearly brought them to blows. Sam Hoadley witnessed the exchange and separated them before Thomas could come to harm.’
‘I'll speak with Sam and try to find out all I can.’
‘Thank you, Robert.’ She laid a hand on his. ‘And I would be grateful if our conversation could stay between the two of us for now.’
She attended to the servants as they laid out the second course of lighter dishes. A colourful pyramid of candied fruits, placed in the centre of the table, raised a murmur of appreciation.
Everyone began to pick and choose their favourites when Bakewell’s voice rose above the general murmur.
‘How are you finding your change of circumstances, Wycombe? I trust you have settled. It must, after all, be quite a different life from that of a soldier?’
‘Indeed, it is, sir, but I'm quite content, and willing to learn from Uncle Nicholas, whose excellent stewardship has ensured I have little to trouble me.’
Arthur was red-faced and glassy-eyed. ‘But… surely you miss it… the adventure and excitement?’ He slurred his speech. ‘Pray, enlighten us… the ladies will enjoy hearing about your exploits!’ He rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘A toast… to our war hero!’
Robert's jaw tensed as he twirled the stem of his glass between his fingers.
Arthur said, ‘I'm surprised at you, sir. The ladies have spoken of little else but your safe return. Surely you do not mean to disappoint them?’
Robert found the man's insistence irritating. ‘I do not think such talk is suitable for the present company. I would be glad to talk about more pleasant subjects.’
‘No, sir! Do you not find it's the ladies who are the most impressed?’ Arthur fumbled for his glass. It toppled, sending dark red liquid across the table. Anne leapt to her feet as it trickled over the edge into her lap.
‘Have a care, man!’ said Bakewell, snapping his fingers until a servant sprang forward with a cloth to mop the spillage.
Arthur, oblivious to the unease of those around him, persisted. ‘Speak up, sir, we are all waiting!’
‘What would you like to hear?’ said Robert, giving in to his anger. ‘Tales of the bloodshed, the suffering? I've no desire to impress anyone, ladies or otherwise, and I would suggest, sir, that you have had too much wine to keep polite company!’ He caught the merest hint of a smile on Bakewell’s lips. It appeared the exchange amused him, despite Arthur Plynlimmon’s carelessness.
Arthur relented, made his apologies, and slumped back into his chair in sullen silence.
Anne, having done the best she could to salvage her gown, regarded her guests with dismay. The mood had changed. Hannah sat with her hands in her lap, eyes downcast. No one knew quite what to say.
Nicholas broke the uneasy silence. ‘I think we should all respect the wishes of my nephew and speak of other matters. There is no need for ill-feeling between us.’
‘Quite so.’ Bakewell gave a stiff smile. ‘Let us enjoy the rest of our meal.’
The atmosphere warmed again, with everyone careful to avoid further confrontation and keeping the chatter general and polite. Arthur refrained from any more drinking, and as the evening wore on, he became more sober.
Thomas, who had hardly spoken a word all evening, cleared his throat in a lull in conversation. ‘Our rector has grand plans afoot to build a hospital for the benefit of the poorest souls of our town. Is this not a worthy subject for discussion?’ His deep, resonant voice, at odds with his gangling appearance, filled the room.
‘And where, pray, does he think the money is coming from to pay for this hospital?’ said Bakewell. ‘The idea is quite without merit. Each time he speaks of such an undertaking, it comes to no fruition.’
‘Then perhaps it's time it did.’ All eyes turned again to Robert. ‘I've witnessed much suffering amongst our poor over the years, and I've certainly seen nothing to suggest improvement since my return.’
‘Well said, Brother!’ said Lydia. ‘Surely if enough wealthy people are charitable, then our rector may yet have his hospital.’
‘My dear,’ said Nicholas, ‘if all people cared as you do, I daresay he would, but alas, it's not so easy.’
‘What if the enterprise could also turn a profit for investors?’ said Robert.
‘But the poor could not pay,’ said a dismayed Lydia. ‘How could you even think such a thing!’
‘Not the poor, no,’ said Robert, warming to the subject, ‘but others may be willing.’ He was thinking of his brother, Francis. There must be many like him in need of care, with families of means willing to finance it.
Arthur broke his long silence. ‘In London, wealthy men are willing to pay to spend time at the coast. It's becoming quite the fashion, with some physicians advocating the curative benefits of the sea.’
Robert eyed him with surprise. Was there another side to this seemingly obnoxious man?
‘That may well be so,’ said Nicholas, ‘but the rector is adamant he wishes to establish a trust that is not for profit, but for charity.’
‘But surely we can do both?’ Robert became animated, convinced this was worth further thought. ‘If ultimately the poorer people of this town are reaping a charitable benefit, does it matter if a rich, gout-ridden gent also benefits – if he pays his way?’
Anne stood and motioned to the servants to clear the table. ‘Ladies, I think it is time we withdrew and left the gentlemen to their debate.’ As they rose, she said, ‘Come along, Thomas.’
Mother!’ he said, affronted that she should call him away just as the talk was becoming so interesting. ‘I'm sixteen, may I not be permitted to stay?’
Bakewell gave him a warning look. ‘Do as your mother bids, Thomas.’
Thomas reddened, for a moment standing his ground, eyes locked in battle with his stepfather. Reluctantly, and in obvious disgust, he stalked from the room.
They talked long into the evening; the practical problems mounting. Bakewell, mulish in his opinion that the idea was preposterous, poured scorn upon every solution put forward. Robert, however, came away from the evening brimming with ideas and enthusiasm. He would speak to Reverend William Belmont to put forward his proposals, but first, he must fulfil his promise to Anne by seeking the truth about her brother Geoffrey in France.
His companion, Arthur Plynlimmon, paced the room, his cheeks burning with anger. He broke his stride to help himself from a wine decanter.
‘I've served you well enough, Bakewell,’ he said. ‘I've done all you asked of me and more!’
‘My dear young man. Surely you would not deny me one further favour.’
Arthur swilled down his drink. He slammed the empty glass on the tray. Battling with his conscience, he began to traverse the room again.
Bakewell's patience was wearing thin. He gave Arthur a humourless smile and said, ‘I think you would be wise to do as I ask. Even at this late stage in the proceedings, do not think for one moment I would hesitate to withdraw my consent to your marriage to my stepdaughter. After all, thanks to your fine endeavours, I know many other suitable gentlemen. No doubt Hannah would be happy to consider others.’
‘And do not think I would hesitate to divulge the methods of persuasion you employ to further your own interests!’ Enraged, Arthur tried to hold his ground, but he took an involuntary step backwards as Bakewell, a full head taller than the younger man, advanced towards him, his dark eyes blazing.
‘Do not threaten me, Plynlimmon!’
Arthur reined in his fury. As a wealthy man from a respected family, with a vast estate near Robertsbridge, he would have no problem finding an alternative wife. Despite this, he knew he was at a disadvantage in this argument because he was so fond of Hannah that he could not risk losing her. Bakewell had not failed to notice this and exploit it to his advantage.
Arthur refrained from further retort and gave a slow sigh of reluctant submission. At first, it seemed natural to comply with one or two minor requests from his future father-in-law. An introduction here and there, or acting as a go-between when Bakewell’s lack of family connections made people uneasy. More recently, Arthur had seen for himself Bakewell's underhand methods and was becoming reluctant to involve himself.
‘What do you want of me this time?’ said Arthur, resigned to the fact that until he and Hannah were man and wife, he was under this man’s thumb.
Bakewell enjoyed his moment of triumph. ‘I wish to purchase a local parcel of land, which includes a simple dwelling. It's known as the Goodson Land.’
‘Where is this land?’
‘It lies between the London Road and Wycombe land. It appears there is some mystery surrounding the property. Since the recent demise of Mr Goodson, his wife has become confused regarding the title of the land. She is elderly and frail, and her mind is occasionally a mite addled, but she assures me she can lay her hands on the deeds.’
‘Has she no family?’ said Arthur.
‘She is alone now. I have made her a reasonable offer. She was at first in complete agreement with the sale, but alas, there has been a minor setback. The last time I called upon the Widow Goodson, she seemed to think my offer was low, so presumably someone is putting that idea into her head.’
‘And you would like me to convince her your offer is fair?’
‘If you make an offer well below my own, she will see where her best option lies.’
‘Why is this small piece of land so important that you must cheat this elderly woman of her rightful due?’
‘That is not your concern. Come, Plynlimmon, it's not much to ask. What does this woman mean to you – surely nothing compared to your own future happiness.’
‘I'll speak to her,’ said Arthur, clearly irritated, ‘but…’
A wave of Bakewell’s hand silenced him. They both listened to the sound of a carriage drawing to a halt at the front of the house.
‘We shall talk of this business again another time,’ said Bakewell. ‘I shall acquaint you with all the details in readiness for your call upon Mistress Goodson, but for now, the matter is closed. It's time to greet my guests.’
Arthur reached for another refill.
Bakewell gave a brusque nod towards the door. ‘Come, there will be plentiful wine to satiate even your thirst.’
With the formal greetings and introductions over, the family sat in the dining room at Gillside House, with Anne at one end of the table, directing servants laden with food.
Carp in wine sauce, ham pie, veal escalopes, apple and quince jelly, all filled the room with a mixture of heady aromas. A sweet pudding completed the first course. Anne revelled in the delighted faces of her guests.
Robert sat to Anne's left, taking a moment to study his two new acquaintances. Arthur Plynlimmon, the man soon to join their family by marriage, sat opposite. He was, Robert guessed, a couple of years older than himself. At their introduction, Robert sensed a coolness from the man, bordering on hostility, and was unsure what to make of him. Arthur was stocky in build, but dressed in well-fitting clothes that flattered his broad frame. His rather troubled, dour expression deepened with frequent refills of his wine glass. On the rare occasions that he smiled, his demeanour transformed; his eyes crinkled at the corners, suggesting a lighter side to his character. Hannah was beside him, her face as pale as her lemon gown. A pearl necklace sat at her throat; matching earrings swung back and forth as she moved her head.
At the other end of the table, Christopher Bakewell was deep in conversation with Robert’s mother, who had taken in the house and furnishings with envious eyes. New items filled the room. Anne had discerning taste, and Bakewell seemed to indulge her every whim. Robert wondered where all the old family furniture was, as these items belonged to Thomas, the heir to this house, who sat erect and silent beside his stepfather.
Robert turned at a gentle touch on his sleeve and met the smiling eyes of Alice, sitting to his left. At eighteen, she was the middle one of his three second cousins. She had inherited the best looks from both her parents, Anne and Benjamin Fairfield. Alice was well aware of her attributes and how to make the best of them. Her gown, chosen to complement the shades of grey in her eyes, fell in soft folds, rustling as she moved. Curls of honey-coloured hair framed her oval face. Robert felt his pulse quicken as he met her gaze.
‘Well, Cousin,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘What do you make of our two new family members?’ Her eyes gleamed with devilment. ‘I saw you watching them both.’
‘I've yet to come to know either,’ he said with a guilty glance at the two men.
‘You will.’ She gave him a long, bold look before turning to his sister, Lydia, at her left. The two girls shared a conspiratorial giggle. He felt his face flush and was grateful when Anne spoke to him, drawing him away from the seductive wiles of Alice.
‘I have not had the opportunity to speak with you since your return, Robert. I am so happy that you are safe.’
‘Thank you. And what of you, Cousin? Are you happy to be back at Gillside?’
‘Oh, yes. When I married Christopher, he was keen to reside in London. I confess I could not settle there. I suffered frequent bouts of ill health. The noisome odours that drift on the wind are hard to tolerate. Christopher splits his time between here and London. The arrangement suits us both. My children and I are happier here, and Christopher is free to conduct his business affairs without distraction.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I do believe it amuses Christopher that many of his associates assume Gillside is his own country retreat.’
Robert eyed Bakewell. The tilt of the man's head gave him an arrogant bearing. It was not difficult to imagine him exaggerating his worldly possessions.
Anne continued, ‘I wonder if I might speak with you about a delicate family matter, Robert. I have heard disturbing news regarding my brother Geoffrey in France.’
Robert knew the family history. Anne and Geoffrey’s father, George, was a second son but had become wealthy through shrewd investment. He built Gillside House to rival his older brother’s inheritance of Farleigh Hall. Life was good for George, but his son Geoffrey refused to marry the girl his father chose, preferring a young girl from a poor family. George was furious, and his revenge was swift. Unlike Farleigh Hall, Gillside House was not entailed to the eldest son. George rejected his son in favour of the eldest surviving male heir born to his daughter, Anne. She could live at Gillside for as long as she wished, but ownership would pass to her son on attaining the age of twenty-one years. Should she produce no son, the property would remain her own. Geoffrey left for France with his chosen bride to start a new life. Limited communication over the years suggested they had fared well.
Anne fiddled with her napkin.
Robert's eyes flicked again to Bakewell. ‘I shall be discreet.’
‘I know you will. There have been rumours in the town. It seems Geoffrey may be in trouble, living poorly, and his wife is unwell. I cannot deny my pride in knowing my son will inherit this house, but I have always been uncomfortable with the way Geoffrey was treated. He had a son and a daughter, and it has always been my understanding that he prospered. So this latest gossip is a shock.’
‘Where did you hear this rumour?’
‘From Thomas,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘I am afraid he can be difficult and often in conflict with his stepfather. When Christopher is at Gillside, Thomas wanders off into the town – I fear he has been mixing with undesirable company and has come back with this tale.’
Robert remembered his own misspent youth and his mother's similar worries. ‘But I still don't understand. How have they come by this information?’
‘Apparently, Geoffrey is now living on the coast somewhere near Boulogne, where the fishermen often go “trading”. Someone heard the name Wycombe mentioned and instantly pricked up their ears. If the story is true, Geoffrey has indeed fallen on hard times. Christopher says we should do nothing. He says Geoffrey chose his life, and my father's decision to sever the family ties is final.’ She shook her head. ‘Perhaps he is right, but I cannot stop thinking about it. What if he is in real trouble?’ She gave him a hesitant smile. ‘I should not ask it of you, but I thought perhaps you could make enquiries amongst the fishermen yourself.’
‘Do you know who it was Thomas spoke to?’
‘Thomas heard it from one of the young boys – a taunt which nearly brought them to blows. Sam Hoadley witnessed the exchange and separated them before Thomas could come to harm.’
‘I'll speak with Sam and try to find out all I can.’
‘Thank you, Robert.’ She laid a hand on his. ‘And I would be grateful if our conversation could stay between the two of us for now.’
She attended to the servants as they laid out the second course of lighter dishes. A colourful pyramid of candied fruits, placed in the centre of the table, raised a murmur of appreciation.
Everyone began to pick and choose their favourites when Bakewell’s voice rose above the general murmur.
‘How are you finding your change of circumstances, Wycombe? I trust you have settled. It must, after all, be quite a different life from that of a soldier?’
‘Indeed, it is, sir, but I'm quite content, and willing to learn from Uncle Nicholas, whose excellent stewardship has ensured I have little to trouble me.’
Arthur was red-faced and glassy-eyed. ‘But… surely you miss it… the adventure and excitement?’ He slurred his speech. ‘Pray, enlighten us… the ladies will enjoy hearing about your exploits!’ He rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘A toast… to our war hero!’
Robert's jaw tensed as he twirled the stem of his glass between his fingers.
Arthur said, ‘I'm surprised at you, sir. The ladies have spoken of little else but your safe return. Surely you do not mean to disappoint them?’
Robert found the man's insistence irritating. ‘I do not think such talk is suitable for the present company. I would be glad to talk about more pleasant subjects.’
‘No, sir! Do you not find it's the ladies who are the most impressed?’ Arthur fumbled for his glass. It toppled, sending dark red liquid across the table. Anne leapt to her feet as it trickled over the edge into her lap.
‘Have a care, man!’ said Bakewell, snapping his fingers until a servant sprang forward with a cloth to mop the spillage.
Arthur, oblivious to the unease of those around him, persisted. ‘Speak up, sir, we are all waiting!’
‘What would you like to hear?’ said Robert, giving in to his anger. ‘Tales of the bloodshed, the suffering? I've no desire to impress anyone, ladies or otherwise, and I would suggest, sir, that you have had too much wine to keep polite company!’ He caught the merest hint of a smile on Bakewell’s lips. It appeared the exchange amused him, despite Arthur Plynlimmon’s carelessness.
Arthur relented, made his apologies, and slumped back into his chair in sullen silence.
Anne, having done the best she could to salvage her gown, regarded her guests with dismay. The mood had changed. Hannah sat with her hands in her lap, eyes downcast. No one knew quite what to say.
Nicholas broke the uneasy silence. ‘I think we should all respect the wishes of my nephew and speak of other matters. There is no need for ill-feeling between us.’
‘Quite so.’ Bakewell gave a stiff smile. ‘Let us enjoy the rest of our meal.’
The atmosphere warmed again, with everyone careful to avoid further confrontation and keeping the chatter general and polite. Arthur refrained from any more drinking, and as the evening wore on, he became more sober.
Thomas, who had hardly spoken a word all evening, cleared his throat in a lull in conversation. ‘Our rector has grand plans afoot to build a hospital for the benefit of the poorest souls of our town. Is this not a worthy subject for discussion?’ His deep, resonant voice, at odds with his gangling appearance, filled the room.
‘And where, pray, does he think the money is coming from to pay for this hospital?’ said Bakewell. ‘The idea is quite without merit. Each time he speaks of such an undertaking, it comes to no fruition.’
‘Then perhaps it's time it did.’ All eyes turned again to Robert. ‘I've witnessed much suffering amongst our poor over the years, and I've certainly seen nothing to suggest improvement since my return.’
‘Well said, Brother!’ said Lydia. ‘Surely if enough wealthy people are charitable, then our rector may yet have his hospital.’
‘My dear,’ said Nicholas, ‘if all people cared as you do, I daresay he would, but alas, it's not so easy.’
‘What if the enterprise could also turn a profit for investors?’ said Robert.
‘But the poor could not pay,’ said a dismayed Lydia. ‘How could you even think such a thing!’
‘Not the poor, no,’ said Robert, warming to the subject, ‘but others may be willing.’ He was thinking of his brother, Francis. There must be many like him in need of care, with families of means willing to finance it.
Arthur broke his long silence. ‘In London, wealthy men are willing to pay to spend time at the coast. It's becoming quite the fashion, with some physicians advocating the curative benefits of the sea.’
Robert eyed him with surprise. Was there another side to this seemingly obnoxious man?
‘That may well be so,’ said Nicholas, ‘but the rector is adamant he wishes to establish a trust that is not for profit, but for charity.’
‘But surely we can do both?’ Robert became animated, convinced this was worth further thought. ‘If ultimately the poorer people of this town are reaping a charitable benefit, does it matter if a rich, gout-ridden gent also benefits – if he pays his way?’
Anne stood and motioned to the servants to clear the table. ‘Ladies, I think it is time we withdrew and left the gentlemen to their debate.’ As they rose, she said, ‘Come along, Thomas.’
Mother!’ he said, affronted that she should call him away just as the talk was becoming so interesting. ‘I'm sixteen, may I not be permitted to stay?’
Bakewell gave him a warning look. ‘Do as your mother bids, Thomas.’
Thomas reddened, for a moment standing his ground, eyes locked in battle with his stepfather. Reluctantly, and in obvious disgust, he stalked from the room.
They talked long into the evening; the practical problems mounting. Bakewell, mulish in his opinion that the idea was preposterous, poured scorn upon every solution put forward. Robert, however, came away from the evening brimming with ideas and enthusiasm. He would speak to Reverend William Belmont to put forward his proposals, but first, he must fulfil his promise to Anne by seeking the truth about her brother Geoffrey in France.
© 2026 Fiona Rawlings
