BRIGHTON BEAUTY (3 page)

"Oh, fustian! You have never met my cousin Rutherford. No young lady in her right mind would be a-tremor to marry him. He is a bore of the first order. Cross and demanding, and not the least bit entertaining. For the most part, I left off reading his letters ages ago. They were full of nothing but the dull goings-on in that horrid place where he lives. How he can abide living there, I cannot think. Though, if you must know . . ."Alayna's eyes took on a wicked gleam, "I do consider myself quite fortunate to be marrying him. I shall be well set up, after all. And, I shall have all of the freedom . . . though none of the responsibilities . . . accorded to a married lady. I shall be free to do as I please."

Chelsea blushed. She knew exactly what Alayna meant, and it was an arrangement that would never suit her. A man and his wife belonged together. "How very cold-hearted you have become, Alayna."

"Moi?
Rutherford has the cold heart. He is only marrying me to benefit himself. At eight-and-twenty, he can suddenly wait no longer for his inheritance. I expect he means to increase his holdings in Honduras, or some such nonsense."

Chelsea said nothing further on the subject of Alayna's marriage. And neither did Alayna, except to reassure Chelsea again and again that she would, indeed, arrive at Castle Rathbone in time for the proxy wedding ceremony. Two stand-ins would never serve.

At length, after Alayna had outlined Chelsea's travel plans to Chester, Chelsea rose to take her leave. The prospect of telling an untruth to Mr. Merribone in order to be granted a month's leave of absence loomed like a dark cloud before her, but, as usual, she had no choice in the matter. Still, as she scurried back to the millinery shop that evening, she reminded herself with some relief, that at least, this time, if Mr. Merribone agreed to her request, she would have a position and a living to come back to.

A
s expected, Mr. Merribone was not pleased.

"I view your request as quite out of the ordinary, Miss Grant," he replied coolly. "And, by all that is right, I should not allow it."

"I understand your position completely, Mr. Merribone. But, you see, my . . . my aunt is ill. I am told she rarely leaves her bedchamber these days, and I . . . I am her only living relative. I assure you it will be only for a month, after which I shall be returning again to London and to my post, if . . . if you will have me," she added contritely.

Mr. Merribone continued to protest. "Such a lengthy absence, Miss Grant, will serve only to diminish your popularity with the
ton.
They are a fickle lot, professing undying allegiance one day, then abandoning the very proprietor they declared a favorite the next."

Chelsea fidgeted. "Perhaps if I sent along new designs every week, Mr. Merribone. Annie and the others could make them up just as if I were here. I expect to have plenty of time in the coming days to attend to my sketching," she added with a smile, hoping to sway him with charm. It had worked for Alayna. "My absence would hardly be noticed. I assure you, Mr. Merribone, I shall be returning to my post, just as soon as . . . I find someone to properly care for my aunt."

Mr. Merribone's lips pressed tightly together, but at length, he acquiesced to her plea. After thanking him profusely and assuring him once again that she did, indeed, mean to return to London, Chelsea left the shop. Deceiving her employer in so shameless a fashion went against all she stood for, but in this case, she saw nothing else for it.

After a quick bite to eat that night, Chelsea packed up her few belongings and climbed into bed. She'd leave a note tomorrow for the landlord explaining her sudden exit. No doubt, she'd be obliged to find new lodgings upon her return to Town, but that was the least of her worries now. The Marchmont coach would be arriving for her at first light in the morning, and for the month following, everything . . . including her name . . . would change.

The journey to Chester took three days. All in all, it proved to be a less than dreary ride; the Marchmont equipage with the fancy gold crest on the side door was plush and comfortable. Though Chelsea was still not particularly happy to be here, she had to admit, she half enjoyed the trip. Alayna's abigail, Dulcie, was agreeable. About seventeen, she was light-hearted and amusing, and even managed to make her nineteen-year-old companion smile upon occasion.

Chelsea's smile faded, however, when late on that final afternoon, the dusty black coach wheeled onto a narrow, overgrown road that caused the elegant high-sprung carriage to jostle and sway dangerously. So shaken was Chelsea that she barely noticed a weathered sign hanging limply from a wall that spelled out Castle Rathbone in dim letters. When next the great coach rumbled onto a rickety wooden bridge, which Chelsea rightly assumed must have once spanned the castle moat, she found herself fearing for her very life and wishing she'd queried Alayna further about her illustrious ancestral home.

In a matter of minutes, the carriage drew up in front of a crumbling stone relic that was covered top to bottom with a tangled growth of gnarled old vines and brown-tipped ivy. Several wings of the castle jutted from either side of the foremost tower, but all the narrow windows were shut up tight with ill-fitting shutters and, in some cases, pieces of discolored clapboard. Sucking in her breath with dismay, she wondered how even she was to bear spending a month here?

Suddenly, the carriage door flew open from the outside, causing her further alarm. Stepping tentatively to the ground, she became aware of the rapid pounding of her own heart in her breast. A quick glance about revealed the pitifully kept yard inside the bailey. At the moment it was rapidly filling up with what appeared to be peasants, most of them unkempt and dressed in tattered garments. Adding to the confusion was a pack of mongrel dogs, whose excited barking and tail-wagging told Chelsea she must be the first stranger to visit here in quite some time.

She shrank when an especially filthy footman stepped forward to usher her into the castle foyer. Dulcie lagged behind as other servants began to unload the many trunks and boxes Alayna had sent along with Chelsea.

Indoors, she blinked into the semi-darkness, beginning to understand further why Alayna had been so loath to come here. Thus far, Castle Rathbone could only be described as grim and oppressive. The cool, dank foyer was almost bare of furniture; only a few high-backed chairs were positioned here and there before the cold stonewalls. Suddenly, a solemn-faced gentleman dressed completely in black appeared out of nowhere.

"Miss Marchmont, I presume?" the man said, gazing the length of a pinched nose at Chelsea.

She gulped. "Y-yes."

"This way, miss."

Lifting the folds of her skirt a bit, Chelsea followed the man down a dark, narrow corridor, its meandering length seeming to take her deeper and deeper into the bowels of the high-ceilinged tomb. The clicking sound of Chelsea's half-boots on the bare stone floor echoed like bells in the eerie stillness. Feeling a sudden chill overtake her, she ran a gloved hand up one arm in an effort to ward it off.

Glancing warily at her surroundings, Chelsea absently noted a row of dusty portraits hanging on the wall to her left, their expressionless faces and hollow eyes seeming to follow her progress through the castle. At intervals on the opposite wall, single candles in sconces flickered as Chelsea and the man in black passed beneath, their movements stirring the stale air trapped within the castle walls.

Other eyes watched her . . . brighter, human eyes, glittering from shadowy corners and through cleverly concealed hidey-holes in the dimly lit corridor. But, absorbed in her own thoughts, Chelsea was also unaware of them.

After she and the butler, who, she assumed this man to be, had ascended an ancient staircase, sans railing, they moved silently down yet another long corridor, crossed a room lined all around with musty-smelling books, and even passed through a secret passageway hidden in a cobbled wall. At length, the man paused before a set of immense wooden doors, whose huge ornate hinges looked sadly in need of polish.

Chelsea waited breathlessly as the butler rapped insistently on the door. For a farthing, she would turn around and flee, though there was some doubt in her mind that she'd be able to accurately retrace her footsteps to freedom. Instead, she willed her pounding heart to be still and drew in a long breath in an effort to bolster her courage. She had come this far; she must at least present herself to Alayna's Aunt Millicent, and then hope for the best.

As the butler rapped again, louder this time, Chelsea nervously smoothed a wrinkle from the skirt of her gown, which wasn't her gown at all, but one of Alayna's . . . a lovely beige travelling suit, with York tan gloves, and a matching
casquet
bonnet. Though she felt quite elegant wearing the attractive ensemble, she knew the lovely gown could do nothing to diminish the fear and trepidation wrinkling her brow.

Suddenly hearing what could only be described as a 'bellow' coming from the other side of the closed doors, Chelsea jumped with fright. By way of response, however, the butler merely pushed open the creaky door and stepped inside.

"Miss Marchmont has arrived, my lady," he said, solemnly.

The unexpected reply to this pronouncement made Chelsea recoil with fresh fear.

"Well, show her in, you old fool!"

A lesser mortal would have taken umbrage at the tone, let alone the words, but this manservant merely turned again toward Chelsea and said evenly, "Her ladyship will receive you now, Miss Marchmont."

Her brown eyes wide, Chelsea prayed for additional courage as she advanced one small step into the room. Here, the darkness seemed to envelop her. Blinking into it, her eyes were drawn to the one bright spot she saw, a low-burning fire on the hearth. Above the massive mantelpiece hung a tattered tapestry, the top partially covering two narrow windows that stretched nearly as high as the vaulted ceiling.

"Well, what are you gawking at, gel?"

Whirling about, Chelsea caught sight of an ancient canopied bed dripping with hangings which at one time may have been lovely, but were now soiled and squalid. Propped up in a sea of pillows was a very old lady. Strewn about her on the coverlet and on the floor were piles and piles of yellowed newspapers and books . . .
books!
Chelsea blanched as heightened terror washed over her.
Alayna had said her aunt was practically blind!

"Come here so I can get a close look at you, gel!"

Too afraid to move, Chelsea barely managed, "H-how do you do, Aunt Millicent?"

"Aunt Millicent! As I recall, you used to call me Aunt Millie." Squinting at Chelsea, Lady Rathbone reached to steady her spectacles. "You appear to be quaking, gel. Sit by the fire if you feel a chill. I'll have Jared bring us a pot of tea.
Jared!"

Chelsea jumped again, but upon hearing a muffled noise coming from outside the closed bedchamber door, her round brown eyes cut that direction.

The door opened and the same stone-faced gentleman stepped inside. "You bellowed, madam?"

Chelsea thought she heard a chortle coming from the old lady on the bed, but she couldn't be sure. It might have been a cough.

"Tea, Jared! Bring it up. And don't spare the butter on the toast." She directed another squinty-eyed gaze at Chelsea, who, as commanded, was edging toward the crackling fire. "I assume you brought a maid with ye, gel?"

Chelsea nodded tightly. "Yes, ma'am."

"Put the girl in the west wing with the other maids, Jared, and see that she's properly fed. Have my niece's trunks taken to the green suite in the east tower. But, bring our tea before you attend to the other duties. Miss Marchmont seems to have caught a chill."

When Jared had backed away and had, as quietly as possible . . . considering the squeaky hinges . . . closed the bedchamber door, Chelsea turned a terrified gaze on the thundercloud still reclining on the bed. It went without saying that Aunt Millicent was not the least as she'd expected.

"Well, I still haven't got a proper look at you," Lady Rathbone grumbled, flinging back the coverlet and snatching up a cane which had been leaning against the commode beside her bed. Then, with less effort than Chelsea would have expected from someone purported to be bedridden, the old woman rather agilely limped across the room, headed for a faded brocade sofa positioned near the fire.

Taking no thought for her actions, Chelsea hurried to fluff the cushions at the old woman's back and help settle a warm woolen shawl about her frail shoulders.

Appearing somewhat astonished by her niece's thoughtful gesture, Lady Rathbone twisted to look up at her. "I daresay you've changed considerably, Alayna. I seem to recall you being an especially selfish child. Not given to thinking of anyone but yourself." Her lips pressed tightly together as she reached to steady her spectacles.

Chelsea hastened to seek out a chair situated a bit apart from Lady Rathbone and slipped nervously into it. Then, during the brief moment of silence that followed, her anxiety grew as she felt the old woman's eyes boring holes through her.

At length Lady Rathbone said, "You've become a passing fair young lady, Alayna. Rutherford will be pleased to see it."

Chelsea blinked. "Rutherford? But, I . . . I shan't be
seeing
him, shall I, madam; I mean, Aunt Millicent?"

Lady Rathbone squinted narrowly. "Well, of course you shall see him, peagoose. Husbands and wives generally do meet up, on occasion."

Chelsea felt her insides begin to tremble once again. The interview was not going at all well. Valiantly, she tried to recall Alayna's sentiments regarding her forthcoming marriage, and summon the proper tone to voice them. Elevating her chin a notch, she managed to announce evenly, "Well, if you must know, Aunt Millicent, I have no intention of spending any length of time with Rutherford."

To Chelsea's surprise, Lady Rathbone threw her gray head back and laughed aloud. "Can't say as I blame ye, gel! I doubt my son's temperament has improved with age. A more demanding young man I never saw." She fussed with her shawl. "Just like his late father in that regard, though I believe Ford is a jot more principled. As a prospective husband, I mean. You could do worse, gel."