Yorkshire

Dedication

To my dad, for all his encouragement and love.

Prologue

I sat in my best riding habit in the dirt at the side of the road, a man I hardly knew sprawled next to me, his head in my lap. I looked ruefully at my skirts as blood seeped into the material. I’d bought it especially for this visit, and now it was ruined. Mr. Kerre and the coachman kicked and pulled at the overturned roof of the stricken vehicle. The canvas covering was peeling away with age; its thin top splintered when the men aimed hard kicks at it. Mr. Kerre had pulled out his brother, the man whose head now lay in my lap. They had more difficulty reaching the other occupants.

Our horses were safe enough, their reins thrown over the branches of a nearby tree. The unhurried shifting of their hooves matched the movements of the coach horses standing close by, cropping grass.

Blood saturated my riding gloves as I held the gaping wound together in what seemed increasingly like a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. I daren’t move in case the outpouring worsened. Cramps spread across my back, and the hard pebbles of the road dug into my legs.

My breath misted in the crisp autumn air, and I feared my patient would begin to shiver in that uncontrollable way I’d seen before in others. He might have lost so much blood he wouldn’t recover before we got him back to the Abbey. The thought, rather than the cold air, made me shiver. I hardly knew this man but I might not get to know him any better.

He opened his eyes and looked directly at me, staring uncomprehendingly until he recovered his senses. I saw intelligence return to his face, and then something else. Something warmer.

I stared at him transfixed. No, oh no. This couldn’t happen, to me, not sensible, shy overlooked Rose Golightly. But I had no way to stop it, and I couldn’t look away now. This wasn’t right, but my treacherous heart turned over when he smiled. “It’s you,” he murmured weakly.

How could a visit anticipated so eagerly, regretted so bitterly, end in this?

Chapter One

1752, one day earlier

“Rose, are you feeling quite well?”

I was tired from the long journey and I felt ill, certainly in no mood for polite disclaimers. “No,” I snapped. The nausea didn’t come entirely from the dreadful state of the drive leading to Hareton Abbey, but from my dislike of meeting new people.

I looked past my sister to glimpse Steven Drury, one of our two male escorts, riding by the side of the hired coach. I envied him. I’d have been much more comfortable on horseback and I wouldn’t have had to talk to anyone. “I’ll be well once I get out of this infernal coach,” I said.

“When you hire them you can’t inspect them,” my sister-in-law said in her practical way. “And we sold our travelling coach years ago. When do we travel long distances?”

“This last week.” I shifted on the worn leather seat, futilely trying to improve my position on the lumpy upholstery. I’d been trying to do that for days. The only respite had come when we stopped to change horses and we could get out for a time and stretch our legs.

Martha gazed out of the other window, at the overgrown trees bordering the drive. Fallen leaves, so prevalent in October, made our progress even more treacherous.

My sister, Lizzie, turned away from the gloomy prospect outside. “I believe Lord Hareton’s trying to deter visitors.”

“So why,” Martha demanded, in an exasperated tone, “are we really here?”

“To witness the marriage of our cousin, the Honourable Edward Golightly to the only daughter of the Earl of Hareton,” chanted Lizzie, quoting the letter we had received a month earlier.

Martha made a “Tch” of exasperation, turning to stare out the window again. The coach moved slowly, crawling and bouncing up the drive. It was bordered by overgrown lime trees, soaring far above where they should have been curving gracefully over our heads. The other routes of access were probably worse. “What kind of earl leaves his drive in this state?” Martha demanded.

“An eccentric one?” I suggested.

“What sort of man will let his only daughter marry into this?”

“Perhaps the Southwoods don’t know about this either, my dear,” said her husband, my brother. “They arranged the marriage in their children’s childhood, after all. The last Lord Hareton wasn’t like this, was he?”

“Far from it.” Martha glanced again at the picturesque but treacherous scene outside the relative safety of our coach. “He’s probably spinning in his grave. He planned everything for his sons before he died, even this marriage.”

“What do you think Lady Hareton feels about this?” I ventured.

“I’ve never met her, Rose, and she’s never written to us.” I knew the lack of common courtesy irked Martha. “They married in haste. I thought she’d got in the family way, they married so quickly, but it wasn’t so. They’re still childless and my James is still the heir, after the brothers.”

“Do you think he’ll ever be an earl?” asked Lizzie, ever the social climber.

Martha glared at her. “Not for a minute. I wouldn’t welcome it if he were. Just imagine the changes.”

“Yes.” A faraway look came into Lizzie’s eyes. She gazed dreamily at the worn squabs and faded upholstery of our hired coach.

“I think they just want me to witness the marriage contract,” James said. “Then we can go home and get on with our lives. There’ll be an heir here soon enough.”

“Do you think they want to inspect us?” Lizzie asked.

Martha answered her. “No. Why should they? They’ve shown no interest in the last ten years, why should they want to see us now? No, I think James is right. They want us to witness the contract, and to tell us we’re out of the reckoning, as far as the succession is concerned. If the earl’s marriage is barren, perhaps his brother’s won’t be. Thank God, I say.”

Her voice reverberated around the small space for a minute or two, echoing dully.

“The papers say he’s a recluse.” Lizzie read every society paper she could lay her hands on. “They didn’t say he was mad. I can’t understand how there could have been such a change between then and now.” The proposed country house party she’d dreamed of for weeks evaporated before her eyes.

“At least there won’t be a house party like the last time,” Martha observed, not without relief. “If he’s a recluse, he won’t want more people than necessary.”

“You never know.” Lizzie’s pretty mouth turned down at the corners. “He might have invited a few more people.”

Silently, I agreed with Martha, and fervently hoped her predictions would come true. I was as happy as I could be in our comfortable manor house, surrounded by familiarity. I hated meeting strangers. The sight of the neglect in the drive, the lack of any other tracks coming this way had been a relief, not a disappointment, though I was sorry for my sister’s sake. Her angelic beauty deserved more than a provincial audience.

At last, we came to a juddering halt at the top of the drive, nearly throwing us out of our seats. We waited as the steps were let down, which gave me the chance to take a few deep breaths in preparation for the ordeal ahead. James got down and helped Martha, Lizzie and me to alight.

Silence fell, suddenly oppressive. Steven stood by his horse. We stood by the coach. No one spoke, appalled and awed in equal measure by the sight before us.

We stood in the courtyard, before the main part of Hareton Abbey. Two great grey wings stretched out on either side. Elsewhere, they would serve as a protective barrier against the bitter Yorkshire winds, but here they seemed more like a trap waiting for the prey to spring it. No life stirred behind the windows, dulled with begrimed years of neglect.

The house was rendered in grey Yorkshire stone, formidable and forbidding. It had not been cleaned except by the weather, nor repaired where pieces of the stone had shattered in the frosts of winter. Pieces still lay on the ground. They must have lain there disregarded for some time. The main part of the building towered in front of us. Its air of abandonment was almost tangible: you could almost hear the house crumbling.

“Rose…” Lizzie whispered.

I glanced at her. “Dear God. What have we come to?”

Her face reflected my own apprehension. “I don’t know. This is Hareton Abbey, isn’t it? We haven’t come somewhere else by mistake?”

“It has to be,” Martha said. We spoke quietly; afraid of awakening echoes. “Don’t forget, James and I have been here once before, but it didn’t look like this the last time we came.”

“Lord, no.” James murmured. Martha clutched his arm as if she might never let go. “It’s supposed to be one of the show houses of the county; whatever can have happened?”

The rumble of wheels on the drive behind started us out of our shock. We stepped back to see what was coming, and to get out of its way.

Into the dilapidated courtyard bowled two travelling carriages, as different from our hired vehicle as possible. They were clearly private vehicles, bang up to date in style, bearing emblazoned crests on their doors. The shiny new black paintwork contrasted strongly with the dull, weathered finish on our carriage. The windows were glassed in, but despite their fashionable comfort, the bodies of the vehicles jolted and swung just as much as ours had. The horses pulling them were matched thoroughbreds. They must have cost a fortune.

They came to a brisk halt in front of the house. We watched liveried footmen leap down and run to let down the steps. “The Southwood party,” Lizzie whispered, awestruck. The cream of society, the top of the tree. Her ideal, her dream.

From the first coach alighted a figure that made my mouth drop open in disbelief. A vision of male gorgeousness, a sumptuous feast of a man. Lizzie gasped, but I didn’t turn to look at her. I kept my gaze fixed on the mirage before us.

He wore scarlet velvet, dressed for the Court. He would be sadly disappointed here. His white powdered wig was set just right, his waistcoat was a dream of embroidered magnificence. He swung around to help a lady descend from the vehicle, and when I again glanced at Lizzie, I saw she had temporarily lost all faculties of speech. No doubt remembering her manners, she closed her mouth.

This younger lady was attired—dressed would have been too clumsy a word—in a French sacque of blue watered silk, embroidered down the hem and the robings in fine floss. Frills and furbelows seemed to take on a life of their own, romping over her petticoats. Pearls gleamed at her neck. “Dear God,” whispered Lizzie.

Behind these visions of fashionable excess, another man climbed down. He wore his fair hair simply tied back; his clothes were just as well cut as the other gentleman’s though not as extravagant, and his attitude far more natural. “They’re twins,” Lizzie told me, back in control of her voice.

“I know,” I said. “You told us. More than once.”

To see the Kerre brothers was a different experience to merely reading about them.

The only identical twins in polite society, they made themselves more conspicuous still by creating scandal after scandal. Lizzie’s information continued, “The younger went abroad after eloping with a married woman. He’s only lately returned, after twelve years away. I wonder which one it is?”

“The peacock.” It had to be. The other looked far too sensible.

They glanced at us. The gorgeously dressed gentleman turned back to the coach, and said something only his brother could hear. His twin spun on his heel, the gravel grating under his foot and stared at us for one impolite moment before he looked away. I guessed the popinjay had said something like “country bumpkins”, and I resented the comment while at the same time agreeing with it. We were in a hired coach, and hadn’t thought to make a stop to change into better clothes as the other party obviously had. I smoothed my hand over my worn, brown wool gown.

With a leisurely gait, the peacock approached us and bowed. “You, sir, must be Sir James Golightly. Lord Hareton informed us you would be here.” His voice was faintly musical and touched with a low burr I found unusually attractive.

James bowed in response, and introduced us. The gentleman in turn introduced his party. The beautiful gentleman was Lord Strang, heir to the earldom of Southwood and not the one who had caused the scandal after all. The other gentleman was Mr. Gervase Kerre, Lord Strang’s twin. Despite Lord Strang’s heavy maquillage, the resemblance between them was remarkable. Perhaps smallpox or his sojourn in the tropics had marked Mr. Kerre’s face, but Lord Strang’s makeup was fashionably thick, and his skin could be similarly rough underneath.