The Summer of You (10 page)

“First of all: What makes you think I wish to reform myself in the eyes of the town? I may like being left alone.”

“Then why do you take account when you can’t get anyone to look you in the eye?” she countered and felt the small triumph of his shrug of acknowledgment.

“All right then. Number two: What is this drastic measure you’re proposing?”

She smiled, her best mischievous smile. “Prove you’re not the highwayman, of course.”

“And I would accomplish that by . . .”

“By catching the real one,” she finished matter-of-factly. She could tell he was amused by her suggestion, but underneath she could also see bewilderment. Why, she did not know—it made perfectly good sense to her.

“This leads me to my third and final question.” Byrne paused here, either for emphasis or to collect his rapidly unwinding thoughts. “What do you mean, ‘we’?”

“Mr. Worth,” she began, assuming her best lecture posture, learned at the elbow of Mrs. Humphrey in Mrs. Humphrey’s school for Elegant Ladies—and a fiercer lecturer there never was seen. “I understand you are renowned for your prowess at subterfuge, but I also know that during those times, you worked with a partner, who is currently in London. Given my lifelong knowledge of the locals, I would prove an ideal substitute.”

Byrne leaned back against the stone, retreating from their banter into his hardened, achingly polite shell again.

“Trying to reform me? Take care of me? I don’t need to be coddled by a woman,” he remarked gruffly, his mouth, which had been so near a smile, pressed down at the corners.

“Good, because I have no intention of coddling another man,” she retorted.

He raised one black-winged brow at that. “Jane, you must have a thousand other things you could be doing.”

She caught her breath at her name. It was the first time in their acquaintance he had dropped the formality of her title. “Correction: I have a thousand other things I have to do. I would welcome a respite from them.” She met his eyes again, once more disturbed by their intense color. “But my question is, what else do you have to do?”

He didn’t answer. And so Jane rose, taking her basket in one hand and her skirts in the other.

“I’ll give you a day or two. Surely, the infamous Blue Raven can in that time come up with a few plans as to how to proceed in finding this local scourge and routing him? I would be desolated if that wasn’t the case.”

Again he didn’t answer, and so Jane, after an awkward moment of waiting, gave a short curtsy and navigated the rocky ground to head back to the main path, leaving Byrne to his thoughts.

“Lady Jane,” he called out to her, once she reached the path. She turned, expecting him to ask what time to arrive at the Cottage or whatnot. Instead he asked, “Did you really run around the town square naked when you were five?”

Jane felt herself blush again, and Byrne obviously took that for an affirmative answer.

Then he smiled at her.

Later that summer, when the atmosphere was beginning to dip into autumn, Jane would be able to look back and pinpoint this moment in time—the moment of Byrne Worth’s lascivious, delicious grin—as the moment that the earth hit a bump and the winds changed their course . . . and the great northern heat wave of 1816 began.

UNSEEN in the last decade, unheard of in this century, the heat wave that encompassed the north of England and half of Scotland had the following effects on the small town of Reston:

The insect population rose by the billions, seemingly overnight.

Shirtsleeves suddenly became remarkably fashionable.

Mrs. Hill ran out of cotton fabric, in all its incarnations, within three days.

Mrs. Hill also ran out of fans, wicking, and ribbons for bonnets—the sun being unkind to the snow-pale ladies of the north.

Farmers contemplated shearing their flocks weeks ahead of schedule, to give the sheep some much-needed relief.

The Wilton boys took up swimming.

This last is mentioned not because the Wilton sons were unschooled in the art of swimming—they had been taught long ago. It is mentioned because Michael and Joshua Wilton, ages nine and seven respectively, had developed a reputation in Reston as the worst rascals of their generation. They ruled a motley group of children (including several of the Cutlers’ brood and one of the Morgans’ girls—the only female in their ranks) who ran around the village in their breeches and shirts, covered in dirt most of the time—their smudged, thieving fingerprints the only sign that an apple had been taken or the Cutlers’ picket fence had been broken apart to act as swords in a game of knights and ladies. The Wilton boys were viewed as youthful exuberants, who, considering their parentage and Michael’s unending charm, were generally tolerated, and considering their handprints, generally caught and reprimanded.

Taking up swimming kept them unusually clean.

“Michael! Joshua!” Minnie, the Wiltons’ housekeeper, cried out from the kitchen door. “Did either of you take the cold roast from the larder?”

“No!” the boys cried back in unison from their station by the riverbank.

Minnie looked at the boys suspiciously for a moment. But in the absence of any tangible proof, she could not prosecute the offenders, so she turned with one last wary glance back into the house.

“I dare you to jump in the river,” Michael said to Joshua once Minnie left.

“That’s easy,” Joshua spat out the reed he was chewing and prepared to jump. He wasn’t wearing shoes or stockings, just his breeches and shirt—both of which had seen the inside of the river several times that day.

“No!” Michael replied, his impish grin turning devilish. “I dare you to jump in the river . . . from there.”

Joshua looked up to where Michael was pointing. It was the large tree that grew tall and high along the bank, its strong limbs stretching out over the water to the deeper, dredged center, where the current ran quick. Joshua’s face took on a slightly fearful aspect, but he tamped it down before his brother saw it and called him a baby. And he wasn’t a baby. After all, it wasn’t his fault he was the youngest!

“All the way out?” Joshua asked bravely.

“All the way out.” Michael nodded, brushing his sandy blond hair out of his eyes. Joshua, for his part, swallowed manfully and began his ascent into the tree.

Michael watched as his brother reached the branch he’d pointed to and scooted himself out to its farthest point, to where it began to fracture into smaller branches and bowed under a seven-year-old’s weight. Joshua shot his brother a satisfied grin (since his two front teeth fell out, his smile had become remarkably wide and charming).

“All right—here I go!”

Joshua looked down into the water below him running fast in the center of the river. It was deep enough, right?

“One . . .”

He let go with his hands, still holding fast with his legs. The cold pit in his stomach had him wishing he hadn’t eaten the roast earlier.

“Two . . .”

Michael kept his eyes glued to his brother, digging his bare toes into the grass in anticipation.

“Three!”

“Joshua! What are you doing?” The outraged voice came from the garden gate. Joshua and Michael both snapped their heads up and around. Joshua’s balance—already precarious, gave out at this moment, and he wobbled and bobbled, and of course, as is predictable, fell.

“Joshua!” Penelope Wilton cried as she ran from the garden gate to the river, her youngest girl in her arms and the toddler running behind on her short legs, crying, “Mommy!” and laughing across the garden.

The splash in the river alerted the house, and out came Victoria, dressed in her best afternoon dress, gloves, and bonnet. Michael, if he hadn’t had his eyes glued to the river, would have groaned. Now Victoria was going to come and yell at them and call the doctor and have them wrapped up in blankets.

Luckily, at that moment, Joshua’s head popped up from under the water, and he moved his arms with youthful enthusiasm, if not studied practice, and swam his way to shore.

“Joshua Lawrence Wilton!” Victoria cried as she reached the great oak tree. “You scared me half to death. Get out of that water now!”

“It’s all right, Vicky,” Joshua said, and he pulled himself out on the bank. “I’m fine. And that”—he pointed to the tree branch he fell off of—“was great fun.”

“I’m next,” Michael said and made for the tree.

“No!” Victoria said with authority, grabbing Michael by his wet, dirty collar and ruining her last pair of gloves in the process.

“You’re too scared anyway,” Joshua returned with a grin.

“Am not! I can do what you did—I can do stuff ten times more daring!” Michael shot back.

“No one is doing anything daring!” Victoria scolded. “Now, into the kitchen with both of you.” She pointed. “Go. And, Joshua, do not go upstairs in those wet clothes.”

“Heavens, Vicky, you did a passable imitation of Mother just then,” Penelope said from behind Victoria.

“Penelope!” Victoria started, shocked. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“I told Father we were coming. Didn’t he tell you?” Penelope smiled, as her two-year-old, Ginny, finally caught up to them.

“Aunt Vicky!” Ginny said, and held up her grubby hands to be picked up.

“Father sent for you?” Victoria said while tactfully avoiding the child’s dirty hands. Any other time she would have loved to pick up her niece and tickle her behind her ears, but she was wearing her very best day gown, the one she had just had made a few weeks ago—the weight of its calico a little stifling in the heat, but still lovely.

“No,” Penelope replied with a musical little trill of a laugh. “My darling Brandon spoke with a friend of his, who said this heat was going to stay, and he decided I should take the girls here. It’s far too hot in Manchester for little girls.”

Penelope’s husband, Mr. Brandon, although a solicitor, was great friends with the town’s scientific society. If he said the heat was going to stay, he had the right of it.

“But it’s hot here, too,” Victoria countered, trying not to sound unwelcoming.

“Yes, but here at least you have the hope of a passing breeze on the water. In Manchester . . . well, I won’t even begin to tell you how horrid city life can be.” Penelope smiled and adjusted the baby in her arms. “Here, Vicky, can you take her? I must find Mother and let her know we’ve arrived.”

Before Victoria knew it, she was holding the sprawling baby girl in her arms, one whose inherent adorability belied her potential for ruining Victoria’s gown. “Mother—oof”—Victoria adjusted the baby in her arms—“Mother is preparing for her knitting circle; the ladies will be over shortly.”

“Is that why you’re all dressed up, then?” Penelope smiled. “I must say I do like this blue on you. Is it new?”

“Nu-uh!” Michael piped up, Joshua still standing beside him, picking at his brother’s sleeve. “She’s going to tea. At the Cottage!”

Victoria felt herself pink about her ears at Penelope’s astonished gaze.

“The Cottage!” Penelope gasped. “Well, of course Mother wrote me and said it had been opened, but how wonderful that Lady Jane invited you. I remember you used to quite follow after her and annoy her as a child.”

“And now she follows after the Marquis!” Joshua added, causing fits of giggles from his brother.

“Jason is here as well?” Penelope asked, her periwinkle blue eyes alight with pleasure.

She used to look like that when Jason came around five years ago, Victoria thought darkly. Jason and Penelope had spent several summers in each other’s pockets, of course, but that one summer, five years ago, something shifted. That summer they were never without each other. They walked out every day, ran through the village like children, took the Morgans’ dinghy out to the center of Merrymere and drifted for hours—all while Victoria could only watch wistfully, as her sister stole the one love of Victoria’s young life. After Jason left to go back to university, Mother had cried for days when she realized no offer was forthcoming, far longer than Penelope had spent in tears. No wonder Mother had neglected to mention Jason’s presence at the lake in her letters to her eldest daughter.

Penelope flitted out her hair, which was worn far too long and lovely for a married woman, and placed her hands on her waist, which was far too narrow for a mother of two. And then she smiled that dazzling Penelope smile that was only highlighted by the little birthmark at the corner of her eye, and made men weak at the knees for miles around.

And Victoria felt her heart sink.

And then she felt something sticky and wet, just above that heart.

For of course, the baby had chosen that moment to spit up the remainder of her lunch.

Victoria Wilton then realized she had absolutely no luck at all.

Jane read the note from Victoria Wilton begging off their tea with annoyance. Well, really. If she was going to cry off, she should have done so much earlier. Not that Jane was looking forward to the tea with Victoria Wilton, oh no. Only that . . . well, it was terribly hot, and Jason had locked himself in the library with his books—on architecture, Jane supposed—and Jane and her father had played hand after hand of whist until he was taken up by Nurse Nancy for his afternoon lie down, and Jane . . . well, she had nobody to complain about the heat with. Nobody to discuss the annoyance of three petticoats and wool stockings with. Complaining was what made the unbearable bearable, her mother had once said.

Her mother.

Jane wandered through the conservatory, where she had had the tea laid, and paused at the bay of windows that looked out onto the lake.

On a day like today, the Duchess would have complained endlessly about the heat. She would have also begun the day by commenting to everyone, from the lowest scullery maid to her oldest friend in a letter, that the day was hot. Nothing unkind about it, just simple fact. The day was hot.

When Jane had been younger, fourteen or fifteen and feeling very grown-up and far more worldly than her parents, her mother’s conversation was a constant source of embarrassment, as it consisted chiefly of visual observations in the present and repeating to other individuals the last conversation she’d had. So, if Jane were to be looking out over the lake, as she was now, and observing a flock of geese, her mother would be compelled to say, “Look, a flock of geese.” Even though, plainly, no such comment was needed. Then, when her father approached, her mother would say, “Look darling, geese on the lake, I was just telling our daughter.”

“Hmm,” her father would say.

Or her mother would remark upon the lack of jam in the pantry to her father, who would then admit to having had the last over tea. Her mother would feel it necessary to hunt down her daughter—whether she be in the barn or in the chair next to her father, and tattle that there was no more jam because her father had eaten it all over tea. Whether she wanted jam or not.

Normally, one wouldn’t think this a flaw unconquerable. Certainly, someone has to play narrator to life, even if she only managed to remark on things that everyone else had already seen and felt no pressing desire to vocalize. But unfortunately, her mother was gifted with a voice that had gone nasal with age and was prone to shrieking when excited, whether by fireworks, a field mouse, or a lack of jam.

Jane never expected to miss her mother’s nasal tone or remarks about jam and geese. But in that moment, looking out over the lake, her clothes sticking to her back in the heat, she did. She could see her mother’s shoulders slump in exasperation and then square in determination, and the echo of her feet on the floor as she went to find someone, anyone, to tell the latest news in her shrill voice—the hottest day of the decade! How unbearable! But the fact that Jane was unequivocally alone in this big house weighed so tremendously on her heart that the prospect of a hot day and no one to complain about it made her want to cry.

But she wouldn’t. Her tears had been shed. And no one—not her addled father nor her absent brother—had any use for them.

Instead, she would square her shoulders and push the sadness aside. And find something, anything, to distract her.

Byrne was in his kitchen when he felt the movement on the almost nonexistent breeze. The winding fury of someone beating a path to his door. He hobbled over to his cane, gingerly bearing weight on his bad leg. The cane was both his strength and his vulnerability now—he could move very well with it and use it as a weapon in a pinch.

He silently maneuvered his way around floral upholstered furniture and remaining knickknacks to the front door of the house, where he waited.