The Summer of You (24 page)

A hand came to her temples. “Why?” she asked.

“We want to go fishing,” Michael answered.

“And we need thread the color of water, so the fish won’t see it!” Joshua added gleefully, then going back to the contents of her sewing box. “But you only have blue and green, not blue-green, like water is.”

“Maybe if we tied the two together?” Michael suggested to his brother. And suddenly, Victoria couldn’t take it anymore. This was the first moment in two weeks that the house was almost empty. The first time that she was not tripping over Penelope or her nieces, no matter how much she adored them, or any of the accoutrement that seemed to accompany babies. The first time she was not forced to sit and listen to her mother, nor had anyone come to call that she wished to speak to. It had been ages since Jane had come to visit or issued an invitation to the Cottage . . .

Andrew stopped by occasionally, but she didn’t know what she had done, because he no longer spoke to her; he simply spoke with her father, monitored Joshua’s improvement, and left. Maybe he had found a young lady to court, and that would be horrible, because she couldn’t think of anyone of age to court in Reston, so he’d have to travel to Windermere or Ambleside—and then when would they see him?

Oh no. What if he was courting Sylvia Prescott from Derwett, a widow who had to be at least thirty? Victoria had nothing in common with Sylvia, and she would never be able to have a conversation with her. If she couldn’t have a conversation with the woman Andrew married, how was she supposed to remain his friend?

And unfortunately, all of this misery and discontent became focused on her sewing box and its plunderers.

“That’s it!” Victoria yelled. “Get out! Get out of this house right now!”

“But . . . Vicky,” Joshua sputtered, only to be tugged by his brother toward the garden doors. At least one of them, it seemed, knew what they had been doing was wrong.

“Get out, get out, get out!” she shrieked and chased them through the room, and out the garden doors. Once they were gone, she took a deep breath and let the silence envelop her.

But there was no peace in it. Instead, she found only regret for her burst of temper. Her eyes fell over the mess of the drawing room. They were just boys, for heaven’s sake, who wanted to go fishing. What she should do is go upstairs, lie down, and think of a way to apologize to Michael and Joshua. She just needed a moment of calm and quiet, she thought as she crossed the room, and she would regain her . . .

But Victoria was not fated to finish the thought. Just then, her foot landed on a spool of thread. She slid, and with a surprised yelp, she landed flat on her back, taking down an end table with her.

“Ow,” Victoria groaned from the carpet.

“I say!” came a rumbled voice from the doorway. “What on earth happened here? Miss Victoria?”

“Dr. Berridge.” Victoria sighed, as that man came into view above her.

“Victoria, are you all right?” he asked, his face etched with concern. She felt his hand dart beneath her curls, gently feeling the back of her head for injury.

“Michael and Joshua . . . my sewing box . . . I slipped. On thread,” she said, as his fingers caressed her scalp.

“Lucky you landed on the carpet,” he said softly. “Where are Bridget and Minnie?”

“Bridget went to the shop with my mother and sister. Minnie is in the garden, I think,” Victoria ventured.

“Your head feels fine. You might have a bit of a goose egg later.” His steady, kind eyes met hers. “Can you stand?”

She nodded, and he helped her to sit up. Then, gently, he took her arms and took most of her weight as he helped her stand. Which was lucky, as her ankle decided to not be so accommodating.

“Oh!” she cried, as she fell against him completely.

His arm went around her immediately. It was shocking how warm it was in his embrace. He maneuvered her to the settee, practically carrying her, as if she weighed no more than dust.

“Your ankle, I take it?” he asked, kneeling before her, his demeanor swift and professional. She nodded, blinking back tears. His face softened seeing hers, and he started to say something but ducked his head, quickly turning his attention back to her foot. Gingerly, he lifted it in his hand.

“May I?” he asked, indicating her boot. “It will be easier to examine the injury, if I, ah, remove . . .” his voice trailed off as his cheeks took on a surprising flush for one who examined the human body daily. Victoria froze.

Oh no. He wished to take off her shoe.

Victoria was rather on the petite side, small of frame, short in height, but for some reason, she thought, embarrassed, she had inherited the feet of a duck. Flat and long, wide and ugly. Why, the boot maker had to have a size cut just for her! So, knowing his eyes were on her, she shook her head violently.

“Why?” he asked, his voice holding nothing more than doctorly concern. “Miss Victoria, I promise you I mean nothing untoward . . .”

“It’s not that,” she said quickly. In fact, having her ankle rest gently against his hand was . . . pleasant. “Surely you . . . you must see . . .” But he just cocked his head to the side, listening patiently. “My feet are too big,” Victoria came out with it, averting her eyes to the cushions on the settee, wishing her agony over, wishing she hadn’t tripped, wishing Dr. Berridge—Andrew—wasn’t now privy to her embarrassing trait.

But . . . when she chanced a look back at him, he was smiling and shaking his head, and pulling out the laces of her boot.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Victoria,” he grinned at her. “Your feet are perfect.”

And suddenly Victoria felt a little wobbly.

He removed the boot with the utmost care, his fingers dancing over the silk stocking at her ankle, then just below and just above it. Victoria could not, for the life of her, take her eyes off his hands. They moved with such gentleness and grace. They seemed to leave a trail of sensation on her skin, a line of golden pinpricks wherever they touched.

Until he gently turned her foot and those golden pinpricks became a sharp line of pain. Victoria immediately stiffened, and sucked in her breath.

“That’s painful, I take it?” he asked, immediately returning her foot to a more comfortable position.

“Yes,” she replied softly. And then her eyes locked with his. And the strangest thing happened.

She got lost. So lost, in fact, that she momentarily forgot why they were still in the drawing room, him with his hand on her unshod foot, the articles of her sewing box strewn across the carpet and under chairs . . .

“It’s my fault,” she blurted, and the sounds and circumstances of the room rushed back to life around her. “I lost my temper,” she explained sheepishly.

His eyes stayed on hers, unnervingly intense. But his hands continued the examination of her foot (she could daresay he lingered), patiently awaiting further elucidation.

And so she began to ramble an explanation of the events just before he arrived, how Michael and Joshua’s mischief seemed to be unending, and how she had overreacted. “After all,” she admitted, “all they wanted to do was fish.”

“I’m afraid I have to disagree with you,” Andrew said, once her story was told. “Those young rascals only thought of their own pleasure, and because of their selfishness, you have injured yourself. You merely gave them a preemptive scolding.” His eyes flashed with some emotion Victoria couldn’t identify. “And when they come out from their hiding place, I’ll give them another scolding myself.”

But before Victoria could object or ask him why he would involve himself in such a way, he stood and brushed off the knees of his trousers.

“I can detect no sprain,” he announced. “I think it’s a simple twist, and would ask you to tread lightly for a few days.”

“Tread lightly?” Victoria asked, startled. “But that’s ridiculous, I cannot be bedridden!”

She tried to stand, but the doctor pressed gently on her shoulder to push her back onto the sofa. Then he took the seat next to her.

“I’m not asking you to be bedridden, but perhaps taking it easier, being still.”

“I can’t . . . but who . . . there’s too much to do!” she sputtered, but she was quieted by his hand on her shoulder.

“Let someone look after you for once,” he persisted with a smile, that hand finding its way to a slightly mussed golden curl and pushing it back behind her ear. “Instead of the other way around.”

But Victoria wasn’t really listening. Because she had become pointedly aware of just how close Andrew was sitting to her. And just how dark his eyes were, although they had those strange flecks of gold that seemed to dance with light. When did she first notice that? When did she stop breathing evenly?

“Victoria,” Andrew was saying, his voice low and enticing, “I have long . . . that is to say, I . . .”

Before Andrew could continue his sentence—or Victoria could begin to guess what he meant to say, footsteps sounded in the foyer.

“Hello?” a male voice called out. “Your door is wide open, I do not—”

And then Jason Cummings, Marquis of Vessey, appeared in the drawing room doorway.

“Miss Victoria, what luck!” he made a cursory bow and entered the room. “Good afternoon, Doctor.” He greeted Andrew with an outstretched hand.

Habit had Victoria jumping to her feet to greet Jason with the necessary curtsy, but she was stayed by a hand on her shoulder.

“You’ll forgive Miss Victoria for not rising,” Dr. Berridge said stiffly, as he rose and took Jason’s hand. “She’s just badly injured her ankle.”

“Badly?” Jason asked.

“Badly?” Victoria replied at the same time. “But you said it was only twisted slightly.”

The doctor turned a bit ruddy of face but didn’t argue with Victoria’s statement.

“Oh, then I am much relieved, Miss Victoria,” Jason said, as Victoria indicated for him to sit. He did, taking the chair opposite, while the doctor reseated himself next to Victoria on the sofa. Jason looked around the room, not seeming to notice the mess. “May I inquire, are your parents at home?”

“No,” Victoria answered. “My father is meeting on business, and my mother and sister are shopping.”

“No matter,” Jason smiled. That ridiculously charming smile. “I came to speak with you in any case.”

Victoria’s stomach dropped. “Me?” she squeaked. Not Penelope? She wanted to exclaim in delight, but thankfully kept her mouth shut.

“Yes. I’m afraid I have to ask you a terribly large favor. And thank goodness your foot only suffered a slight twist, as you say. Else I would feel too guilty to prevail upon you.”

“Oh, don’t feel guilty!” Victoria replied, utterly flustered. “I . . . I would be pleased to help you in any way I can.”

Jason’s smile returned. “I come on an errand from my sister. She’s decided to give a ball . . .”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Victoria cried. “Andr—uh, Dr. Berridge, imagine, I’ve never been to a proper ball.” She frowned, uncertain. “And therefore I don’t know how I can be of use.”

“It will be quite simple!” Jason assured her. “She just needs an assistant and immediately thought of you. You know everyone in the area to invite, all of the vendors to purchase from . . . I’m certain there is a great amount of detail that goes into planning a ball, but I simply haven’t a clue. It’s best to just let us men show up, eh, Berridge?”

“Quite,” Dr. Berridge ground out, his jaw set tight.

“In any case, it would require you to spend a great deal of your time up at the Cottage—almost every minute with my sister up until the ball.”

“With Lady Jane,” Victoria repeated dumbly. “And . . . and you?”

He shrugged. “Of course, I’ll be around the house. But I fear I ask too much of you . . .” he let his voice trail off, concern etched across his face.

“Oh no!” Victoria answered, excitement rocketing through her like lightning. “I would be honored to assist.”

“But your injury,” Jason pointed out.

“It’s not so bad,” Victoria said, turning to Dr. Berridge, her eyes shining with excitement. “Isn’t that right, Doctor?”

Victoria looked up at Dr. Berridge. Jason watched Dr. Berridge. And Dr. Berridge suddenly had a decision to make.

Shortly thereafter, Jason took his leave, mounted his horse, and rode off.

Mere minutes later, Dr. Berridge walked calmly out of the Wiltons’ residence. And after he passed Lady Wilton and Mrs. Brandon on their way back into the house, he calmly and coolly kicked the unfortunate fence post that happened to be closest when he heard Victoria cry out:

“Mother! I have the most incredible news! I’ve been asked to help with a ball!”

JASON felt he had a right to be ridiculously proud of his own ingenuity. Not only had he secured a babysitter for Jane, he had devised an activity that incited such anxiety in his sister, it would keep her far too busy in the coming weeks for her to have time to dally with Worth.

When Jane had first discovered that she was to throw a ball, having been informed by Victoria when she arrived the next morning—with sheaves of paper detailing who to invite, their individual directions, and a variety of themes, as she and her mother had stayed up very late brainstorming ideas—Jane’s immediate reaction was horror. She excused herself from Victoria and dragged Jason into the library, where the two stewards awaited his attention.

One look from Jane, and the stewards took their leave.

“We are giving a ball?” Jane asked incredulously.

“Well, yes,” Jason replied, working very hard to keep his voice pure and innocent. “It was your idea.”

“How was it my idea?” Jane managed to say, after a few outraged squeaks.

“You have expressed several times that the village expects us to act as our parents have in the past,” Jason argued. “You made me hire Big Jim the blacksmith, and you purchase unnecessary red ink from Mr. Davies . . .”

“So?”

“So—Mother threw a ball at the end of every summer. It was highly anticipated by the town,” he explained. And this was true, although what he said next might have been closer to illusion than reality. “Perhaps I overheard some villagers discussing the possibility of a ball, and . . . didn’t feel I could disappoint them.”

As Jane chewed over Jason’s explanation, he couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty. He was shamelessly playing on his sister’s expectations of herself and her memories of their mother. But it was necessary. If it kept her busy . . .

“But I cannot throw a party!” Jane sputtered. “Jason, remember the last time . . .”

Jason did, his sister’s disastrous dinner party right before her debut. He suppressed a shudder. “We can go tell Miss Victoria it was all a misunderstanding, that there won’t be a ball,” he offered, knowing full well that Victoria, with stars in her eyes and her foot wrapped in a bandage, would be a creature too pathetic for Jane to crush.

“No,” Jane sighed. “If she has informed her mother—and I suspect she has—the entire town would be disappointed by such a misunderstanding. You are right. We should have a ball . . . but with all of our guests and, er, things, how on earth do you expect me to organize such an event in only two weeks?”

“Actually . . . one,” Jason replied.

“One?” Jane cried and swatted her brother on the arm.

“Ten days more like . . . ow, Jane, stop it!”

“It’s impossible!”

“Weekend after this,” Jason said, in between dodging her lethal swats. “And then . . . we will leave for the south shortly after—I’m afraid it cannot be any later.”

Jane stilled. “We—we could stay longer. Father . . .” she hedged, but Jason just shook his head.

“You want to freeze our toes off up here when the weather finally breaks and fall descends in earnest? Ask Nurse Nancy—Father’s health would not benefit.” Jason sighed as he placed a hand on his sister’s fallen shoulder. “I knew it was a terribly short amount of time to plan a ball, which is why I begged the assistance of Miss Victoria. And your sanity should thank me.”

“Why?” she asked spitefully.

“That I did not request the assistance of her mother.”

Now Jason smiled, watching his sister and Victoria in the drawing room as they compiled a checklist of things to do—among them, inspect and polish the silver and locate extra settings if they hadn’t enough—knowing Jane was fully occupied and would be for quite some time. His friends were still abed, his father enjoying the unseasonably warm air by taking his walk with Nurse Nancy; perhaps he could tempt Hale and Thorndike into putting off work another day for a ride.

Being in charge wasn’t so difficult, he mused. No idea why he’d spent so long avoiding it.

Jason was right about one thing. At least Lady Wilton wasn’t here. Jane had absolutely no idea how Victoria had dissuaded her mother from offering her services, but she appreciated that much from the girl. The rest, however . . .

Bleakness swept over Jane like a black cloud on a sunny day. She had hoped to spend the afternoon at Byrne’s. Once her father had returned from his walk and lain down for his afternoon nap, she had planned to surprise him with a picnic on the peak. She had packed an entirely new basket with jams and bread and even a bottle of wine. All she wanted to do was pick up her skirts and run out of the room. Run to Byrne.

She had awoken with a purpose, a rhythm to follow—but Lord help her, she found herself designing her day around when she would be able to see him, and how long she could sneak away to her secret life.

To her secret self.

But now, with Victoria prattling on about linens and who to invite from the neighboring towns, Jane’s anxiety level rose to a fever pitch.

Because not only was Jane to be denied time away from home today, she was going to have to spend the entire afternoon—the entire week—planning a party.

It was enough to make one break out in hives.

Jane adored attending parties. But throwing one? The last time Jane had successfully thrown a party, she was twelve and broke into the headmistress’s office at Mrs. Humphrey’s School for Elegant Ladies, and had an impromptu tea party in the middle of the night.

And even that had been on a dare.

Her mother had once, once allowed Jane to participate in the planning of a dinner party before her debut Season. To this day, no one in the family ever mentioned the ghastly event, but the end result had the Duchess and Jane spending the next day in separate rooms, each in tears.

“Now, what do you think of a harvest theme?” Victoria was saying, pulling out some sketches of cornucopias and pumpkins. “I know it’s not quite harvest time yet, but almost . . .” She trailed off, seeing Jane’s disinterest. “Or what about a water theme?” she tried again brightly.

“A water theme?” Jane replied dazedly.

“Yes!” Victoria cried, pulling out another elaborate sketch. “Waterfalls and, er, mermaids . . .”

“Why do we need a theme at all?” Jane asked as she stood and began to pace. “It’s not London, Victoria. It’s Reston. A ball itself should be enough to stun these country folk into awe.”

Silence fell in the room, as Jane immediately regretted her words. Victoria delicately put aside the papers.

“You’re correct, of course. You know far more about balls than I do,” Victoria said quietly. “It’s simply that, in all the books, the balls always have some sort of theme.”

If Jane had a whip, she would have struck it across her own back in self-flagellation. “I’m sorry, Victoria, I should not have spoken so—”

“No, you’re absolutely right, perhaps simpler is better—” But Jane cut her off.

“I’m . . . I’m just wretched.”

“Wretched?” she asked, confused.

“Worried,” Jane corrected.

“About the ball?” Victoria asked, and Jane let her believe that assumption. “You have nothing to worry about!” she cried, a determined smile on her lips. “I may not have any experience in the matter, but I have a feeling everyone within the county will turn out for it. Certainly there is still the highwayman to contend with, but I don’t think that would keep people away.”

Highwayman.

“Yes,” Jane thought in a rush. “The highwayman is indeed at the forefront of my mind, as . . . as Mr. Worth and I were supposed to take that information you copied for us and put it to use this afternoon!”

“Oh my! How?” Victoria asked.

“Er . . .” before Jane could go into detail, she was spared from having to do so by the bleary-eyed arrival of Charles and Nevill, fresh from their noontime breakfast and already bored to tears.

“Lady Jane,” Nevill said, yawning as he bowed in greeting. “And Miss, uh . . .”

“Wilton. Victoria Wilton,” that lady supplied, as she curtsied.

Charles and Nevill nodded in greeting, before Nevill turned to Jane. “Do you happen to have bowls? Or any fishing tackle? Or anything to do?”

“Miss Victoria and I were just planning a ball that I am supposed to throw. Will that suffice?” Jane answered archly.

“Depends,” Nevill’s eyebrow went up. “Is it anytime soon?”

“Ten days,” Victoria piped up.

“Not much time.” A furrow knitted Charles’s brow. “Have you ordered the musicians yet? If not, Nevill and I know of a great octet, heard them play on the way up from York . . .”

“And you’ll need to have the molding retouched in the ballroom,” Nevill said, picking up Victoria’s papers. “You should add that to this list.”

Jane blinked twice. “Nevill, may I ask—have you planned an event like this before?”

“Nah,” Nevill replied. “But Charles and I have seen our mother go through the whole thing for each for our seven elder sisters’ debut parties.”

“We could likely plan a ball with one hand tied behind each back,” Charles piped up, grinning.

“And a glass of whiskey in the other.”

“Could you help us?” Victoria asked before Jane could say anything. “I’m simply hopeless, and Jane . . .”

“I’m simply hopeless, too,” Jane added, to be met by an astonished look from Charles.

“Lady Jane, I’ve never thought you’d be hopeless at anything,” he said with a crooked smile, as he reached for the tea cakes that had been laid out as refreshment for Jane and Victoria.

“Quite right,” Nevill agreed. “But if you need us to pick out table linens, I suppose anything is possible. By the by, if I were you, I would rent tablecloths of Egyptian cotton. It truly makes a difference.”

It was terribly strange, but as they sat there, Nevill lounging with his leg over the arm of the chair and Charles chewing on a tea cake with his mouth open, Jane was struck with a deep sense of gratitude.

They were Charles and Nevill, for God’s sake. And yet here they were, seemingly sober, engaged, on their best behavior.

Funny, she had never thought of her brother’s friends as . . . useful.

“Now,” Charles was saying to a rapt Victoria, “what this party needs is a theme.”

When Charles and Nevill were inspired, it was a sight to behold.

It was not long before long lists had been assembled, and the housekeeper dispatched to organize the counting and cleaning of all the silver and crystal, the text for an invitation composed, and footmen set about repairing the moldings of the ballroom. A household cleaning schedule was drawn up, and the cook ordered to create a sample menu for all four members of the party planning committee to taste the next day.

If Jane feared that Charles and Nevill would lapse into their more dissolute selves and attempt any foolishness with Victoria, a quick word in Nevill’s ear about Victoria’s relative poverty and her father’s ability to have them deported to an Australian work colony kept them the very keenest of gentlemen in her presence.

The four of them discussed and planned over luncheon, and by the time Jane’s father was just lying down for his nap, Jane was able to bid Victoria farewell for the day.

Charles and Nevill were set on going into Reston to take a look at Mr. Davies’s card stock inventory in his print shop and having the invitations engraved posthaste.

“And Jason is such a dodger, going off riding without us!” Charles grumbled toward the locked door of the library as he put on his hat. “Certain you won’t join us, Jane?” Then he blushed and stammered. “Um, I mean Lady Jane.”

“Jane is fine.” She smiled at him. “And the two of you will ride faster without me.”

Once they left, she stood in the silent foyer for a moment. Jason was occupied, her father resting, and her guests involved.

Circumstances such as these would not last long, she knew. And she had a hundred little things to do for the ball (Nevill had left her with a list). She would be best served to employ this brief lull industriously.

Which is exactly what she intended to do.

“You know, I do feel somewhat guilty,” Jane said, as she took another sip of her wine from a tin cup and nibbled on her biscuit.

“Whatever for?” Byrne asked, propped up on one shoulder as he spooned another serving of that ridiculously delicious blackberry jam on his bread.

“Because I told Victoria we were going to investigate the highwayman—not have a picnic,” Jane replied. “And instead we lounge here. Too comfortable for our own good.”

“I can think of several ways we can be far more comfortable.” He wiggled his eyebrow, only to be swatted by Jane. “I meant we could not be seated on a mess of rocks!”

They had climbed up the fell again to enjoy the spectacular landscape as they picnicked in the late-afternoon sun. It was still unseasonably and unnaturally warm for the north, but Byrne could feel the bite of autumn in the air, the change that was coming.

When Jane would go away.

All it did, he told himself, was change the timetable of his plans. He wanted Jane, and he would get her. But keeping her, providing for her for life . . . that was another story entirely. One he and she would both likely come to regret. Better certainly to enjoy their friendship now, and grow strong with it, than . . .