Page 31 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

“A novel idea,” Stonehaven remarked, looking thoughtful. “Tell me about the ladies of this charming village. Should I like them too?”

“Certainly,” Beau replied, and told him all about the Misses Honeywell, and about Mrs Adamson. “She’s an absolute stunner. Far too beautiful to be hidden away in such a tiny place, though I think there’s some scandal there. My guess is she’s not a Mrs at all. It seems some of the locals treat her with less than her due of respect. A pity, for she was truly kind, and she runs a marvellous hotel. Even I approved of her taste in décor, and you know how seldom that happens.”

“Oh, I do,” Stonehaven replied, looking pained.

Beau ignored the underlying sarcasm to his friend’s reply. “Still, to come down to breakfast every morning and see that fine figure dressed so splendidly and those tumbling red curls. Well, it’s not an unpleasant start to a fellow’s day, is it?”

“A redhead, was she?” Stonehaven asked mildly, interest flickering behind his eyes.

“Yes, said so, didn’t I? Do pay attention,” Beau said, shaking his head. “Mrs Anne Adamson. A shrewd businesswoman and a beautiful creature, too. But then, if Miss Honeywell is to be believed, I never even saw the diamond of Little Valentine. Apparently, the title goes to her sister, Beatrice. Miss Honeywell is determined that she shall marry a duke. I was not good enough for her, you’ll note.”

“A wise woman, your Miss Honeywell,” Stonehaven said absently.

“She’s not my Miss Honeywell,” Beau snapped, irritated, but at that moment his dinner arrived, and so the conversation turned away from his sudden epiphanies about life and marriage and to far easier topics like horse racing, and how exactly Peterson had lost his fortune, and how much did he want for those splendid greys?

One month later…

The Vicarage, Little Valentine, South-East Coast of England. 9thJuly 1815

Clementine followed her sisters into the house, allowing their chatter to wash over her. Beatrice was promising Caspar she would take him out into the garden to play cricket after dinner, as he had been such a good boy and sat still and quiet throughout the reverend’s sermon. Izzy was handing Daisy to Mrs Mabbs, who cooed over her charge.

“Come along, my ickle Daisykins,” she said, hugging the child to her and carrying her towards the stairs. “Time for a nice little nap before your din-dins.”

Mrs Adie bustled up, her face thunderous as Clementine laid her bonnet to one side. “Them wicked little beasts are at it again, miss,” she said in an undertone.

“I beg your pardon?” Clementine stared at her in confusion.

“Mice,” Mrs Adie whispered, looking over her shoulder as if she thought the entire town would find out if she said the word too loud. “There’s… evidence on the pantry floor,” she added, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

“Oh, I see. Yes, well, you may be sure I shall deal with it, Mrs Adie,” Clementine said, though her heart wasn’t in it.

The kittens were not yet quite the mousers she had promised, though she did not doubt they would be soon enough. They were trying, at least. Something must be done in the meantime, yet she could not bear the idea of setting traps herself, or even of demanding someone else do it. There had been enough killing of late.

Everyone went off about their business for the interval before they all gathered for dinner, but Clementine felt strangely restless. The sermon her father had given had been powerful and very moving. Well, she had known it would be, for she had helped him to write it, yet hearing her father speak the words aloud was a very different thing to reading them on paper. It was his sincerity and his empathy for all those who had suffered and died in the terrible conflict at Waterloo.

Though it had happened three weeks ago now, the stories were still coming through. The papers had been filled with the heroism of the mighty victory over France, and of Wellington’s incredible leadership, but now the letters, from husbands, brothers, sons, or the friends of those fallen in battle were arriving and telling the true story. So much loss. So much devastation.

Her father had cried when he had told her of what Mrs Barham’s son had written to her. The poor young man had been there on that fateful day and could not bring himself to come home. He felt he would sully his mother’s house, for his hands and his soul were tainted with blood. The sweet, gentle boy who had gone away had changed beyond recognition, and Mrs Barham did not know if he would ever return to her.

Her father’s sermon had touched upon loss, upon bravery, upon the need for all men and women to look at each other and see not a stranger, but part of a world in which they were all connected. If only there were more men like her papa, perhaps things would be different.

Clementine drifted out of the house, walked along the lane that took her through the woods, and down to the seashore. She stared out at the vast expanse of blue, her heart aching with sadness, and yet there was hope there too, for the war was over at last. Surely, there would be no more killing, and perhaps the cost of this terrible battle would teach the world a lesson.

Lord Beaumarsh’s smile flickered in her mind’s eye, a slightly cynical curl to his lip as he chided her for her naivety, and Clementine started in surprise. Though it had been harder than she liked to admit, she had refused to allow herself to think of him, to miss a friendship that had not really been a friendship at all. Not more than an acquaintance really, and yet at odd moments she would hear his voice in her ear and feel sure she knew what he might reply to her when she was about to say something far too bold.

“You cannot miss what you have never had,” she said firmly, watching the seagulls as they danced in the breeze overhead. “Talking to the birds again, Miss Honeywell?” she added, and turned hopefully, half expecting to find him on the beach beside her. But of course he was not and never would be.

Cavendish House, Kent, 9th July 1815

Beau stood in his mother’s rose garden, contemplating the sea of pink flowers. Whilst he had not precisely let her have free rein of the gardens at his home, he had given her leave to design certain areas as she pleased. In her opinion, the rose garden was her most splendid achievement. Though he found the pink a little overwhelming, Beau was disinclined to argue. It was a splendid sight, and the scent was quite intoxicating. Turning in a circle, he looked back at the building that came with his title, the one for which Edwin had been prepared to kill him.

A remarkably fine and vast fourteenth-century manor house, it was one of the jewels of the Kentish landscape. Its enormous Baron’s Hall, which had a soaring sixty-foot-high beamed ceiling, was a sight to behold and had been built originally for the Lord Mayor of London before becoming King Henry VIII’s hunting lodge. It had grown and grown over the centuries, with successive generations adding a wing here, more state rooms there, until it had become something sprawling and magnificent.

Beau hated it.

No, that was not true. He did not hate it. He admired it, appreciated its history and its beauty, and its stubborn determination to be as impressive as a bloody palace. Beau just did not enjoy living it in. It was too big, and he rattled about in it like a pea in a drum. The house made him feel isolated, which was ridiculous, because he was surrounded by a damned army of servants, not to mention his mother and Stonehaven, who had taken it upon himself to come for a visit. No doubt after their little tête-à-tête, Stonehaven feared for his sanity. Beau could not think what had come over him. Yet he had said nothing that was not true. That he had uttered the words out loud, however, was mortifying.

He turned his back on the house, instead walking through the rose garden, admiring the long rectangular fishpond at the centre. Gazing down at the fish, he saw instead his own reflection. He did not need to see to know that it mirrored the image of a handsome man, with golden hair, blue eyes, and a form any fellow would be proud to inhabit.