Page 26 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

Hetty sighed, reclining one slender arm along the back of the settee, entirely at her ease by all outward appearances. “I did invite you for tea, as that is the proper thing for a young lady to do. But I suspected you might prefer something else. It’s so wretchedly humid this afternoon I suspect we may have a thunderstorm, but we must not complain about this rare burst of heat as it’s been so dreadfully cold and wet all year.”

Gideon looked up as Howard reappeared bearing a tray with a bottle sweating in an ice bucket, glasses and a jug of what looked like lemonade. He served Hetty a glass of lemonade before serving Gideon with the wine, set a pretty plate laden with macarons and ratafia biscuits on the table and looked enquiringly at Hetty.

“That will be all, thank you, Howard.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Hetty reached for her glass, lifting it in Gideon’s direction. “Your very good health, Mr Bramwell.”

With little alternative, Gideon lifted his own glass. It was a pale straw colour, glinting in the pretty engraved glass. He took a sip, and the fresh, slightly tart flavour filled his mouth, most welcome on one of the few warm days they'd had this year.

“That’s good,” he admitted.

“I know,” Hetty said with a sigh. “But I have promised to ride with Cilly this evening when it cools down and wine makes me sleepy. So, I shall enjoy it with my dinner later.”

Gideon took another sip, turning the delicate glass back and forth in his hands before looking up and meeting her eyes. “Why am I here?”

Hetty regarded her lemonade glass thoughtfully for a moment before she replied.

“You gave me every indication that you valued my opinion, Mr Bramwell, that you were glad of my help, yet I have not seen nor heard a word from you in a week. That aside, everyone seems to be aware that you are working yourself into exhaustion, but besides Gee-Gee, I am the only one foolish enough to brave your sharp tongue and point it out.”

There was a glint in her eyes, a challenging look that suggested he think twice before speaking sharply to her.

Still, Gideon could not help the acute surge of irritation and resentment towards her. Who the devil did she think she was, his mother? But no, his mother would have cheered if he’d set himself on fire, so that was a poor comparison. All the same, she had some nerve.

“Another man might believe such attention tantamount to pursuit, Lady Henrietta, that you were setting your cap at him.”

To his satisfaction, the colour rose in her cheeks. “But not you,” she replied coolly.

He snorted and shook his head. “No. I’m not so foolish. You just like provoking me, though I cannot fathom what you get out of it. You are correct, however, I am tired, so whatever clever game it is you are playing, I suggest you give it up.”

She sat up straighter, setting her drink down with a sharp little clack on the glass-topped table. “Game? You think I brought you here for my amusement? Why, you…” She took a breath and swallowed whatever ill-advised name she’d been about to call him, which he was rather sorry for, as he was curious now. “I brought you here because it seemed to be the only way I could force you to sit still and relax for a moment.”

Gideon regarded her suspiciously. “That’s all.”

“Yes, you ungrateful wretch. That’s all,” she said, folding her arms and glaring at him. They stared at each other for a long moment until she shook her head with a soft laugh. “Look at that, Mr Bramwell.”

She pointed at the view, where the sea glittered. The pine trees swayed gently, framing the view and the scent of roses drifted up from the beautiful gardens below the terrace. Despite himself, Gideon let out a breath.

“Drink your wine, Mr Bramwell, have a macaron, and admire that spectacular view. Just for a moment. I shan’t say a word. When you are ready, you may leave with my blessing. But just this once, just take a breath. If you are feeling dreadfully bold, I suggest you take your coat off too. You’ll be more comfortable.”

For a moment he fought a fruitless battle with indignation, but she was right—he was worn to a thread. So, rather to his surprise, Gideon complied.

A lovely climbing clematis shaded the terrace, the flowers of which bloomed like stars overhead as it scrambled over a pergola, but it was still hot. It was not at all proper to sit in his shirtsleeves, but he had noticed her maid seated at the far end of the terrace, busy with needlework, and they were in full view of the garden, so no harm ought to be done.

He folded his coat and slung it over the back of the chair, glancing down at her and smiling ruefully as she passed him the plate of biscuits. “Take a few,” she said firmly.

Gideon took three macarons and sat down again, eating them one after the other, before leaning back against the cushions on his comfortable chair and gazing out at the horizon. Hetty was as good as her word and said nothing, and little by little, Gideon felt himself relax.

Hetty got to her feet and carefully prised the empty wine glass from Mr Bramwell’s increasingly slack fingers. His breathing was deep and steady, and she felt a little surge of satisfaction that her plan had worked so beautifully. She had only intended for him to sit still and relax for a moment or two, not fall asleep, but his exhaustion was clearly bone deep.

Setting the glass down on the table, she reached for his coat, which was about to slide off the back of the chair. Giving it a little shake before she folded it with more care than he had, she looked down as an envelope fell from the inside pocket.

Hetty bent and picked it up, about to slide it back inside when the sender’s name caught her eye. Hollywell House. Horrified at having invaded his privacy, which was the last thing she had intended, she put it back and laid the coat carefully upon another chair, out of the way. Yet the name of the house stuck in her mind, and she knew very well what it meant.

They’d had a great aunt taken to the place when she was a child. It had all been hushed up, naturally, but Great Aunt Mildred had been… unwell. When it had become clear she was a danger to herself as well as others, there had been little choice, but her behaviour had been deeply upsetting, and even Hetty’s indomitable grandmother had been terrified that the servants might talk, and word get around that they’d had her committed to a mental asylum. She had died years ago now, but the name of Hollywell House had become synonymous in Hetty’s mind with shame and fear and the horror of mental illness of the kind no doctor could cure.

Was Mr Bramwell coping with this too, on top of the pressure of work? Was the letter about someone he loved? Hollywell House was one of the best private asylums in the country. It was expensive, and Mr Bramwell did not strike her as a man with deep pockets, else he might not strive so publicly and fiercely to succeed, when gentlemen simply did not do such things. Or at least, must not be seen to do them.